Chapter Forty
Declan
“Declan.” Doctor Campos stops me in the middle of my story, something he indicated he would try to avoid. “You mean to tell me the detective with whom you spoke knew about Daphne Brooks going missing ten years ago?”
“Yeah doc,” I said. “What of it? It’s not the same girl. She’s not my Daphne.”
“But how would you know?” the doctor asks, finally over his spat of puking.
“Detective Pratt,” I answer, still parked on the cold cement next to the glass partition, “told me that the woman who went missing ten years ago was twenty-eight. My Daphne was only eighteen when we met, and in her early twenties when she ghosted me. Pratt’s missing Daphne Brooks would have been at least thirty-one by then. It just can’t be her.”
“Whatever happened, Mr. Roberts,” the doctor asks, “to the detective’s investigation into the woman with whom you were so madly in love?”
“It ended, doc,” I say. “He gave up looking almost as soon as he began. Truth be told, I never found another living soul who was willing to help me look for her. After a while, I assumed the worst.”
“And what is that?” the doctor asks.
“I have to go based on the belief that she was real, Doc,” I say, “though I hear how skeptical you are.”
“I’m not skeptical,” the doctor replies, “I just don’t know where to go from here.”
“I get it, Doc,” I say. “It all sounds crazy. Perhaps a little too crazy. But it’s real.
It all happened. At that point, I had to figure that when I let her leave my sight that last night, someone must have kidnapped her.
Who knows? It would have been easy enough down one of those dark sidewalks.
The fact that she’s never reappeared can really only mean one of two things, Doc. Neither of which is comforting.”
“And what are those two things?” the doctor asks. I’d like to think he’s being rhetorical, because there’s no way he doesn’t know the answer to his own question. But I also know he expects an answer. And I’m too scared of what will happen to my asshole if I don’t keep playing along.
"Either my Daphne is dead.” My hands tremble with my words.
“Or she's trapped somewhere by some maniac. I let her wander off, and now I'm drowning in guilt. I should have insisted she let me take her home. It’s my fault she's missing.” Voicing the thought tears at my heart once more. I’ve never felt this way about anyone else, not even my current girlfriend.
And after all these years, the doubt and regret still gnaw at me.
“You sound so certain,” the doctor says with newfound serenity. “Why is that?” I can tell he still wonders if I had something to do with his patient vanishing.
“I’m not one to believe in coincidence, Doc,” I reply. “I had that dream. She died. And then, well, I’m almost certain she really did.”
“Is this why you’re here, Declan?” the doctor asks, exhaling loudly. “Are you here because your childhood dream killed Ms. Brooks?”
“I’m here because you’re holding me captive, Doc,” I retort. “Let’s not act like I’m here of my own free will. That my ass is throbbing by choice. That I was fucked to orgasm with a metal hook because I wanted it.”
“Yes, okay,” the doctor says while rolling his eyes. “But is that why you sought my help?”
“Not exactly, Doc,” I say. “I mean, I guess it all seems to be related, but that’s not really what caused me to reach out to you.”
The doctor pauses to stare at my gaze, clearly convinced I’m on the wrong track.
“Then tell me, please, why did you come to me?”
“I don’t want to die, Doc,” I spit it plainly.
“Please explain what you mean,” Dr. Campos insists. “Why do you think you’re going to die?”
“At first, I thought it was just me, Doc,” I reply.
“But from the sounds of it, this has all happened to at least two other people before.” I pause to collect my thoughts before continuing.
“What’s most difficult to accept is that I loved a woman who, based on your records, didn’t exist. At least not as I knew her.
Or, she lied to me about her age. Either way, she experienced exactly what I’m going through now.
That much, sadly, I must concede. She met her evident demise on her twenty-eighth birthday, and now I’m sitting here telling you I’m next.
That I’m going to die on my birthday, which is quickly approaching.
Just as the fortune teller promised. It’s waiting for me.
Like It did for Daphne and Francis. And neither of us can do anything to stop It. ”
“I’m sorry,” the doctor interjects with fervor. “Did you say fortune teller?”