Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,59
scent on my fingertips. “But DuPage Behavioral isn’t about cheaper. They’re like . . . a luxury provider. I don’t know if that makes sense. They focus on behavioral health, but that means they mostly handle substance abuse and what they call ‘distressed executives.’ In other words, rich white guys who throw temper tantrums or sexually assault employees, and their companies can’t get rid of them, so they send them to Richard. And then you’ve got people like me. PTSD that affects everyday living.”
“Is that how you met Richard?”
“No. Other way, actually. I met him, and when we started dating, he suggested I see Zahra.”
“Is that, you know, ethical?”
“It was my choice, and I like Zahra.”
“Did you know David was a patient there too?”
I shook my head as I stuffed the chicken with lemon, onion, and herbs. “But it makes sense, kind of. The support group is Zahra’s baby. It’s a volunteer project, but I’m not surprised she refers her patients to it. That’s how I started going to it.”
“How many other people in the group came from DuPage Behavioral?”
I crushed a clove of garlic with the flat of the knife. “I don’t know.”
Dag opened David’s laptop, powered it up, and said, “No password.”
“Are you kidding? That thing looks like it’s from the Stone Age. Big surprise.”
“It’s definitely, um, not fast.”
I glanced over and saw the Windows 7 screen loading. “If it’s a cycle, where does it start?”
“What?” Dag asked, his attention mostly on the laptop as he dragged a finger across the trackpad.
“You said it’s a cycle of violence. Where does it start? It should have a single starting point and then move out from there, right? It gets bigger and bigger.”
“I guess.” Dag glanced over at me. “What are you talking about?”
“If I tell you something, will you promise not to think I’m crazy? Even though I told you I used to be on anti-psych meds. Even though I told you I stopped taking all my meds.”
“We’re investigating a monster that can turn into a blue firefly and a million other weird things. Yes, I’ll hold off on the judgment.”
“I think maybe I saw a blue light in Gard’s eyes the night he, you know.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know. I have these dreams still. And lately, in the dreams, I see blue. The clock was blue, even though it was really green. Blue in Gard’s eyes, even though in life they’d been brown. I don’t know if it’s just my brain trying to make sense of everything or—”
“Or if you’re actually remembering something?”
Working butter under the chicken skin, I nodded without looking up.
“It could be both, actually,” Dag said. “Now can I ask you something, no judgment?”
“Yes, I think you have earned lifetime immunity for any questions you want to ask.”
“You said Gard wasn’t well. Did he see a therapist? A psychiatrist?”
I grabbed garlic and rosemary and worked it under the skin. “You’re asking if he was a patient at DuPage Behavioral.”
“Right now, I’m just asking if he was seeing a therapist or a psychiatrist.”
“Yes. He was.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
“I’ll check.” I washed my hands, put the chicken in the oven to roast, and headed for the garage. “Be right back.”
After my parents and Gard had died, when I had to handle cleaning out the house and selling it and all the logistical nightmares that follow a tragedy, I’d reached a breaking point. I managed to unload the house, and I managed to collect the insurance and handle the pressing emergencies. I got rid of their stuff. And all the paperwork that I figured I should go through and shred or save, I boxed up and put in storage. When I moved in with Richard, he let me move it into the garage. I flipped on the lights, glad that even the garage was climate controlled, and worked my way through the boxes until I found the insurance paperwork. I stared at the page in my hand, and then I carried it back into the kitchen.
Dag was clicking through files on the computer.
I laid the paper down in front of him.
He glanced at it, and then his eyes flicked up to me. “Is Rodney Gutierrez . . .”
“Yes. He’s a partner at DuPage Behavioral.”
“Ok,” Dag said. “Well, you’re not going to like this. Look at these pictures; David had them in a folder on the computer’s desktop.”
On the screen, Dag scrolled through a series of pictures. They were all taken at close to the same angle: a view