Possess (19 page)

Twenty-Seven

A
MIDDLE-AGED OFFICER WITH A
steel gray topknot and horn-rimmed glasses circa 1973 pushed the door open with her ample rump and deposited a heavy file box on the table.

“Is that all?” Bridget asked.

The officer leaned against the table to catch her breath. “Yes, that’s
all
, honey.”

Bridget eyed the box. All the evidence from the Undermeyer case shoved into a single two-by-three-foot box.

“Thanks, Agnes,” Matt said. Bridget saw him flash the officer his winning, toothy smile.

Agnes melted. “Don’t mention it. Anything for you and your dad, Mattie.”

“Does that work on everyone?” Bridget said after Agnes waddled from the room.

“What?”

Bridget did her best imitation of Matt’s smile and puppy-dog-eye combo. “Thanks, Agnes.”

Matt drew his face close to hers. “Not on everyone.”

Bridget turned her head and hoped Matt didn’t notice the faint pink blush rising from her chest to her neck. “Well, apparently it worked on Alexa Darlington.”

Matt’s mood changed as soon as he heard Alexa’s name. His smile vanished, and he reached over to the box and took out a stack of CDs burned from the audio recordings of her dad’s sessions with Undermeyer. “I’ll start with these.”

“Um, okay.” Bridget bit the inside of her cheek as she grabbed Undermeyer’s patient file from the box.

She’d been half joking, bringing up Alexa, but only half. The rest of her still wondered how a guy like Matt, cute and popular and clearly not a total douchebag, would go for a bitch like Alexa Darlington. Sure she was hot and dripping with money, but was that what he was looking for?

She stole a glance at Matt while he pushed a CD into his MacBook and pulled a set of headphones over his ears. He’d sounded so weird last night when he talked about Alexa, like he’d tried to forget those months of his life. And the look on his face when she spoke to him, like he was biting through nails. Maybe he’d really loved her and she’d broken his heart? The thought made Bridget want to hurl.

Bridget sighed and turned to the stack of file folders. As she opened the first file, she grimaced. What exactly was she looking for? She knew her dad’s record keeping pretty well: audio recordings of each session, which he would burn onto a CD; notes on topics and comments of interest during the session; postsession impressions of each client, along with medications prescribed and suggestions for the next session. All completely, one hundred percent straightforward. No codes, no gimmicks, no secret shorthand. There was no reason to believe she’d find anything that had been missed the first bazillion times these notes had been examined.

Still, this was her dad, and after her mom, Bridget knew him best. Maybe she’d see something everyone else missed.

Undermeyer’s file started out normal enough. The first session was mainly for initial reactions, stating that the patient arrived heavily sedated, and that acute schizophrenia and possible multiple personality disorder were the most likely culprits for his condition. Not a word, not a hint of anything out of the ordinary.

But there wouldn’t have been, right? Her dad couldn’t very well have said, “Undermeyer is possessed by several demonic entities that only I can communicate with.” It wouldn’t exactly fly with Sergeant Quinn and the assistant district attorney. The session ended with the request that he see Undermeyer again, this time without any drugs in his system.

The next session was a week later and was, apparently, a complete disaster. At the end of the session Dr. Liu had to call in the accompanying officers from the other room and have Undermeyer restrained after he attempted to throw himself through the fourth-story window of Dr. Liu’s office. Not much there, other than that her dad requested another interview.

This was a bust. They weren’t going to find anything here that the police missed. She’d hit a dead end.

Matt sat bolt upright in his chair. “Whoa.”

“What?”

He held up a hand. “Hold on. Let me check something.” Matt scrolled the recording ahead two, three times, then cupped his hands over his ears, listening acutely. After a few seconds his hand flew to the space bar and he paused the recording. “Whoa.”

“What?”

“I think I found something.”

Bridget sucked in a breath. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Matt moved quickly. He reset the recording back near the beginning and handed the headphones to Bridget. “So that CD has Undermeyer’s first and second sessions with your dad. They’re each thirty minutes long, and pretty much what you’d expect. But this CD, with the third and fourth sessions, they’re shorter. The third session is only twenty-two minutes, the fourth only fifteen.”

