Page 38 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

I also filled him in on what Wren had told me the day before and sensed his thoughts paralleling my own: while the letter was suspicious, it was no smoking gun. He handed the papers back to me.

“Last night, I figured out something that’s been bothering me about the night that Wren died,” Oscar said.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been wondering why she didn’t seem to recognize her killer,” he said. “That part didn’t make sense to me until Dugan told me she died the first night of the festival.”

I followed his train of thought. “You think the killer might have been wearing a mask?”

He nodded before looking at me square on. “I have to ask you something else, though, Tate.”

I straightened at his tone. “Yes?”

Oscar’s eyes bored into me. “What if we never know who did it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just wondering how long you’re going to keep going with this. Are you planning to cook, play games, and read poetry with Wren indefinitely?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Okay, how about this? What happens if you’re right, and in a short while, scary Wren is the only one remaining? Are you still going to stay here?”

Probably.

“I don’t know,” I hedged.

“What if Aldrich decides to close the house again?”

The concern behind his questions was obvious, and I shifted uncomfortably.

“In that case, I guess I would have to buy the property,” I joked. At the sight of his shocked expression, I added, “Just kidding.”

“Are you?” Oscar blew out his cheeks. “Because right now, I’m not so sure. You do understand she’s not real, don’t you?”

“She’s real—”

“She died,” he said, cutting me off. When I didn’t respond, he went on.

“We both know that whether we solve this or not, there’s only one ending to all of this.

” He leaned forward, his expression earnest. “I don’t want you going down the rabbit hole again, Tate.

As your friend, I’m telling you to guard your heart. ”

I merely nodded, because my throat was too tight to speak.

· · ·

Shortly before noon, a doorbell chime announced our arrival at Mercy Center.

There was no receptionist in the small waiting area, which featured plastic chairs set along the walls, inexpensive art prints, and a cork bulletin board with flyers listing schedules for AA, NA, Al-Anon, and Narc-Anon meetings.

The blue carpet was threadbare, and a single wilting plant languished in a pot near the door.

Although Mercy Center shared a similar mission with the hospital where I’d stayed, the contrast was not lost on me.

Less than a minute after we entered, a paunchy, middle-aged man in a sports jacket emerged from the back. Smiling and extending his hand to both of us, he introduced himself as Dr. Singer, the director.

Dr. Singer responded with eagerness to Oscar’s questions about the center: how many people they treated, whether they provided mental health care for low-income residents, what kinds of therapeutic interventions they offered, and so on.

I found myself impressed by his thorough and compassionate answers.

Mercy Center may not have had the resources or luxurious appointments of my hospital in Connecticut, but it seemed to be serving its community with integrity and surprising sophistication.

After ushering us to the back, Dr. Singer pointed out an office bearing the name Rene Joblin, encouraging us to meet with her as well. As we reached Dax’s office, he offered his card to each of us, inviting us to call him with questions about the center at any time.

Dax’s office door stood open, revealing a thin man with a sparse mustache sitting behind a desk, unpacking the contents of a brown paper bag.

His dun-colored hair was parted neatly on the side, and he wore a pressed, collared shirt without a tie.

Looking up, he waved at the two vinyl armchairs facing his desk.

“I hope you don’t mind if I eat,” he said, licking a squirt of mayonnaise off his thumb. “My appointments this morning started at seven and are back-to-back all day until after six. I have to run to a meeting after that, so it’s a full day.”

“Don’t let us stop you,” Oscar said. “We’re grateful you were able to meet on such short notice.”

We took our seats as Dax carefully unwrapped his sandwich and cut open a small package of Fritos with a pair of desk scissors. “My wife packed this for me,” he said.

“Tessa?”

He glanced up, startled. “Yes. Do you know her?”

“We’ve never met,” I said, “but it’s a small town.”

“Of course,” Dax replied. He took a small bite of his sandwich, chewing thoroughly and chasing it with a swallow of coffee from a mug that read Emotional Support Human—Do Not Pet before focusing his attention on Oscar.

“Dr. Singer mentioned that you bought property here in town? And that you’d like to make a donation to the center? ”

Oscar nodded, and for a few minutes we made desultory small talk about Mercy Center. When Dax segued into a question about what Oscar hoped to accomplish with his donation, Oscar held up his hand.

