Let Darkness Come (12 page)

“That'd be my cue,” Timothy says, moving toward the door.

Briley blinks back tears of frustration as the threesome invades her living room. Dax moves to the CD player and changes the radio station from soft rock to rap, then cranks up the volume. Timothy confiscates the bottle of bubbly, but not before the blonde has popped the cork and proclaimed her readiness to party.

Timothy had better check her designer bag—no telling what else she has stashed inside.

Briley turns her back on the living-room rave and focuses on cleaning her kitchen. Her perfect evening has been ruined, all because Timothy doesn't know how to maintain boundaries between his personal and professional lives. Her father had the same problem—he was always bringing home strays, feeding them at the table, and bedding them down on the sofa. Briley remembers a childhood filled with ringing telephones, urgent summonses, and strangers—one of whom ended up taking her father's life and reputation.

Her heart has already been broken once. She may not survive if it is shattered.

A
do-gooder in a jingling Santa hat stops outside the Division Four interview room and catches Erin's eye through the reinforced square window. The round-faced woman has been visiting inmates for the past week, distributing travel-size bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion. A month ago, Erin would have disdained the offer of a one-ounce sample of an off-brand shampoo. Now she's tempted to stop her interview and beg on her knees before the volunteer's squeaky cart.

She shakes her head, ruefully and wordlessly explaining that she can't step out and partake of the Christmas bonanza. She has to sit here and have her psyche analyzed, first by her lawyer's psychologist, then by the prosecutor's.

She crosses her arms and shifts her gaze to the petite Asian doctor who has been interviewing her for the past hour. She knows it's important to cooperate, but though Dr. Pamela Lu is pleasant and professional, her questions are beginning to irritate.

“My childhood?” Erin says. “I've already told you about my parents.”

“And now I'd like to talk about you. What do you remember about growing up on the West Side? What was your childhood like?”

Erin lets her gaze rove over the painted cinder-block walls. “I'd say it was fairly normal. I mean, every family has its share of quirks, right?”

The doctor's left brow shoots skyward. “What were your family's quirks?”

“Oh…alcoholic mother, deceased father, retarded brother, lonely daughter. No dog, only a couple of stray cats that mostly lived under the house. No cable television, which meant my cultural education was limited to school and the major networks.”

Dr. Lu scratches on the notepad in her leather folio. “Any regular visitors to the home? Uncles, neighbors, maybe older cousins?”

Erin shakes her head. “Not even an Avon lady. My dad died when I was three, and Mom didn't stay in touch with her family. I had friends at school, of course.”

Dr. Lu hesitates, then folds her arms on the table and leans forward. “You know you can be honest with me, right? I'm working for your benefit.”

“But you're preparing a report for the court. So it's not like what I tell you is confidential.”

“Unless I'm called to testify, I'll be sharing my opinions with your attorney, not the court. Everything you tell me is attorney-work product and is privileged. Do you understand?”

Sighing, Erin nods.

“Now, I need to know something personal, and you needn't be worried or embarrassed to admit it. Do you recall any time in your childhood when you might have been touched by an older person in an inappropriate way?”

Erin recoils, arching away from her interviewer. “No.”

“Are you positive? These experiences are often repressed—”

“Look, Doctor, I know what you're getting at, but I was not molested. Just because I lived in a poor neighborhood doesn't mean you can assume I was a sexual victim.”

The petite woman stares thoughtfully at Erin, then looks down to make another note. Erin can't help feeling that she's somehow disappointed the psychologist.

“Your invisible friend,” Dr. Lu says, moving on. “You told your lawyer about Lisa Marie. Do you still hear from her?”

“From my lawyer?”

“From Lisa Marie.”

A flush heats Erin's cheeks. “If you've talked to my lawyer, then you know I do.”

“Let's discuss that for a while. When you hear this voice—”

“I never said I heard a voice.”

“How, then, do you know she's still with you?”

“I dream of her.” Erin looks away, knowing her heated face must be as red as a tomato. “I see and hear her in my dreams, but they're not like ordinary dreams. It's usually just her and me, on a swing or maybe sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. That's when we talk.”

“What does Lisa Marie look like?”

“Like me, I suppose. But she wears her hair shorter.”

“Why?”

“Why does she look like me?”

“Why does she prefer short hair?”

Erin blushes, knowing the doctor must think her dense, dull-witted, or both. But when every word has the potential to shape your future, you have to be careful with what you say. “I…Because Jeff liked long hair, I suspect.”

“Which do you prefer, longer or shorter hair?”

“I really don't care!” Erin laughs to cover her annoyance. “In this place, it's safer to have short hair. Nobody can drag you by your hair if there's nothing to grab on to.”

The psychologist makes another note. “If it's safer to have short hair, why are you still wearing yours long?”

Erin stares across the table, at once hurt and astounded. “Because I want to get out of here! Because I didn't kill my husband and I don't belong in jail.”

The doctor doesn't seem at all perturbed by Erin's outburst. “When you talk, what sort of things does Lisa Marie tell you?”

Erin shifts her position. “She used to warn me about Jeffrey, tell me not to get him upset. A couple of times she told me to leave him, but…I couldn't.”

“Does Lisa Marie ever become angry with you?”

“I don't know. She used to shout at me, but then she'd calm down and tell me that things were going to be okay. She said she wouldn't let him hurt me—not if she could help it.”

“And yet Jeffrey
did
hurt you, didn't he?”

“Not seriously.”

“You don't call broken ribs serious?”

“He never hurt me as badly as he could have.” She holds the doctor's gaze, determined to make her point. “I knew he wouldn't dare leave any visible marks when we had to be out in public. No black eyes, no broken bones, nothing permanent. He'd have a hard time explaining that to the press.”