Bridget felt a ripple of excitement race through her body. “That doesn’t sound like my dad.”

“Right? So I went through them again and . . . well, listen for yourself.”

Bridget slipped the headphones on while Matt started the recording.

“And have you been taking your medication, Mr. Undermeyer?” Dr. Liu asked.

A lump welled up in Bridget’s throat at her dad’s voice. He sounded infinitely calm, totally professional, not an ounce of emotion reflected through the even cadence of his words. God, she missed him.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” It was Undermeyer’s voice, with that taunting style of the demoniac that Bridget had come to know so well.

“Excellent. And do you care to tell me why you broke into the Church of St. Michael?”

“No. No, no, no.” Bridget could almost see the taunting grin on Undermeyer’s face.

“I see.”

Matt held up a finger. On the recording, Bridget heard a faint click.

Dr. Liu’s voice picked up almost immediately with a heavy thumping sound in the background, like chair legs bouncing on the floor. “Well, then, Mr. Undermeyer, I will see you next week.”

“Not safe!” Undermeyer shrieked. “Not safe here! Not safe! Not safe here!”

Another click, and the session was over.

Matt paused the recording. “Did you hear the click, right before your dad told Undermeyer he’d see him next week?”

“Yeah.”

“Same as the click at the end of the recording.”

Bridget gasped. “He turned it off. My dad didn’t want something to be on the official session recording.”

“Exactly. And it happened again, exactly the same way, in session four.” Matt slumped back into his chair. “Which means something is missing.”

The missing tapes, just like Undermeyer said. Bridget leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “My dad kept recordings of every second of every patient session. If he turned off the official police recording, he must have had a second recorder going. For his personal files.”

“But where? My dad went through both of Dr. Liu’s offices with tweezers and a magnifying glass. There’s no way he missed anything.”

“Nothing that he was meant to find.”

Matt tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just this. If my dad was a Watcher, he wasn’t exactly going to advertise that fact, right? I mean, it’s not something you brag about at the office Christmas party.”

“It might make the Christmas party more interesting.”

Bridget rolled her eyes. “Focus.”

“Sorry.”

“My point is, what if what’s missing here—the audio, maybe even some notes—what if they were never here?”

“You mean he hid them?”

Bridget shrugged. “That’s what I’d do. Especially if I thought the Emim were on to me.”

Matt ran his fingers absentmindedly through his hair. “And my dad wouldn’t have missed it. He wouldn’t have realized there was anything wrong with what he found in Dr. Liu’s office.” He sounded relieved.

“I wasn’t blaming your dad. I never thought he screwed this up.”

“Oh, I know. It’s just . . .” Matt shifted in his chair so he faced her. “This is some really weird shit we’re dealing with.”

Bridget couldn’t help herself. His serious expression and the way he described her situation, it was too perfect. She burst out laughing, head thrown back, hand slapping the table. Her cheeks ached, her stomach felt like it was going to burst right out of her body with the effort. It was the first time she’d laughed like that in months.

Matt pursed his lips and folded his arms across his chest. He clearly didn’t appreciate Bridget’s mood. She immediately put on a serious face.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Matt said, once she’d quieted down.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Don’t be mad. It was just so . . . perfect.”

“So if he kept secret notes, they weren’t in his office,” Matt said, ignoring her apology. “My dad would have found them.”

Bridget wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but she decided not to press the point. Besides, she had a more likely place in mind.

She dug into the pocket of her jeans and whipped out her cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Matt said.

Bridget held up her hand for silence while she dialed. “Mom? Hey, yeah, we’re still out. Um, I was wondering what you were planning for dinner? Shepherd’s pie? Cool. Yeah, I think he’d really love to stay for dinner. Perfect. We’ll be there soon.”

“Did you just get me invited to your house for dinner?”

“Totally.”