“Before we get to that, I was curious if any family or friends come to you with their problems. It has to be awkward, although pretty common, no?”

Dax stroked his mustache. “I try to avoid those scenarios,” he said, raising his chin. “While it’s okay to offer advice on small things, psychologists shouldn’t counsel family members for the same reason a surgeon shouldn’t operate on his wife or child.”

“But it happens?”

“I do my best to avoid that kind of situation,” he repeated.

Oscar gave me a sidelong glance before leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “That’s not what we’ve heard.”

Dax blinked. “Excuse me?”

“We’re referring to Wren,” I clarified.

Dax grew silent, his gaze shifting from me to Oscar and back again before his eyes narrowed. “You didn’t come here to discuss a donation to the Mercy Center, did you?”

“As a friend of Wren’s, I’m fully aware of how your obsession with her escalated to stalking, which required police intervention.”

Dax’s expression hardened, although he didn’t betray any signs of anxiety. “I see that I misjudged the purpose of your desire to meet with me, so I’ll have to ask you to leave—”

“In a minute,” I interrupted. “Just tell us this: where were you on the night that Wren was murdered?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” he said with a trace of contempt.

“It’s obvious you couldn’t let her go,” I said, feeling a prickle of anger at his smugness. “Did you go to her house that night to try to convince her to run away with you? And maybe things escalated when she refused?”

Something flashed in Dax’s eyes, and he got to his feet.

“If you even whisper that accusation, I’ll sue you for defamation,” he said in an icy voice that I was sure his patients never heard.

“My father is a criminal defense attorney who knows lots of lawyers who’d be more than happy to bankrupt you. ”

Though Wren had said Dax’s dad was an attorney, she hadn’t mentioned his specialty.

“It’s only defamation if we know it to be untrue,” Oscar countered with commendable insouciance.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dax said after a tense moment, taking a seat once more.

When he continued, his words were deliberate, his gaze at once calculating and assured.

“Yes, Wren sought me out. We were friends, and I wanted to help her. But she ended up trying to seduce me.” He gave a tight-lipped smile.

“She was a beautiful woman, and I admit that I responded when she kissed me, but it went no further than that.”

I kept my expression impassive as he went on.

“Unfortunately, once I put an end to her overtures, she became hysterical. A day or two later, she called me, claiming she was suicidal, so I rushed over to her house. As soon as I got there, she called the police and claimed I’d been stalking her, which was ridiculous since she came on to me.

The police know all of this, which is why I wasn’t charged. ”

The words sounded practiced, and I wondered how many times he’d recited this tale. I pulled the letter from my pocket, displaying it for him.

“Then you probably won’t mind if we show the police the letter you wrote to Wren not long before she was killed,” I said.

It took him a beat to recognize what I was holding, and for the first time, I detected a tiny crack in his composure.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“Wren left it for me,” I said.

“Where?”

“At her house. I’ve been staying there.”

“That’s impossible.”

I sat back and folded my hands in my lap.

“I’m guessing this letter will be enough for the police to reconsider the stalking charges.

I’m also fairly certain that stalking, in addition to being a suspect in a murder case, could derail your career.

I wouldn’t be surprised if your license is suspended, if not revoked entirely. ”

“And what will Tessa think?” Oscar added, spreading his hands out. “Or the rest of the town?”

Dax swallowed, trying to maintain his composure, but his mind was clearly racing.

“Why are you here?” He cleared his throat with some difficulty. “What do you want?”

I slid the letter back into my pocket. “I want you to tell us where you were between nine and midnight on the night that Wren was killed,” I said.

Dax ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ve already told the police all of this.”

“We’d like to hear it from you.”

“I was at home.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“I was alone. Tessa and her sister Lauren were at the festival.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

“I wasn’t invited,” he said through pinched lips. “Tessa and I were going through a rocky patch at the time.”

“So, no one can vouch for you that night?” I pressed.

“Not for most of it. Lauren dropped Tessa off at half past eleven.”

“And you had access to a car?”

He crossed his arms and leveled a defiant gaze at us. “I didn’t drive. I’d been drinking that night.”

“Drinking is known to lower inhibition,” Oscar observed.