Not What it Seems by Nicky James

Four

River

He’d come.

I’d tossed and turned all night, certain I was going to wake to a pair of police officers handcuffing me and dragging me across town to a cell.

When morning arrived and the usual nurse came to wake me for pills and breakfast, I’d showered, dressed, and ate while waiting on pins and needles.

Nothing was out of the ordinary.

The same morning sun blazed through the window in my room. The same lukewarm water dribbled out of the showerhead as I rinsed the shampoo from my hair. The same selection of plain sweatpants and T-shirts sat in the standard, hospital-issued dresser. Breakfast was routine. The other patients were nothing more than medicated zombies as they followed instructions and went about their day.

No police. No odd looks from nurses, telling me the jig was up. There wasn’t a whiff of threat in the air.

Just a carbon copy of the day before, and the day before that, and every day since I’d been admitted to New Horizon.

Had Dr. Irvine received the results of my urine test? If so, he would know I’d been tonguing my meds and ditching them when no one was looking. Maybe the lab had been backed up. Maybe that news had yet to arrive.

In the lounge where we’d met the previous day, I paced as I waited to see if he’d come, a whirlwind of possibilities and outcomes battering me from every angle.

Before the door had opened, I’d convinced myself I’d made a mistake. I’d been certain he was in a meeting with the director, spilling all my secrets, organizing my future in a prison jumpsuit.

But he’d come. Dr. Cyrus Irvine, moaner and ass slut extraordinaire, walked through the door.

Instead of turning around, I glimpsed his reflection in the windowpane, and I laughed, forgoing any pretense since I’d exposed myself the previous day.

“God, you’re an open book. I’m flattered. You’ve really got a thing for tight young asses, don’t you? Are you sad you didn’t get a chance to fuck it? Probably not. You strike me as a strict bottom.”

Dr. Irvine’s chin dropped as he scrambled to look everywhere else. Poor guy. He’d tried exceptionally hard to maintain a professional distance the previous day. Too bad he’d been unable to extinguish the fire in his core. I made my own analysis of the situation and determined that Dr. Cyrus Irvine was still single, still lonely, and probably hadn’t had sex since the last time we’d fucked.

I turned as he marched to the table and dropped the same brown folder he’d carried the previous day on top. He was rattled, and waves of irritation poured off him, filling every square inch of space in the room. He yanked out a chair and sat, back straight, fingers laced together, face impassive. But his powder-blue eyes deceived him. I remembered how expressive they were.

“Sit down, River. We have much to discuss, and I’m not playing games today.”

It was a start. Whether he was here to listen to my story or inform me I was finished, I didn’t know.

So I sat.

Cyrus didn’t intimidate me. No one intimidated me. I’d learned long ago not to let anyone have that power. But I was in a precarious situation. When he narrowed his eyes and stared like he could pull the truth from my core with his gaze alone, I stared back.

A rogue piece of hair curled on his forehead. His freshly shaven jaw was tight, small lines framing his lips. Cyrus was long and lean and reminded me a bit of a professor I’d had in college, sexy in a subtle way I couldn’t deny.

“You aren’t taking your medication.” Cyrus’s voice was flat and unreadable. Controlled to a fault. Gone was the pleasant and friendly doctor I’d met before. Gone was the man who’d begged me to take him harder and faster, who’d screamed until his voice shattered when he’d come.

I didn’t respond right away, assessing our situation. Glancing to a high corner in the room where a camera was mounted on the wall, I asked, “Are they on?”

“Likely. Although I don’t believe they transmit audio. It would be a huge breach of confidentiality since they use this room for sessions. If they’re functional, it would be visual only.”

I nodded and returned Cyrus’s hard glare.

“Then, to answer your question, no. I’m not taking my medication. I told you I wasn’t. I don’t need them. I’m not sick. I hide them in my cheek and ditch them in the toilet once the nurse is gone. If they find out, they’ll move to injections. I’ve seen it. I don’t want that.”

In other words, Will you tell? Are you here to listen to my story?

Cyrus seemed to think about that for a long time with his lips pressed into a firm line. He had a sharp jaw and the faint impression of a chin dimple when the light caught his face at the right angle. I remembered when I’d first noticed it. We’d been watching a movie on my couch. The room had been dark, and the flicker of the screen had highlighted his face. I’d been staring.

“Considering the information I’ve read in your file, what I learned in our session yesterday, and the evidence I read in the police report, we’re going to do things differently today.”

“Okay. Tell me.”

“No.” He leaned over the table, bringing his face closer to mine, his voice a harsh whisper. “You tell me. You talk, and I’ll listen. Why are you here? What’s the truth? If you didn’t kill those women, why does all the evidence suggest you did? Why pretend to have schizophrenia if you don’t? Why the game? You tell me every last thing. Do not leave anything out. Don’t think for one second you can manipulate me. I’m good at my job, River, and they called me here for a reason. I will see through your lies. One word from me, and you’ll rot in a cell for the rest of your life, so I suggest you tread carefully.”

“Wow, harsh words, Doc. Especially coming from a man who readily stares at my ass every chance he gets. What would your boss think of that? Not very professional. I could probably report it if this little meeting doesn’t go well. Tell them about our past rendezvous, perhaps.”

His eyes turned to blue flames. “This is not a game.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“Then listen. That’s all I ask.”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Talk.”

This was it. He was giving me a chance. Now, all I had to do was the impossible: convince a renowned psychiatrist I wasn’t mentally ill despite the sheer volume of evidence that suggested I possibly was. And convince him that I didn’t murder anyone, even though everything the police had collected suggested I had.