A sly grin stole across Matt’s face. “You know, it’s amazing how you keep asking me on dates.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your Winter Formal, dinner at your house. Really, I’m flattered.”

Bridget narrowed her eyes. “You know what? Forget it. I can totally do this on my own without your help.”

“Don’t be so touchy.” Matt reached out and grazed her hand with his fingertips. “You know I want to help.”

Bridget let his touch linger, surprising herself by not pulling away. Something in the pit of her stomach shifted, like the bottom had fallen away. What was wrong with her?

“We should go,” she said at last. He pulled his hand away, and Bridget was almost sorry. “My mom’s expecting us.”

Matt loaded the evidence back into the box. “So, shepherd’s pie?”

“Every Sunday night.”

“Awesome. My dad’s going to be so jealous.”

Twenty-Eight

“H
EY
, M
OM, WE’RE HERE,”
B
RIDGET
called as she and Matt came through the front door. She got no answer, just the sound of laughter—male and female—coming from the kitchen. Bridget pushed open the swinging door and found her mom holding a piece of braised carrot between her fingers while Sergeant Quinn playfully took a bite. Their bodies were almost touching, her mom laughing, happy, Sergeant Quinn’s eyes fixed on her face.

“Dad?” Matt said. He sounded genuinely shocked. Time to get with the program, Matt.

“Bridget!” her mom said. She took a step away from Sergeant Quinn and straightened out her sweater. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“Obviously.”

“Dad, what are you doing here?”

Sergeant Quinn flushed a bright shade of fuchsia. “Well, Annie called and said you were coming for dinner, and she was kind enough to invite me over too.”

“But Sunday nights you play poker with the guys from the station.”

Sergeant Quinn shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Er, well, Benny had to cancel tonight and Curtis’s kid has the flu so, um . . .”

Bridget felt bad for Matt as he stood there, feet rooted to the linoleum floor, realizing for the first time that his dad had the hots for her mom. It was like watching a kid finally understand that Santa Claus doesn’t exist and that your parents had been lying to you your whole life. Brutal.

“Well,” her mom said, breaking the silence. “Dinner’s almost ready. Bridget, why don’t you take Matt to your room and then you can set the table?”

Bridget shook her head. This was seriously the only household in America where the mom
encouraged
her daughter to take a boy to her room. She turned to leave, realized Matt was still staring dumbfounded at his dad, and grabbed his arm, yanking him into the hallway. “This way.”

“What the hell was that?” Matt said, dropping into the chair at Bridget’s desk. “You don’t even look surprised.”

“Yeah, ’cause I’m not.”

Realization dawned. “You knew?”

“Dude, your dad is here like two nights a week. Checking up on us.”

“He was worried. Felt a sense of responsibility because . . . because . . .”

Bridget’s smile was pitying. “Yeah, not so much.”

Matt pointed toward the door. “They were flirting in there.”

“I know. They’ve been doing it for, like, three months.”

He fell silent, clearly internalizing what he’d just seen. Bridget felt bad for him: He really didn’t have a clue.

“No wonder you were so pissed off at me,” he said at last.

Bridget looked at him. His hazel eyes held a hint of sadness, and she realized that he was right. She hadn’t really understood where her dislike of Matt came from. He’d been nothing but nice to her since he came back into her life, and she’d been nothing but a raging bitch in return. But suddenly it all made sense. She’d been so angry at her mom for flirting with another man less than a year after her husband’s death, so angry at Sergeant Quinn, her dad’s supposed friend, she never even realized that she’d totally and completely taken her anger out on Matt.

“It’s okay,” he said. A smile spread across his face. “I get it now. I just really thought you hated me.” He walked right to her, reached out, and took her hands in his. “But you don’t hate me, do you?”

“I—” Bridget’s eyes locked onto Matt’s, and whatever she was about to say vanished from her mind. Matt ran his thumbs gently over the backs of her hands, which trembled beneath his touch.

Did she hate him?

Not even a little.

