Malevolent (4 page)

“What do you want me to do—join one of those meat market dating sites?”

“God no. Unless you want to, of course, and then I’d say go for it. I was thinking more along the lines of friends with boobs.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Surprisingly enough, you can enjoy an afternoon wasting time with the same sex as well as the opposite sex. Granted, the opportunities for fun are slightly different. And given that my idea of weekend frivolity is not taking off my pajamas until midafternoon, you need to branch out.”

“And you think finding female friends is somehow easier than finding a date?”

“It’s not?”

“Hell, it’s harder. The only women I run across are either socialites with an IQ lower than their bra size or women whose children I’m taking away because they’re horrible people. Netflix is a better option than either of those.”

“Because there are only two kinds of people in all of New Orleans.”

“You know I hate it when you’re sarcastic.”

“No. You hate it when I’m right. I’m almost always sarcastic.” Eleonore leaned back in her chair and gave Corrine a pointed look. “Want to talk about the elephant in the room?”

Corrine took in a deep breath and blew it out. “She’s not ready.”

“We won’t know that for sure until she tries.”

“You’re her psychiatrist, and more importantly, you’re my friend. Why won’t you tell her to wait?”

“Because as her psychiatrist, it’s not my job to tell her what to do. It’s my job to find out what she wants to do and help her emotionally facilitate that. I’m afraid that trumps being your friend.”

“You’re a sucky friend.” Corrine flopped back in her chair and glared at Eleonore. “God, I hate it when you get all logical and professional.”

“Everyone does. You can’t make her stay.”

“I know, but I thought maybe if you talked to her…”

“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for the past nine years?” Eleonore sighed. “Look, the truth is, I’ve talked over every possibility for issues with her. The bottom line is that she’s determined to go it on her own.”

“What if she can’t do it?”

“Then she can move back in with you until she’s ready to try again.”

Corrine’s back tightened as she thought of the one million things that could go wrong. “And if she relapses? What if being on her own is so hard it sets her progress back?”

“That’s possible, but what if she proves you wrong? Shaye is the most brilliant client I’ve ever worked with, and she’s had three years working at a detective agency. It’s not like she walked out of your house, threw open a door, and yelled that she was for hire. She’s got a bachelor’s degree in psychology and criminology, and she’s fantastic at reading people and the general energy in a room. If anyone can do this, it’s Shaye.”

Corrine took a big sip of the scotch, taking some time to absorb everything Eleonore said. It wasn’t anything she didn’t already know, but it helped to be reminded. “She woke up screaming this morning. That hasn’t happened in months.”

“It’s probably the stress of the move coming out in her subconscious.”

“Do you think…when she dreams…is it about what happened to her?”

“Only Shaye can answer that.”

Corrine tapped her finger against the side of the glass, her concern for Shaye warring with her professional ethics and the thought of putting Eleonore and
her
professional ethics on the spot. Before she could change her mind, she pushed forward. “I know you can’t talk about the things Shaye has told you. She’s told me very little—I think because she wants to protect me—but what she has revealed is bad. Really bad.”

Eleonore nodded. “Really bad doesn’t come close. Twenty years I’ve been doing this, and I’ve never seen the level of abuse Shaye suffered. Never heard nightmares so vivid and so terrible. Don’t ever want to hear them again, either.”

Corrine’s respect for her friend shot up even more. “How do you handle it? Listening to all that horror?”

“Yoga usually, but this time…after fifteen years of sobriety, I had to start attending AA meetings again.”

“Oh no!” Corrine sat up straight in her chair.

“Don’t worry,” Eleonore said. “I had one lapse. I’m not drinking again.”

Corrine felt tears form in her eyes and she sniffed, trying to hold them in. Eleonore wouldn’t want or appreciate her sympathy. She took her sobriety as a personal show of strength, and Corrine knew just how disappointing the lapse was to her friend.

“I know I can’t make her stay,” Corrine said, “but I don’t know how to stop worrying. She’s been through so much, and we don’t even know…” Corrine choked, trying to hold back a sob.

Eleonore nodded. “We don’t even know who did it to her.”

“He could be living across the street, walking down the sidewalk behind her, selling her coffee in the morning.”

“Yes. And he could have been doing all those things while she was living with you.”
 

“It’s not the same. I know my neighbors. I know the guy selling me coffee—I used to tutor him in math.”

Eleonore frowned. “I’m not telling you there’s nothing at all to worry about. I would be worried if I were you. Hell, I’m worried and I’m not you. But it’s been nine years, Corrine. No one has come after her. We have no reason to suspect he ever will, and that’s assuming he’s still alive or not in prison. She has no memory, therefore she poses no threat.”

Corrine bit her lower lip. “What if the night terrors aren’t just her mind’s horrific way of working things out? What if she’s remembering?”

“If we don’t know that for sure, how could he?”

“You’re right. I just have to keep reminding myself of that. God, I feel like such a mother.”

“You are her mother, and you have plenty of good reasons to be concerned.”

“So what do I do?”

“You worry because that’s who you are, and you try not to let it drive you crazy.”

Corrine shook her head. “I don’t have that far to go.”

“None of us do.”

###

He stared across the hotel parking lot as Emma pulled her Nissan Altima in a spot near the elevators. She glanced around as she climbed out of the car, her jerky movements and hurried walk giving away her unease. He smiled. She was just like everyone else in the world—predictable.
 

When he’d seen her put a suitcase into the trunk of her car, he’d already known she was headed for a local hotel, trying to hide. But her practical side had her staying close to the hospital where she worked instead of jetting out of town. It had taken him little time to locate her car that morning and even less time to convince the pea-brained girl working at the front desk to give out her room number. But then Mama had always said women were stupid.

