Page 118 of High Society

“You won’t be breaking any confidences. I’ll definitely be able to track the names down through their mobile carriers. But that could take a day or two. Time Dr. Koskinen might not have.”

Simon wavers. “All right. Show me.”

Rivers turns the page out. There are six handwritten numbers listed in a column. The last one is underlined three times.

“That’s mine,” Simon points to the third number on the list. But he has to cross-reference with his phone to identify the other ones. Two of them he doesn’t recognize at all. “The first one there is JJ’s. The fourth one, that’s Salvador Jimenez.” And he runs a finger over the last number. “That’s Reese. Reese Foster. The lawyer.”

Rivers writes down the names, and Simon can’t help notice how he circles only Reese’s. “That’s a big help, thank you, Simon.”

After the detective leaves, Simon pulls out his phone, opens the tribe’s group chat, and starts typing.

Simon: Just got grilled by that detective again. A lot of questions about JJ and Liisa. You might hear from him, too. He’s got most of our numbers.

CHAPTER 59

Sitting at her desk, Holly waits for Detective Rivers to return her call. She has no qualms over sharing her deepening suspicions about Reese. After all, the bounds of client-therapist confidentiality don’t apply to homicide.

Her phone lights up with a call, but it’s not from Rivers. It’s from Walter’s landline. Holly answers on the second ring. “Hi, Papa.”

He doesn’t reply, but Holly hears what sounds like heavy breathing for a few seconds. Then the call abruptly ends.

She calls him right back, but it goes straight to voicemail. Five minutes later, she tries again. Still no answer. Holly grabs her keys and heads down to her car.

Holly drives aggressively, weaving through the moderate highway traffic and growing more worried by the minute. She reaches his house in under fifteen minutes. It’s quiet on his street, but that doesn’t bring her any reassurance.

She lets herself in through the front door. “Papa?” she calls out.

No answer.

Holly heads straight to his office but finds it empty. Heading out toward the back door, she hears a sound from nearby. A low-pitched moan. Then she’s hit by the acrid stench of DMT.

Papa, you didn’t!

Holly rushes for the solarium. At the entrance, she stops dead in her tracks. Her breath catches. Walter is sprawled out on the beanbag. His eyes are open, but he stares at the ceiling, oblivious to her presence. Reese sits beside him on the floor, one long leg tucked up against her chest. A gun rests on the floor by her right hand. An old-fashioned, carafe-shaped, steaming hookah pipe stands on the floor between Walter and her with yellow rubber tubing curled up beside it. Old towels and rags are scattered near the base of the hookah. The bitter odor of the burnt DMT is even more intense than in the vaped form.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Reese says.

Reese.

“Papa!” Holly cries, taking a step toward him.

Reese lifts the gun and lazily points it at her. “Let him be. He’s just tripping.”

Holly stops, but the panic in her chest keeps rising. “Please, Reese. He’s very old. He’s all I have left.”

“He’s fine.” Reese turns to him. “Aren’t you, Walter?”

Walter flashes a lopsided, goofy smile but says nothing.

“Exhibit A,” Reese says simply.

“Why?” Holly demands.

Reese shrugs. “In two words? Alcohol cessation.”

Holly is having trouble processing what she’s saying. She can only focus on her grandfather’s narrow chest, rising and falling, wondering what she’ll do if it suddenly stops.

Glancing over her shoulder, Holly considers trying to flee to get help for him but realizes she probably wouldn’t get far before Reese took a shot.