She didn’t know when it had happened, or how, but she definitely didn’t hate Matt Quinn anymore.

Her face must have said what her words didn’t. Matt cupped her cheek in his hand, caressing her skin with the tips of his fingers. He leaned down, hesitated to see if she’d flinch away. But Bridget had no intention of doing so. She wanted him closer.

When his lips touched hers, she was afraid to move. She’d never kissed a guy before and she was terrified that she’d do it wrong. But Matt’s lips were surprisingly soft, his touch light and calm. And when he finally broke away from her, he looked nervous, as if he’d been afraid he would break her.

“Are you okay? I mean, was that okay?”

Bridget barely nodded. There was so much weirdness pulsing through her body she felt like she was going to pass out. “Yeah, thanks.”

Thanks?
Did she really just thank him? Bridget, you complete loser.

“Bridge?” her mom called from the kitchen with the worst possible timing in the world. “Dinner’s ready.”

Sunday night’s shepherd pie dinner at the Liu house was the most awkward social experience of Bridget’s life.

Everyone avoided everyone else. Her mom studiously avoided both Matt and Sergeant Quinn, and treated Bridget and Sammy like they were the only ones in the room. Sergeant Quinn was having difficulty keeping his eyes away from her mom, but he avoided his son’s eyes like the plague. Matt stared directly at his plate, occasionally nudging Bridget with his elbow or knee to make sure she remembered he was there. As for Bridget, she didn’t care if everyone in the room fell off the face of the Earth. All she could think about was the tingling on her lips where Matt had kissed her.

“Why’s no one talking?” Sammy asked. He’d separated his shepherd’s pie into piles of mashed potatoes, ground beef, carrot, onion, and “other” and was taking bites of them in order, progressing counterclockwise around his plate. “Are we mad?”

“No, Sammy,” her mom said. “Of course we’re not mad at you.”

“Not mad at me,” Sammy said, scooping a bit of other into his mouth. “Just mad.”

Bridget worked her way through her dinner as fast as was humanly possible. She wasn’t the only one. Her mom, Matt, and Sergeant Quinn were eating like they were racing to the finish line. She kept trying to remind herself that beyond her brother’s eccentric eating habits, beyond the squicky flirting between her mom and Sergeant Quinn, beyond her own disturbing desire to pull Matt down on her bed and smother herself in his crisp, orangey cologne, there was a
reason
she’d brought him to her house. They needed to look for a secret stash of notes that might or might not exist. No pressure.

“How are you doing, Bridget?” Sergeant Quinn asked, breaking the silence.

Bridget had no idea what he was talking about. “Fine?”

Her mom cast a sideways glance at Sammy. “We were worried, you know.” She lowered her voice. “About Peter.”

Bridget dropped her fork. She’d totally and completely put Peter’s murder out of her mind. What kind of a friend was she?

“Sammy,” Matt said calmly. “Did you show your mom your baseball mitt? The one we broke in for you?”

Sammy’s face lit up. “No!” He jumped out of his chair. “You’ll love it, Mom. Matt says it’s made just for me.”

Bridget caught Matt’s eye as her brother ran out of the room. “Thank you,” she mouthed. The last thing she needed was for Sammy to overhear a conversation about Peter’s death.

“Steph—” Her mom caught herself. “Sergeant Quinn told me that Peter’s death was very much like . . . like . . .” Her mom’s hands shook so violently she had to drop them into her lap.

“It was a completely different crime scene, Annie,” Sergeant Quinn said. He reached his arm around her shoulders, then froze, casting a furtive glance at Matt and Bridget. He settled for a friendly pat on her mom’s shoulder instead. “Whatever sicko killed the Kim boy, it was just a coincidence, Annie, that it was anything like . . .” He looked at Bridget. “Like David’s murder.”

Bridget recalled the stricken look on Sergeant Quinn’s face the night before when he arrived at St. Michael’s. He knew as well as she did that the murders were exactly the same. Freakishly the same. No coincidence about it the same.

