Chapter 18
OCEANS APART
LONDON
There’s a reason why I don’t drive.
I curse and try to downshift the gears of the tiny, foreign rental car, grinding as I steer one-handed. I swerve into the wrong lane and quickly right the car. “Dammit.”
I’m a horrible driver.
I landed in Dublin an hour ago, was making good time, until I discovered there were no early morning trains or busses to Kells.
With time already against me, my only option was to swallow my fear and rent a car.
I used Sadie’s credit card, and here I am, grinding my way down a winding two-lane highway in the wee hours of the morning.
The heavy blackness that blankets the sky isn’t helping, the headlights fogged and barely lighting the road ahead.
I have to be crazy.
Other than the sheer lunacy that got me on a plane to Ireland, I have to be certifiable for trying to track down Grayson’s mother. What do I expect to find?
I check the time on the burner phone. It’s nearing 5:00 a.m. A last-minute search into Rebecca Sullivan gave me her last known address. I can only hope she’s still there, and that knocking on her door at this hour won’t get a door slammed in my face.
I’ve come too far.
Literally.
I spot a small street sign ahead and slow to a rolling crawl before I make the turn. Street lamps illuminate the way through a string of identical brick townhomes. I locate the unit that was Rebecca’s most recent address and park alongside the driveway.
Taking measured breaths, I keep ahold of the wheel. Then I pry my fingers free and leave the warmth of the car. The slam of the car door bounces around the quaint neighborhood. I shake out my hands, thinking of the string in my jacket pocket, as I move up the driveway.
I’m almost to the door when a dog bark makes me flinch, and the porch light flicks on. “Shit.”
I stay right where I am, frozen. Unsure of what happens now, or of my next move.
The front door opens. “Who are you?”
The female voice is rough, like the woman has smoked most of her life. She has a thick Northern Ireland accent, reminding me of the lilt I occasionally hear in Grayson’s deep voice. A pang ricochets through me.
I take a step forward, lift my chin. “Hi. My name is—” I stop myself short of giving her my name out of habit. “Sadie Bonds. I’m with American law enforcement—”
She scoffs. “Aye, I can see that. What do you want this bloody early?”
In the dim light, I can barely make out her face, but she’s dressed in a pale-pink robe, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a messy bun. She aggressively tries to quiet the black lab at her side, and finally claps her hands to send the whining dog back inside.
I stuff my hands into my jacket, the cold morning and my nerves causing me to shiver. “Are you Rebecca Sullivan?”
“For Christ’s sake,” she mutters, shutting the door.
When she looks up, I can clearly discern a white scar running the length of her cheek.
She quickly brushes a loose hank of hair forward to cover her face.
“I thought you people were done with all that. He’s not here.
Hasn’t had anything to do with his mother in ages.
” She scoffs again. “A damn sight longer than that.”
My shoulders drop, tension deflating from my body. This is not Grayson’s mother. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.”
“Now wait.” She tugs her robe together, cinching the belt tight. “Just what do you want with Becky, anyhow?”
She’s not his mother, but she does know where she is. “I have questions. Things only she knows that could help authorities—”
“You won’t be getting any answers from Becky, I tell ya. Might as well go on back to Merica. The boy won’t be coming here again. Not after what was done to him.”
I squint, trying to follow along with her quick, accented words. “Do you know where I can find Rebecca?”
She waves a hand through the air. “That slag is gone in the head.” When I raise an eyebrow, she clarifies. “Becky’s in the madhouse. Good riddance.”
As it turns out, the woman currently living in Rebecca’s townhome is her only living relative, who cared for her up until the disability checks stopped.
From what I could gather, Becky became a burden, and her sister let the hospital have her.
Good riddance was her final avow before she slammed the door in my face.
Another hour of braving the roadways, and I pull into Meadow Health Services, a psychiatric institute seated on the outskirts of Dublin. I drive around the parking lot until I find a spot, then I try to pull up the ward’s information on my phone.
According to the website, the facility isn’t open yet. I release a breathy curse, frustrated. I slept on the plane, so I’m too wired, too out of my element, to rest. “What the hell am I doing here…”
I spend the next hour reading updates online, and as I’m browsing my local news station, my heart cinches. The FBI procured a search warrant for my office. The report states that Agent Nelson is heading up the search.
Of course he is.
