sponges, blank slates, with only the most basic needs present: to eat, shit, love, and be loved. But something goes wrong, depending on the circumstances into which we are born, and the house in which we grow up. A tormented, abused child can never take revenge in reality, as she is powerless and defenseless, but she can—and must—harbor vengeful fantasies in her imagination. Rage, like fear, is reactive. Something bad happened to Alicia, probably early in her childhood, to provoke the murderous impulses that emerged all those years later. Whatever the provocation, not everyone in this world would have picked up the gun and fired it point-blank into Gabriel’s face—most people could not. That Alicia did so points to something disordered in her internal world. That’s why it was crucial for me to understand what life had been like for her in this house, to find out what happened to shape her, make her into the person she became—a person capable of murder.
I wandered farther into the overgrown garden, through the weeds and waving wildflowers, and made my way along the side of the house. At the back was a large willow tree—a beautiful tree, majestic, with long bare branches sweeping to the ground. I pictured Alicia as a child playing around it and in the secret, magical world beneath its branches. I smiled.
Then I felt uneasy suddenly. I could sense someone’s eyes on me.
I looked up at the house. A face appeared at an upstairs window. An ugly face, an old woman’s face, pressed against the glass—staring straight at me. I felt a strange, inexplicable shiver of fear.
I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until too late. There was a bang—a heavy thud—and a stab of pain at the back of my head.
Everything went black.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I WOKE UP ON THE HARD, cold ground, on my back. My first sensation was pain. My head was throbbing, stabbing, as if my skull had been cracked open. I reached up and gingerly touched the back of my head.
“No blood,” said a voice. “But you’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow. Not to mention a cracking headache.”
I looked up and saw Paul Rose for the first time. He was standing above me, holding a baseball bat. He was about my age, but taller, and broad with it. He had a boyish face and a shock of red hair, the same color as Alicia’s. He reeked of whiskey.
I tried to sit up but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Better stay there. Recover for a sec.”
“I think I’ve got concussion.”
“Possibly.”
“What the fuck did you do that for?”
“What did you expect, mate? I thought you were a burglar.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“I know that now. I went through your wallet. You’re a psychotherapist.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out my wallet. He tossed it at me. It landed on my chest. I reached for it.
“I saw your ID. You’re at that hospital—the Grove?”
I nodded and the movement made my head throb. “Yes.”
“Then you know who I am.”
“Alicia’s cousin?”
“Paul Rose.” He held out his hand. “Here. Let me help you up.”
He pulled me to my feet with surprising ease. He was strong. I was unsteady on my feet. “You could have killed me,” I muttered.
Paul shrugged. “You could have been armed. You were trespassing. What did you expect? Why are you here?”
“I came to see you.” I grimaced in pain. “I wish I hadn’t.”
“Come in, sit down for a second.”
I was in too much pain to do anything other than go where he led me. My head was throbbing with every step. We went inside the back door.
The inside of the house was just as dilapidated as the outside. The kitchen walls were covered with an orange geometric design that looked forty years out-of-date. The wallpaper was coming away from the wall in patches, curling, twisting, and blackening as if it were catching fire. Mummified insects were hanging suspended from cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. The dust was so thick on the floor, it looked like a dirty carpet. And an underlying odor of cat piss made me feel sick. I counted at least five cats around the kitchen, sleeping on chairs and surfaces. On the floor, open plastic bags overflowed with stinking tins of cat food.
“Sit down. I’ll make some tea.” Paul leaned the baseball bat against the wall, by the door. I kept my eye on it. I didn’t feel safe around him.
Paul handed me a cracked mug full of tea. “Drink this.”