never met him in person, but she knew right away that this was Darlene’s father: Even after the ravages of age and illness, the family resemblance was remarkable. Looking at his face was like looking into Darlene’s face—as it might have looked from a distance, and through a frosty windowpane.
He was sitting at a round table in what appeared to be a lounge. His hands were placed on the table; they were pale and wizened, and wrenched by arthritis into painful-looking shapes. The view of the room behind him included other tables and chairs, too, and a sofa.
On the table was a checkerboard. The red and black pieces were arranged expectantly on the squares.
A voice could be heard from behind the cell. It was Darlene’s voice, softer than Bell had ever heard it: “Hi, Daddy. You look real good today. Real handsome. Are you ready for Alvie’s visit? He’ll be here soon. I know you like it when Alvie comes by.” There was a pause, and then Darlene spoke again. “I love you, Daddy. I love you so much. I hope you can understand me when I say that. But even if you can’t, I hope you can just feel my love. I hope it’s like the sun on your face. Even if you don’t know what I’m saying, you can feel the warmth of it.”
Harmon Strayer looked at the cell. He raised his arm. Bell assumed he was going to wave.
Instead, the old man suddenly let out a terrible bellow. He leaned forward and smashed at the checkerboard again and again. Then he swept the board and its pieces off the table.
“Daddy—Daddy, what are you doing?” Darlene said. The picture wobbled as she leaned forward to try and stay his hand; her hand was briefly visible. “Daddy, stop. Stop it.”
The video ended.
Bell looked from the screen to Ava’s face. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be seeing,” she said. “Don’t people with Alzheimer’s sometimes display inappropriate anger? It’s not uncommon, is it?”
“Play the next video. It’s two days later.”
Bell touched the screen again. This time, Harmon Strayer was wearing a red turtleneck sweater. He was sitting in the same spot, his twisted hands settled on the table. But the checkerboard was not there. He blinked, and then he appeared to grow more apprehensive; he shifted back and forth in his chair, making a moaning sound. He pulled at his bottom lip.
The checkerboard slid into the scene; an unseen someone had brought it to the table. A pudgy white hand and a pink sleeve came into view, placing the pieces on the squares, one by one.
From behind the camera came Darlene’s voice: “Isn’t that nice, Daddy? Your friend Marcy is getting the checkerboard ready. They had to move it to dust under it. But now it’s back. Maybe somebody’s going to play a game later. So it will be all ready for them.”
The look that Harmon Strayer gave to the camera—to his daughter, who held it—was hard for Bell to witness. It was filled with startled panic and a clawing, ravening, bottomless fear. She wanted to reach into the video and pull the old man out of there, protect him, shelter him. The pitch of Darlene’s voice revealed that she, too, saw all those things in her father’s eyes: “Daddy, what’s wrong? Daddy, please don’t be upset. What’s wrong? I’m here, Daddy. I’ll always be here. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise, Daddy.” The video ended.
Bell put the cell down on the tabletop.
Ava said, “There are several more, very similar to those two. Darlene and her father are in the lounge. Something upsets him. It’s like a switch being flipped. He goes from quiet and submissive—to this.”
“What do you think it means? Was someone at the Terrace abusing Mr. Strayer? A staff member? Marcy Coates? Is that why he’s reacting this way?”
Ava shook her head. “I don’t know. But I can’t believe that if Darlene knew her father was being physically abused she would have left him there. It has to be something more subtle. And she was trying to figure it out herself. What could be spooking him like that?” She surprised Bell with a baffled, bemused smile. “I mean—like, a haunted checkerboard? Or what?”
The smile completely transformed Ava’s face. Her features came alive, and there was a soft sparkle in her dark eyes. And then, a few seconds later, it was all gone; the hard face was back, the closed one, the one that