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I almost tell him yes. That I need more than a ride—I need him to help me understand just what the hell is going on and what, if anything, I can do about it. But I can’t bring myself to say it. It’s better to end things now.
“No,” I say. “I can find my own way home.”
—
I can also find my own way to Dr. Weber’s office, which sits a block off Maple Street, on a tidy thoroughfare that looks residential but is mostly commercial. Craftsman-style homes sit amid compact yards, most bearing signs for the businesses contained within them. A dentist. A law office. A funeral home. Dr. Weber’s is no different.
Inside, the office is soothing to the point of blandness. Everything’s colored either cream or beige, including a woman leaning over a desk to check the calendar. Creamy skin. Beige skirt. Off-white blouse. She looks up when I enter, her eyes kind but curious. Definitely Dr. Weber. It’s the sort of expression than can only come from decades of intense listening.
“I didn’t think I had an appointment first thing this morning,” she says. “Are you a parent?”
“There’s no appointment,” I say. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“I’m afraid I don’t take walk-ins. Nor do I work with adults. But I’d be happy to give you the names of more appropriate therapists.”
“I’m not seeking therapy,” I say. “Been there, done that.”
“Then I’m not sure how I can help you,” Dr. Weber says kindly.
“I’m a former patient,” I say. “We had one session. That I know of.”
“I’ve had lots of patients over the years.”
“I’m Maggie Holt.”
Dr. Weber remains completely still. Her expression never changes. The only thing hinting at her surprise is a hand that makes its way to her heart. She notices and tries to cover by adjusting the top button of her blouse.
“I remember you,” she says.
“What did we talk about?” I say, immediately following it up with another, more pressing question. “And what was I like?”
Dr. Weber gives her calendar another quick glance before leading me into an inner office filled with more beige and cream, including the college degrees hanging on the wall in tasteful frames. It makes me wonder if the doctor has her own phobia—fear of color.
“I assume this visit was prompted by the recent incident at Baneberry Hall,” Dr. Weber says as we sit, she in her doctor’s chair and me in the one reserved for patients. “I imagine that was quite a shock for you.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I say.
“Do you think your father killed that girl?”
“I can’t think of anyone else who could have done it.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“More like an I-don’t-know.” An edge creeps into my voice. The argument with Dane has left me feeling defensive. Or maybe thedefensiveness stems from sitting under Dr. Weber’s watchful gaze. “I was hoping you could help me fill in the blanks.”
“I’m honestly not sure how much help I can be,” Dr. Weber says. “We only had that one session your father mentioned in his book.”
That’s a surprise. I didn’t expect Dr. Weber to have read it.
“What did you think ofHouse of Horrors?” I say.
The doctor folds her hands in her lap. “As literature, I found it lacking. From a psychological standpoint, I thought it was fascinating.”
“How so?”
“While on the surface it was about a haunted house and evil spirits, I saw the book for what it really was—a father’s attempt to understand his daughter.”
It sounds like something Dr. Harris would have told me. Typical analytical bullshit.