Page 125 of Paranoid

Therapist, encouraging: “Just look.”

Patient, head turning to the left and frowning eyebrows knitting in concentration: “I see dark clouds. A storm over a mountain. Rain and thunder pouring over the valley.”

Therapist, leaning in closer: “Good. Now, when you look to the future?”

Patient, head slowly rotating to the right, the knitted brow relaxing, a smile toying on previously downturned lips: “It’s bright.” Relief is evident. “A warm glow over the mountain, sunshine beaming down on the valley where a river is flowing like liquid gold.”

Therapist, pleased: “Then let go of the past. Of the storm. Accept the light. And now it’s time to return. Three: You’re beginning to surface.”

Patient: “But the storm is following. People are dying.”

Therapist: “Let them go.”

Patient: “But Luke. You’re saying I have to forget him. I don’t know if I can. . . .”

Therapist: “Two. You’re leaving them behind. You’re leaving the past behind. You’re leaving Luke behind.”

Patient, nodding in the chair, hair rubbing against the leather, face more relaxed: “I will.”

Therapist, relieved: “Good.” A pause. “One. And you’re back.”

CHAPTER 28

A redheaded twentysomething in blue scrubs with a name tag that read “Will Hart, Customer Service” was behind the counter at Ace Medical Supplies in Astoria. He had been stacking boxes on the back wall behind the register but had turned to face Cade and Voss when they’d entered the small storefront owned by Nate Moretti. The space inside was small, filled with freestanding shelves that displayed neat stacks of all kinds of medical equipment from bandages to blood pressure cuffs to latex gloves to diabetes monitors and more. Against one wall, a row of walkers stood at the ready, crutches stacked neatly behind, all gleaming beneath suspended fluorescent lights.

“Can I help you?” Will Hart asked. A lanky kid, he had a pug nose sprinkled with freckles, dark eyes, and an eager-to-please expression.

“Yeah. We’d like to speak with Nate Moretti,” Cade said. “We’re with the city police.” He showed his ID and badge, just as Voss retrieved hers and displayed it on the counter.

“Oh. Wow.” Hart glanced at the badges and swallowed hard. “He. Um. Mr. Moretti’s not in right now.”

“Do you know where he is?” Cade asked, shoving his wallet back into his pocket.

“No. I mean . . . Oh, geez. Is he in trouble?” Will asked.

“We just want to talk to him,” Cade said.

Voss repeated the question: “Do you know where he is?”

Will shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

“But he called you?” she said.

“Yeah.” He was nodding frantically, obviously unnerved at the presence of the police in the store. “But . . . it was kinda weird. First of all, he never misses a day of work. Never. And he left me the message at, let me see”—he fished a cell phone from his pocket and flipped through the screen—“three forty-seven in the morning. Like, who texts then?”

“What did it say?”

“Just that he wouldn’t be in today. That he was feeling sick.” With some trepidation, he handed the phone to Cade. The message was simple: I’ve been up all night. Stomach bug. Open up and Wendy will be in around noon.

Sure enough the time was noted as 3:47 a.m.

Hart’s response at 8:13 was: OK

Ryder was tempted to scroll up, but didn’t. “Who’s Wendy?”

Hart’s mouth pinched. “My coworker. She’d better show.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”