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A woman wearing a plain black dress opens the door, saving him, and he blows out a sigh. “Yes?” she asks, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“We have an appointment to see Mrs. Grayson.” Pop flashes her a smile.
Her face smooths. “Of course. The family is going through a very difficult time. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Pop echoes, and I can’t tell if he’s being facetious or not.
We follow the maid into a library that’s similar, actually, to the Donnelly’s, down to the books and fireplace, and Mrs. Grayson is sitting on a sofa, flipping through a photo album.
“Thank you, Rosie,” she says, and the maid retreats, closing the doors behind her.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Grayson,” Pop says, extending his hand.
She shakes it but quickly lets go. Not out of distaste. Disinterest. “I’m not sure what this is about. Marci’s death was an accident. We explained that to a detective already.”
“The police were here?” I ask, surprised.
“Marci fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck. We called nine-one-one, and a detective took our statements. Very cut and dried is what he said.”
“She used to be a client at Quiet Meadows,” I say, casually stepping to the window that looks out over the pond and backyard.
“Yes. She had debilitating depression and was participating in an inpatient program. We thought it best. She was supervised twenty-four hours a day. Suicide watch.”
“I’m sorry. What kind of care did you set up for her after Quiet Meadows closed?”
Mrs. Grayson blinks. “She wasn’t a patient there when that happened. I don’t want to say she was cured, but she’d made significant progress and we signed her out two weeks before the facility was shut down.”
I shoot Pop a look.
“Was she receiving any treatment at the time of her death?” Pop asks.
“Yes, of course. She was seeing a psychiatrist and taking antidepressants under her supervision.”
“Do you mind sharing which psychiatrist?” I ask casually, hands in my pockets. People get strange about revealing things like that. If I sound like it’s important, Mrs. Grayson could withhold the information out of fear or plain stubbornness. We aren’t cops and talking to us is strictly voluntary.
“Jerricka Solis. She has an office downtown, and Marci went twice a week. When we decided Marci was well enough to come home, it wasn’t a decision we made lightly. We knew she still needed therapy, and Dr. Solis reached out and offered to seeMarci as a patient. She came highly recommended, and we felt she was a good fit. Marci liked her.”
JodiAnne Donnelly’s therapist.
“Do you mind if we look at Marci’s room?” Pop asks.
Mrs. Grayson deliberates, tapping her fingers on the photo album still in her lap, sets it aside, and then stands. “I suppose not, but I don’t know why you would need to. Marci had some issues, but depression runs on my side of the family and wasn’t the cause of her death. Not like it could have been. My mother committed suicide, and I’ve made my own attempts.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I pause. “But Marci was well enough to leave.”
“Treating depression is like playing a game of Russian roulette. What could cure you could just as well make what you have ten times worse. Some drugs have terrible side effects. The doctors at Quiet Meadows happened upon a drug combination and dosage Marci responded to. That’s the best anyone can hope for. She was talking about going to school before she tripped. She finally felt good enough to try.”
That sounds along the same lines as what Polly Donnelly said about JodiAnne’s treatments, only, it seems, Marci was far luckier.
We follow Mrs. Grayson up a wide set of stairs. She walks slowly, gripping the handrail until her knuckles turn white, as if she’s coddling a case of arthritis in her knees or a bad hip, or she could be reliving her daughter’s death. I wonder who found Marci lying at the bottom of the stairs.
Marci’s room is tidy. Her queen bed is made, the carpet freshly vacuumed—I can see the tracks in the piling. A desk sits under a window that shows us the same view of the pond, and a dresser and bookshelves fill the rest of the room. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere.
The bedroom doesn’t feel lived in. There’s no clutter, no memorabilia. No posters or art hanging on the walls. No ticket stubs or plastic dance club bracelets. No cat sleeping on the bed or clothes in a heap on the floor. It’s empty of presence, of spirit, just like every room in this house, I bet.
There’s a diary laying on the desk, and using a pen, I flip it open. The last entry dries my throat.
Someone is after me, I know it. Someone wants me dead. I can feel them watching me. I don’t want to go anywhere, but Mom forces me to see Dr. Jerricka and I have to do what she says. I’m scared to leave my room but I’m more afraid Mom will send me to another facility like QM if I don’t behave. Dr. Pederson pretended he wanted to help but all he did was give me drugs I didn’t want. They made me feel like I was going crazy and did weird things to my memory. Shit. My appointment with Dr. Jerricka is soon. I need to go. Please, please, please God, don’t let anything happen to me.