Chapter 24
Thunder rumbling overhead makes this visit seem a lot more ominous than normal.
With my hand curled around the styrofoam cup, I stare upward at the cloud-covered sky, considering how long the storm might last while I’m here, in front of Dr. Radley’s office, about to walk into my least favorite hour of the week.
At least the bruises have mostly faded. The ones on my neck are still a little present, but I no longer wince when I stretch too far. The claw marks are gone as well, not that she would’ve been able to see those, anyway.
Lightning flickers in the clouds, far away, and in a few seconds it’s echoed by the call of thunder that hasn’t quite committed to being more than a threat.
For some reason, I can’t help wondering about Hattie. Cairo wasn’t surprised when I finally got around to telling him about her, after…everything. I can’t help rolling my eyes now at nothing when I think of his slight frustration, even though he hadn’t given me any kind of real reaction.
Just stay away from her, little bird, he mumbled, already half asleep in my bed and covering my body with his.
Just…stay away.
As if I ever try to find her , rather than it being the other way around.
I shiver as the wind picks up, half-wishing I’d put on something more substantial than my t-shirt and running shorts.
But there’s no hiding from therapy. Especially from Dr. Radley.
With a defeated sigh, I pull open the heavy glass door, stepping up into the old building and onto its creaky wooden floor.
I still don’t know what’s housed on the first floor, to be honest. A few signs and paintings litter the walls, along with the incomplete directory by the wooden staircase. But apart from smelling like wood cleaner, there’s nothing down here to give me an idea of what it could be.
I’ve never seen anyone down here, either.
No one to be found at the single antique desk by the back window, or by the filing cabinets tucked in the corner.
For the first time, I don’t hurry myself along.
I’m early enough and trying to kill time, so I stride over the old wood and gaze down at the too-clean desk.
It’s almost…decorative, rather than functional.
Like it’s made to look like a reception area, without actually playing the part when anyone is looking.
But there is a scattering of pens on the clean desk, and a phone charger strewn across it.
Surely someone has to work here, at least sometimes.
A part of me wants to open the drawers to see what files are there just so I can figure out what this floor is used for, but I don’t want to go to jail for a felony.
Or back to an asylum, which is arguably the worse option after the last time.
Exhausting my curiosity and my spare time, I turn and head up the stairs, wincing at the loud creaking that sounds like it’s trying to give away my actions.
Like there’s someone here to tattle on me to, even though I’ve never seen anyone here other than Dr. Radley.
But since there are multiple names on the directory, I know there are other medical professionals in the building.
So the sign says, anyway.
Her door looms once I’m on the second floor, and I stand in front of it, holding the styrofoam, half-full cup in my hand.
Instead of a milkshake, I opted for a very retro Coke float, and now I swirl the thick liquid around the cup, feeling it tilt against my fingers unevenly.
I don’t know if she’ll even let me have it in there, but if not, I’ll toss it in the trash like an elementary school kid who brought her milk carton back from lunch like a squirrel hoarding acorns in her desk.
I knock as usual, waiting politely, but today I don’t immediately hear her answer.
I swear she’s in there, since I can both see and hear her walking on the other side of the frosted glass.
The sound of her voice is soft, and it occurs to me she’s talking to someone other than me.
Papers ruffle, a drawer closes, and when Dr. Radley pulls the door open, the look on her face is a little less friendly than usual.
Her eyes dart to the cup in my hand, but she doesn’t say anything. Her expression only changes when she looks at the light bruises on my throat, and then her lips press flat into a disapproving line. It feels very judgmental and puts me on edge. My sex life is certainly none of her business.
“You’re late,” she tells me, and steps back into the room.
I glance at the clock, noting that it’s barely two after four.
Not only that, if she had answered the door when I first knocked, I probably would’ve been on time.
But I don’t bring that up. Still, I lock my teeth together to prevent an apology that she doesn’t deserve, and I follow her into the room while she closes the door behind me.
She’s clearly not in a great mood today.