“I’m just sorry that Bridge—” She choked on her daughter’s name. “That Bridget had to be the one to find
him.”

Bridget stiffened. Peter Kim’s mangled, blood-soaked body flashed before her. His eyes wide open, staring upward, reflecting the horror of his last moments. His mouth gaping in a silent scream. The deep red gash across his throat that exposed the sinewy gore beneath.

Bridget’s fingers curled around the seat of her chair, fingernails digging into the coarse underside. It was her fault, her fault that Peter was dead. Father Santos had said as much. Peter had been obsessed with her, in love with her since before she even knew what those words meant, and she’d just ignored him. She should have been kinder, more understanding. She should have texted him back last night, calmed him, told him that Matt Quinn meant nothing to her.

She felt a warmth next to her skin as Matt brushed the back of her hand, then slowly, purposefully, slipped his fingers between her palm and the chair. She gave way to the pressure and released her death grip as Matt’s fingers laced between hers. Strong. He felt strong. Like someone she could finally lean on. She dropped her head as her eyes started to tear up.

“See, Mom?” Sammy had his left hand shoved into the brand-new baseball mitt. He reached his arm up like he was catching a fly ball in center field. “See? Matt says it’s the same kind the pros wear.”

Her mom cleared her throat. “That’s lovely, Sammy. Now finish your—”

The doorbell pealed through the house.

“Who could that be?” her mom said. Bridget noticed that all the color had drained from her mom’s face.

“Shall I get it?” Sergeant Quinn asked, half rising from his seat.

“No, no, Stephen. It’s fine.” Her mom stood up and excused herself. Beneath the table, Matt gave her hand a squeeze.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Annie,” a voice rang out from the hall. Hugh Darlington.

“Oh, no, Hugh. It’s fine.” This time Bridget was amused to watch Sergeant Quinn fidget in his chair.

“I was hoping you might have time to discuss the endowment I’m making in David’s name.”

“Actually, we’re just finishing up dinner.”

“I can wait in the downstairs office until you’re done,” Mr. Darlington said insistently.

With an audible grunt, Sergeant Quinn pushed himself to his feet and strode through the swinging door into the entryway.

“Sergeant Quinn,” Mr. Darlington said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“It’s a bad time, Darlington,” Sergeant Quinn said. His voice sounded cold and professional. “Maybe you could come back tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid,” Mr. Darlington said, sounding very self-important, “that it cannot wait.”

“I’m afraid,” Sergeant Quinn said in a tone that made Bridget’s hair stand on end, “it’ll have to.”

“How often is
he
here?” Matt whispered. He sounded uneasy.

“All the time,” Sammy blurted out through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “But not as much as your dad.” Sammy grinned, exposing rows of potato-covered teeth, while Matt stared at his plate, aimlessly pushing bits of food around.

“I’m sorry, Hugh,” her mom said. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

There was a pause, and though she couldn’t see them, Bridget pictured the tall, solid frame of Sergeant Quinn and the shrewd, handsome face of Mr. Darlington, staring each other down in the entryway.

“Fine,” Mr. Darlington said at last. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, Annie. Have a lovely evening.” Another pause. “Good night, Stephen. I’m sure we’ll talk soon.” Then the door clicked shut.

It was a full two minutes before her mom and Sergeant Quinn reentered the dining room. Bridget wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know what happened during the interim.

Her mom came in first, with slightly puffy eyes. She immediately began clearing plates even though no one was done. Only Sammy complained.

“Mom,” he said, snatching his plate away.

Her mom sighed.

Sammy jumped on the opportunity. “Can I watch TV while I finish?”

“Sure.” Bridget’s mom never gave up that easily. The confrontation between the two men in her life must have taken all the fight out of her.

“Come on.” Bridget tugged on Matt’s sleeve.

“Hmm?” he asked absently, like he was just coming out of a trance.

“Mom, we’re going to do homework in my room, okay?”

“Homework.” Her mom plopped down in a chair and stared out the back window. “Sure.”