“So he…what? How did he abuse you?”

Erin crosses her legs and struggles to get comfortable in the hard plastic chair. “Can we take a break? We've been at this a long time.”

“Do you need to use the restroom?”

Erin hesitates. She'd say yes just to get out of this chair, but that'd mean calling a guard, putting her wrists in handcuffs, being escorted to the toilet….

“I think I need to stretch my legs.”

“By all means.” Dr. Lu gestures to the space around the table. “You can talk and walk, if you like.”

Erin stands and faces the door, hoping for a glimpse of the woman in the Santa hat. If she concentrates, maybe she'll be able to hear that squeaky cart approaching.

“You were about to tell me how Jeffrey abused you,” Dr. Lu says, her voice slow and patient.

Without looking at the doctor, Erin tucks her hair behind her ear. “Verbally, of course, but only in private. When we were alone, he called me every name in the book, things I wouldn't call my worst enemy. He'd punch me in the stomach or slap my face with the flat of his hand. Sometimes he'd punch the back of my head…. I guess he figured my hair would cover any mark, and his fist wasn't hard enough to fracture my skull. I think he enjoyed knocking me off my feet.”

“Did you tell anyone about this abuse? Your mother, maybe?”

Erin laughs and walks toward the door. “Are you kidding? I can't think of anyone less equipped to help. Even if Mom had wanted to take me in, she wouldn't have been able to stop Jeffrey from swooping down and dragging me back home. Mom was afraid of the Tomassis. She said they had connections with organized crime. She was terrified of ending up in some back alley with her throat slit. She used to say the Tomassis didn't get mad, they got even.”

“Your mother honestly believed your in-laws might kill her?”

“Believe me, she wasn't exaggerating,” Erin answers, her tone dry. “My father-in-law has always been kind to me, but I've seen him in the company of men who looked like they chewed glass for breakfast. Maybe I have an overactive imagination, but I knew not to ask about certain things in the family. I felt it in my bones.”

“Did you ever see evidence of illegal activity?”

“No. But that doesn't mean there wasn't any.”

Dr. Lu remains silent as she scratches on her notepad. “Did you ever feel threatened by other people in your life? Neighbors, authority figures, teachers?”

Erin shoots her a black look. “I'm not paranoid.”

“I didn't say you were.” The doctor smiles. “Let's move on to a more pleasant topic. What was your major in college?”

“Business, with a minor in psychology.”

“I might have guessed. When you undertook the study of psychology, were you hoping to find a reason for Lisa Marie?”

Erin frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Obviously—” the doctor gestures in a sweeping motion “—you are being haunted, in a sense, by this figment from your childhood. Lisa Marie seems to play the role your mother should have played. She warns you, she guides you, she comforts you. As you studied all the ways
the human mind attempts to smooth out the bumps in life's road, did you ever think that Lisa Marie might be a mother-substitute?”

Weary of pacing, Erin drops back into her chair. “She is nothing like my mother. Besides, she's not real.”

“She's real to you, isn't she? If she's not real, what is she?”

“Look.” Erin's voice goes hoarse with frustration. “I don't know what she is. What I do know is I didn't kill my husband and Lisa Marie says she did. If that means I'm crazy, then maybe I am.” She turns to the wall as a lump rises in her throat. “What if I am? Could I be doing things and not even know I'm doing them?”

Dr. Lu says nothing for a long moment, then she closes her notebook. “Erin,” she says, “before the night of your husband's death, did Lisa Marie ever mention killing Jeffrey?”

Erin flinches. “No.”

“On that night, did you know she intended to kill—”

“I would have argued with her.”

“Why? She was trying to protect you.”

“But murder is wrong. And killing is never the answer. Look at me—I'm in jail because she killed him.”

“The morning after, when you woke up—did you suspect that Lisa Marie had killed Jeffrey?”

Erin's heart contracts with anguish. “I told you, I didn't know anything about Jeffrey's death at first. I only knew I didn't kill him. I couldn't.”

“Because you were asleep.”

“Yes.”

“But when you sleep…isn't that when Lisa Marie comes out?”

Erin claps her hands over her ears as a low wail rises from someplace deep within her. She can't do this anymore; she can't give answers she doesn't know. If they can't believe her, they won't believe her. So why is this woman asking the same questions over and over again? She's trying to confuse things, to make her say something they can use against her in court,
and that pale-faced defense attorney who hired this shrink doesn't have the slightest clue about what she's doing….

“Relax, Erin.” Dr. Lu props her arms on the table. “That's enough for now. You look tired.”

Erin wipes her tear-splashed cheeks. “I don't claim to understand it,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “But I didn't kill Jeffrey. I couldn't kill anyone.”

“Just tell me this…” Dr. Lu leans forward as if to share a confidential whisper. “Has Lisa Marie ever acted to help you before?”

Erin covers her mouth with her hand. “I—I don't know.”

“Do you think she might have?”

For the briefest instant, the image of a face appears in Erin's mind—a pale man with blood running from a wound in his forehead. “There was some trouble at college…and I've always wondered. But I don't think so.”

The psychologist slides her folio into her lap, then tilts her head and speaks in a soothing voice. “Can I talk to Lisa Marie now?”

In a flash, Erin understands what the doctor wants. If this were a movie or TV show, Erin's face would twist in a spasm and another personality would emerge, maybe a wisecracking temptress with an alluring smile and a fondness for makeup, tight skirts, and violence….

She lifts her head and looks the psychologist in the eye. “Sorry, Doctor.”

“Because I'm not allowed…or because you don't want me to?”

“Because,” Erin answers, “I don't know how you can talk to a dream.”