I left you a surprise, Nelson.
I now wonder if by asking me to leave Maine, his apparent concern for my safety was more for his benefit—to get me out of the way.
I send a text to both Lacy and Young to ensure at least one of them was present during the search. An alarmed feeling jolts me when neither reply, but then I remember the time difference. Shit. I send another text asking them to please make sure the FBI don’t weasel into my patient files.
I drag a breath into my constricted lungs.
The tapes are blank.
Still, the relief is minimal. It wouldn’t be the first time I deluded myself into believing a false sense of security.
My only real concern should be if Agent Nelson isn’t the one to discover what I left behind the Dali.
But other than the FBI’s own personal distaste for my evident obsessive affection for my patient, there’s nothing much they can do with that in the way of evidence.
I was careful to stage it just right.
A car door slams, snagging my attention. I look up to find a man walking toward the facility. I quickly pocket the phone and grab the keys. I trail the man toward the front of the building.
“Excuse me,” I say, jogging to catch up.
He turns around, his thin white hair catching the chilly breeze. “Yes? How can I help you?”
“You’re American.” It comes out like an accusation, and the man smiles.
“I am in fact. Are you lost?”
“No, sorry,” I say, regrouping my thoughts. “I’m here to visit a patient.”
His smile thins. “Visiting hours aren’t until nine.”
He turns to go, and I try again. “I apologize, but I’m only here for a very short time…and it’s extremely important that I see this patient. Could you at least help me speak to someone, mister…?”
“Dr. Collins,” he corrects. Something like hope sparks. I feel an affinity with him not only as an American, but as a colleague. “And you are?”
I extend my hand. “Dr. Noble.”
What am I risking at this point? I need this doctor’s trust.
Dr. Collins shakes my hand and nods toward the front doors. “Come on. We’ll discuss this further inside. It’s bloody brutal weather out here this morning.”
A smile flits across my face. “Thank you.”
He leads me through a stretch of corridors to his office, where I’m thankful for the heat. “Have a seat, Dr. Noble.”
I do, laying my jacket across the back of a cushioned chair.
I feel out of place in the clean starkness and sophisticated psychiatric ward.
Glancing over my jeans and simple sweater, I wonder why Sadie—with all her education—chooses to work in police precincts.
I’m also curious if she dresses the way she does on purpose; to throw others off.
“Coffee?” the doctor asks, motioning toward a machine he has setup in his office.
“Yes, please.”
He busies himself with setting up the dispenser. “Where are you from?”
“Maine. I’m a criminal psychologist with my own private practice in Bangor.”
He nods slowly. “You’ve come a long way. This patient must be important. Although I can’t help but wonder what a criminal psychologist would need from any of our patients.” He places a white mug in front of me. “Most of them have no more ties to the outside world.”
I wrap my hands around the cup, warming myself further.
“Rebecca Sullivan could have potential knowledge of someone’s whereabouts, or possibly other information that could lead to this person’s arrest.” It’s a huge leap, but one that doesn’t sound so suspicious.
Police officials are searching for anyone in connection to Grayson, although his whereabouts have been officially determined.
A groove forms between the doctor’s eyes. “Follow me, please.”
His rapid shift in demeanor and abrupt request startle me. I hesitate before I’m finally able to stand. “Sorry. I’m still a bit jet lagged.”
Dr. Collins only offers a tight smile in response. Did the mention of Rebecca’s name trigger an alarm? I worry I’m being escorted out of the building until he turns down an opposite hallway, guiding me into another wing of the hospital.
“I wish you would’ve called first,” he says as he pulls aside a curtain and gestures for me to go ahead of him. He then inserts a keycard next to a bank of doors, a beep granting us access.
“Why is that?”
“It would’ve saved you the long trip.” He motions for me to enter the first room.
As I go inside, my gaze falls on a shriveled-looking woman curled into a chair. Her aimless gaze stares at the wall, her eyes unseeing.
“Becky has been unresponsive for years,” he continues. “I suppose it’s now referred to as incomplete recovery, but you’ll have to excuse my old habits. I’m still partial to treatment-resistant.”
I can’t tear my gaze away from the withered woman—the woman who, beneath her frailness and deep-set wrinkles, I can discern traces of Grayson’s features. “I’m sorry, but treatment-resistant…?”
“Schizophrenia,” he says bluntly.