Her movements are less graceful and more fidgety than usual as she sifts through files on her desk that could be a sister to the one downstairs.
While I take my normal seat and watch her, I continue swirling the cup in my hand without the urge to actually take a drink, though it’s still about half full.
“I hope everything is okay?” I venture at last, which finally draws her attention.
Dr. Radley studies my face from her space behind her desk.
Today, she doesn’t come to sit on the overstuffed armchair that she usually sits in like a throne.
Instead, she sits on the desk chair, worn and dark, behind the large wooden desk and keeps her distance from me.
Tense, quiet, she studies my face like there’s something new about me she hasn’t seen before.
I don’t like it whatsoever. I feel itchy under her gaze, and restless enough that I almost can’t sit still. “Umm…” I don’t know what to say, and belatedly remember I’m the one who last asked a question. Not her. She can’t be waiting for me to say anything, when she hasn’t asked me anything.
Right?
“I’m really trying here, Fern.” She leans back and turns the chair slightly to gaze out the window behind her, toward the darkening sky outside.
The words put me on edge, and I set the styrofoam cup down on the table beside me.
“I’ve been trying to let you go at your own pace.
I don’t want to push you, but you’re not giving me anything to work with. ”
“Um, I don’t know what you mean,” I say, when she just stares out the window instead of continuing. “I’ve been doing what you say. I talk about what you want me to talk about, I?—”
Here, Dr. Radley lets out an unfriendly laugh as the wind picks up outside.
“We both know that’s not true. You lie to me.
Regularly avoid my questions. You evade telling me the truth at every turn.
” All at once, she turns to me, her eyes on mine.
“Where’s Cairo Moore?” she demands sharply.
“And Hattie Kenner? Tyler Wilson? Any of those names ring a bell?”
It dawns on me that all this time, I’ve underestimated her and her intentions. She doesn’t want to help me, and it makes me wary of her every word.
It makes me wonder how much she knows.
“Cairo?” I blink, keeping a look of careful confusion on my face. “I met him at Bluebone Ridge. Did he make it out? Tyler was his friend, right? And I thought the official report on Hattie is that?—”
“Stop it.” Her lips twist into an unfriendly smile, and she stares sourly at me.
“If you’re going to lie, then I’d rather you said nothing at all.
” I watch as she forces herself to relax; Dr. Radley closes her eyes to sit back with some effort instead of looking like she’s going to come over the desk and get in my face.
“I know what happened that night, Fern,” she says slowly.
“I’ve always known what lives in the mountains.
Starving, waiting, and trying to find anyone just as desperate as they are to join them. ”
A shiver travels up my spine, but I force myself not to look away, or to seem guilty.
So I set both feet on the floor, leaning forward on my knees.
“You’ll have to explain what you mean to me,” I reply just as slowly, articulating my words.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Dr. Radley.
What lives in the mountains? Who’s starving? What’s?—”
“Has he told you how it happens?” She cuts me off smoothly as if I hadn’t said anything at all.
“Have any of them? By now I’m sure you know there’s more than one.
I was never sure about Tyler, though with Cairo it was obvious.
How could it not be?” Dr. Radley opens a small notebook, flipping through the pages as she studies the words on each.
“Cairo Moore was actually born Cairo Merritt. He lived here in the fifties.” She runs her finger down the page, reading from it.
“Tyler Wilson. Born 1978. Went missing in the late 90’s.
” When she closes it, I notice more names.
Other details. Though I’m too far away to actually read any of her scrawled writing.
“So I’ll ask again. Have any of them told you how they do it?”
I refuse to admit knowing anything. There’s no way I’ll let her draw me into telling her something she doesn’t know, and I force myself to stay on my guard as I shrug my shoulders cluelessly. “I don’t know what you mean. How they do what?”
Her glare is withering, and I remind myself that she can’t stop me if I get up and just leave. She can’t call the cops and tell them I know about monsters and simply won’t admit it to her. Even I know that.