Emma had been in the house the night he’d entered. He was sure of it, and more than a little surprised that she’d managed to slip away. The bathroom window and the tree were a surprising leap for Emma, and one he never would have expected her to make. It almost made him smile just thinking about it. Emma thought she’d won, but she’d actually done him a favor. He’d jumped the gun, going into the house so soon. If he’d found her sleeping, he wouldn’t have been able to keep himself from strangling her until the last dying breath crossed her lips.

And it would have been premature.

He lifted his hand and formed a gun with his fingers, sighting her in. It would be so easy to kill her now. Maybe even the easiest kill he’d ever made. But what would be the fun in that? Even the amount of fear she exhibited now had his blood coursing stronger through his veins. His heart rate was elevated with excitement. He imagined what it would feel like when she was truly terrified.
 

And she would be.

###

At 11:00 p.m., Emma pushed open the door to the break room and filled the largest cup she could find with coffee. She dumped in three packets of sugar for good measure and carried it to the corner table, still stirring as she sat down across from Clara Mandeville.

“You planning on staying awake for the next week or so?” Clara asked.

“Just until this shift is over.” Emma took a sip of coffee and cringed at the bitterness. She opened another packet of sugar and started the stirring all over again, wishing a Starbucks latte gave her the same energy regular coffee did.

“You pulling a double?” Clara asked.

“Yeah. Heather called off again.”

The sixty-two-year-old Creole woman gave her a disapproving look as only Clara could manage. “That’s three times already this month. Marcy needs to fire her.”

“Please. As long as Heather is supporting Marcy’s worthless son, she’ll never be fired. That would put him right back on the couch at Marcy’s house.”

Clara sighed. “I know you’re right, but I don’t have to like it. You’ve had enough on your plate the past couple weeks. She should have asked someone else to fill in.”

Emma felt the warmth from Clara’s words as if she’d wrapped her in a blanket. If Emma’s aunt was Emma’s surrogate mother, then Clara was her surrogate aunt. The older woman had taken Emma under her wing when she’d started at the hospital a year ago and had been a blessing in so many ways. With almost thirty years at the hospital, Clara’s knowledge and experience was as vast as any middle-aged doctor and better than many. But it wasn’t just the medical part of the job at which Clara excelled. She had an ability with people that Emma had always envied. No matter the situation, Clara knew just the right words to say.
 

Having trouble with a difficult patient? Call Clara. She’d set them at ease and have them smiling before she left the room. Ready to kill an egotistical doctor? Call Clara. She’d have him apologizing and calling her ma’am in a matter of minutes. Feel like you’re drowning in hospital red tape? Call Clara. In a matter of minutes, she’d have everyone doing his job.
 

In short, Clara was magic.

“I’d like to say Marcy’s a stone bitch,” Emma said, “but the truth is she asked for a volunteer and I offered.”

“Why in the world would you do that? I don’t think the church is looking to make more saints anytime soon.”

Emma smiled. “If the church tried to make me a saint, lightning would probably strike the place.”

“Then why are you pushing yourself like this? Marcy may be conveniently ignoring the dark circles under your eyes and that skin of yours that’s whiter than any white woman is supposed to be, but you can’t deny it to me or yourself. You’re exhausted. You need to rest.”

“How am I supposed to do that when I know someone is after me? Every night, I climb into bed with good intentions, but as soon as I close my eyes, I imagine him there, standing right above me. Then my eyes flash open and I sit upright, holding my pistol and every light on. What’s the point?”

“I thought you were staying at a hotel?”

“I am, but it hasn’t been the sleep aid I thought it would be. I just can’t relax. When my body gets so tired that my mind can’t keep me awake any longer, I finally doze off, only to bolt upright ten or fifteen minutes later, my heart jumping out of my chest like I’m having a heart attack.”

Clara shook her head. “That is horrible, but you can’t continue like this. If you don’t get some rest soon, I’m going to be pulling a double and you’ll be at the top of my patient list.”

“I know. Believe me, it’s not my choice.”

“And you think working a double is going to make it better?”

“No, but I think being in a brightly lit building, surrounded by lots of people, will keep me from having that heart attack I’m afraid of.”

“Did you even think about my suggestion?”

“Yes! I went to see her today.”

“And?”

Emma’s thoughts flew back to her exchange with the young PI, and that same feeling of hope that she’d had when she finished talking to Shaye coursed through her again. “She believed me. Just like you said she would.”

Aside from Shaye and the New Orleans detectives she’d spoken to, Clara was the only other person Emma had told about the man in her house. And like Shaye, Clara had never once indicated that she thought Emma was firing on less than eight cylinders. The older nurse had simply done what she always did—offered a solution.

“What did you think of her?” Clara asked.

“Intelligent and tough but empathetic. She asked all the right questions and showed the appropriate amount of concern, even though I could tell she wanted to shout at me to get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“That would only change geography. It wouldn’t stop me from being afraid that he’d follow me. Besides, being somewhere else would put me at a disadvantage. I know this city. I have people here that I can trust. Somewhere else, I’d be completely alone.”

“Exactly what I’m saying. If you did things right, even the stalker wouldn’t be able to find you.”

“For how long? I inherited a bit of money and I have some savings, but I’m not rich. Eventually, I’d have to take a job, and since I’m not up on the criminal element and such, that means ponying up identification. Then I’d be looking over my shoulder every second of every day. That’s not living.”