Page 27

Stella sat in the passenger seat on their three-and-a-half-hour drive to Claymore. Hagen was behind the wheel. If they avoided traffic, they would reach the little town near Lake Erie by midafternoon.

The monotony of the drive made Stella’s mind wander.

First to logistics. If they had to spend the night in Claymore Township, Stella had arranged another stay at the cabin in the woods where they’d recovered from the death of the man who’d murdered both their fathers.

The place where, for a few weeks back in the fall, they’d cut themselves off from the world and focused only on each other.

Each day during that unofficial sabbatical, they’d trekked around the woods, taking in the fresh air, the quiet of nature.

In the evenings, Hagen cooked while Stella lay on the sofa and read, a book resting against her knees.

The fire crackled in the grate, and Bubs snored at her feet.

The thriller on the pages in front of her was all the excitement she needed.

And she had all the romance she’d ever dreamed of.

Stella stole a glance at Hagen. He was in the zone, focused on the road ahead. She slipped back into her thoughts .

Those weeks in Claymore Township had been the best of her life, relaxing days and long nights that ended each morning, safe in Hagen’s strong arms.

It couldn’t have lasted. They’d known that when they arrived, having cashed in all their overtime and vacation days.

The day would come when they’d have to go back to the blood and the bodies, the forensic reports and the witness interviews, the antiseptic stink of the morgue and the stifling air of police cells and interview rooms.

They just hadn’t expected that day to come while they were still in Claymore Township.

A search for a missing patient. Their discovery of his body hanging naked and bloodless in the middle of the woods near the cabin.

The first of a series of murders that followed them home to Nashville, took them back to Pennsylvania, and now brought them here again, back where they’d started.

It seemed there was no getting away from these murders.

Stella imagined how it would be when they returned to the cabin. Hagen would ease open the door and step inside. She would follow and take a deep breath of the cabin’s woody air—the hint of pine and the aroma of burned logs in the fireplace. Then she’d light a fire while he unpacked.

She had found it best to leave him to put away the clothes.

He was fussy about having all his hangers facing the same direction and had his own way of storing his jacket.

The collar had to stay straight, and the lapels couldn’t curl.

Or something like that. Stella would’ve been happy to pluck the next wrinkled item out of the suitcase each day. Unpacking was hardly worth the effort.

She’d pile the kindling into the fireplace, ensuring there was sufficient airflow for the flames to take before arranging the logs carefully. The landlord always provided more than enough.

Stella would strike the match and listen to the fizz of the phosphorous.

Those days had been so carefree, so…weightless.

The death of Joel Ramirez had been like the removal of a boulder from her shoe.

And the darkness that Hagen had shouldered since she’d met him had lifted.

For the first time, they’d been able to see each other as they really were.

And they loved what they saw.

The kindling would catch. Fire would lick at the logs. Everything would be back to normal.

Before she knew it, Hagen pulled off the highway at the exit in Claymore Township, up the road to the mountains on the way to the hospital.

The Claymore Township Psychiatric Hospital hadn’t changed in the weeks Stella and Hagen had been away.

The snow had melted, then returned, so the drifts were now as deep against the walls as they had been during the last visit.

But the roads had been plowed, and the fog had lifted so that the short drive from the cabin to the hospital no longer felt like an adventure.

They left their rental vehicle in front of the building, made their way up the cleared path to the front door, and rang the buzzer for entry.

Stella stomped the snow from her boots as the door unlocked.

Inside, in the entrance hall, was where Maureen King had stabbed Kenneth Hannan, a patient at the hospital.

If she squinted, Stella thought she could just make out the shape of a dark stain on the marble floor where the blood had soaked into the stone.

The real culprit was probably a shadow from the banister on the staircase. But the memory made Stella shudder, and she wondered how the murders had affected the staff and patients. The residents at the hospital were fragile enough.

A nurse came down the stairs and headed toward the rec room with only the briefest of glances in their direction. She was young, with a short blond bob pinned back neatly. Stella didn’t recognize her.

Hagen whispered, “Guess Dr. Silow finally found a replacement for Ann.”

She nodded. Nurse Ann Mayhew hadn’t seemed like a good fit for Claymore. Her inappropriate relationship with Kenneth, her patient, had ended her position and probably killed her career too.

Stella approached Dr. Silow’s door and paused to listen for voices. He might’ve been in a therapy session. She didn’t want to burst in just as someone was laying out their soul. An interruption might set them back in the healing process.

Hearing nothing, she rapped her knuckles gently against the wood.

“Come in.” Dr. Silow’s low voice was warm and welcoming.

Stella turned the brass doorknob.

Dr. Silow sat at his desk at the end of the room, writing in a notebook. The walls were still covered with framed dead insects. Here, a set of butterflies looked ready to take off and fly around the room. There, a platoon of beetles stood in stick-straight lines, as if ready to march on an enemy.

Dr. Silow lifted his head from his book. He stared at them for a few seconds, frowned, and removed his large spectacles, leaving them to hang from the black string around his neck. “Stella! Hagen!” He smiled widely. “How wonderful to see you both again. I was so glad to hear you were coming.”

Rising from his chair, he came around the desk, his arms stretched wide. He greeted Stella with a grasp of her shoulders and an air kiss that landed somewhere behind her ears. Hagen received a hearty handshake.

“Come, come. Make yourselves comfortable.” He waved toward the two leather chairs in front of the desk. “Now let me think. It was coffee for you, Hagen, and a decadent, thick hot chocolate for you, Stella. Am I right?”

Stella couldn’t help but smile. Dr. Silow remembered. He fished a jar of ground coffee and a box of instant hot chocolate packets from the cabinet beside the door and took out the French press.

As he busied himself with the drinks, Stella noticed a rug in the middle of the floor. A dark-red and navy blue Persian-inspired design covering the spot where Maureen King had cut her throat. Dr. Silow, too, must’ve struggled not to see the stain on the floor.

Silow placed the steaming cups on the desk in front of them and returned to his seat.

“Such a terrible thing, what happened to young Trevor. I assume that’s why you’re here. Following up.”

Hagen sipped his coffee. “Something like that. You were very helpful. Not sure we’d have caught him if not for that tip you gave us, telling us where he’d be. Did you know him well?”

“I’m glad I helped, if that’s what I did.

But I wouldn’t say I knew him well, no. He was closed off.

Very, in fact.” Dr. Silow steepled his fingers.

His nails were always cut short and even.

“But I could certainly see him influencing a vulnerable Maureen King. To be perfectly frank, Maureen was so unstable at that stage, anyone could’ve moved her. She was quite impressionable.”

Stella agreed completely.

Hagen was taking his time, drawing Dr. Silow out. So far, he hadn’t told them anything they didn’t already know. They understood Trevor McAuley’s influence. He’d pulled Maureen King into the cult, twisted her into his violence, and eventually trailed Stella and Hagen all the way back to Nashville.

What they needed to know was why…and who was pulling his strings.

Stella cupped her hands around the mug and sat back in the chair.

There was something intensely relaxing about Dr. Silow’s office, with its dark wooden panels and hot, steaming drinks.

She could sense herself sinking into the seat, desiring to tell him everything about the case and asking for his opinion.

Only the rows of dead beetles in the frames on the wall beside her head kept her alert.

“What have the other patients said? Anyone mention anything about the Dispatch group Maureen and Trevor joined?”

Dr. Silow took a small cloth from his desk and wiped his spectacles.

“No, no. Not at all. The other patients don’t know anything.

We don’t talk about the case in front of them.

And I’m afraid I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you or read about in the press.

My only connection with Trevor was during his therapy sessions, and even then, he didn’t say much. ”

Hagen slid his coffee onto the desk. “So you did treat Trevor?”

“Oh, yes. Well, tried to. His parents sent him to me, but I’m afraid the sessions weren’t very effective. Patients have to want to take part, and Trevor didn’t. He just sat there, saying nothing, mostly.”

Hagen’s jaw set. “You didn’t think to mention this? That you were Trevor’s psychiatrist.”

Dr. Silow blinked. He had small, dark eyes that made his white beard look whiter.