Easy peasy.

“Everything I told you yesterday is the truth. I know how it sounds to an outsider, to the police, but it is exactly how it happened. You read the police report, yes?”

“I read all they provided.”

“Those items, the scarf, the bandana, and shoe, were left at my door. That woman lured me into the street. She lured me away from home. I chased her for blocks before losing her. She was real. Those items were at my door when I returned. She planted them there.”

“If you believed that, why didn’t you call the cops then and there?”

“And tell them what? That a woman dressed in black comes to my window at night, calls my name or throws rocks at the glass, then runs away when I try to confront her? They were meaningless items. I didn’t know what they meant. I didn’t understand their importance. But you’re damn right I didn’t throw them away. They were proof I wasn’t fucking crazy. Solid, hard evidence that something was happening and I wasn’t making it up. My neighbor thought I was off my rocker. Dalton—” My teeth came together with a hard clack. “Shit.”

“Oh, look at that. The sweaty naked man on top of you miraculously has a name now, does he?” Dr. Irvine’s voice pitched lower. His nose wrinkled as he shook his head in disgust.

I laughed. “Oh, wow, Doc. Do I detect some jealousy? You didn’t honestly think you were something special, did you?”

“It was an observation.” Cyrus scowled. Gone were the professional smiles and carefully selected words.

“An astute observation. So, did you picture it? He’s not half as vocal as you when he comes. Can’t deep-throat me like you did either. Doesn’t beg the way you—”

“Enough.” Cyrus moved his jaw back and forth, his nostrils flaring. His eye twitched. I was getting to him.

“Did you like the short description I gave you? Did you jerk off to it last night? Two naked and sweaty young men, tangled together in a—”

Cyrus balled a hand into a fist and slammed it against the table, interrupting my words. His jaw ticked. When he spoke, it was with a low rumble. “I can deliver my report right now if that’s what you’d prefer, Mr. Jenkins. By all means, keep going.”

I didn’t think he would. He was too professional for that, and he didn’t have enough answers to satisfy his curious brain, but I wasn’t about to call his bluff.

“We’re good. I’m messing around, Doc. Lightening the mood.” I grinned and spread my hands wide, placating.

“Well, don’t. You aren’t funny.”

I cleared my throat and returned to the story. “Anyhow, Dalton sleeps like a rock. He didn’t hear anything.”

“Were you drinking on the nights you saw and heard these things?”

“Not all of them. And, yes, I might have been a little drunker on the nights Dalton was there. But it wasn’t some drunken illusion. It happened when I was stone-cold sober too. Same exact thing.”

“Do you take drugs?”

“No.”

Cyrus cocked a brow.

“I don’t. I mean, I have, but I don’t anymore.”

“Explain the phone. Explain the hotel room in your name.”

“Why on earth would I reserve a hotel room in my name with the sole purpose of bringing women up there to kill them? In what universe does that make sense? Even the stupidest criminal would have more brains than that.”

Cyrus stared at his hands, his face a picture of contemplation. “Okay. Fair point. The phone.”

“She dropped it.”

“Who?”

“The woman in the shadows. It was the last time I saw her. I realize now, looking back, it was all a setup. The police were at my door two days later. I chased her for eight or nine blocks that night. Maybe more. It was the first time I was sure I was going to catch up to her. I was fired up. Angry. When I thought I’d lost her at one point, that’s when I smelled it.”

Cyrus frowned. “Smelled what?”

“Bleach, dummy. I smelled the bleach. I knew it was coming off her because she’d hung those things on my door. It was all related. I knew she was nearby. I knew she was going to circle around, go back to my apartment, and do it again. Leave me something else. I chased her into an alleyway about three or four neighborhoods from my house. We came out at this busy thoroughfare. She dodged traffic and crossed the street. I was stopped when the light down the road turned green and the street filled with cars. Once I’d managed to cross, she had gained too much distance, but that’s when I saw her drop something.”

“The phone?”

“The phone.”

“And you took it home?”

“Damn right I did. I figured I had her. That was my ticket to solving the whole mystery. I could make a report. Turn her in. It would finally stop. When I got home, I was elated to discover there was no password. But the phone was empty. I went through the whole thing. No contacts, no text conversations. Nothing. I almost smashed it to pieces right then and there. I was so pissed off. Then I remembered I went to school with a guy who was good at electronics and computers. We hadn’t chatted in a few years, but I planned to look him up to see if he could help me figure anything out.”

“But the cops got to you first.”

“Yes, and surprise, surprise, mine were the only set of fingerprints they pulled from the phone. She dropped it on purpose. She knew I’d pick it up. They had all the evidence they needed. Including me on a street cam outside Destination Hotel in Masonville on three separate occasions, running like my ass was on fire because I was chasing ghosts. All three times miraculously coincided with the nights the coroner believed those women died.”

Cyrus’s mind was far away, his gaze shifting side to side like he was reading something I couldn’t see. When he blinked and his vision cleared, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “I’m not a detective. I’m not trained to solve crimes or dig through evidence to see what’s valid and what isn’t. What I want to know is what was happening in here.” He tapped his temple. “From where I sit, either you’re making this up to get a cushy ride or something more is going on.”

“Jesus Christ. I can’t make this shit up. I heard and saw all of it exactly as I told you. I swear on my mother’s grave. I wasn’t hallucinating. It was real. Okay, honestly, at first, I was half-convinced I was losing my mind. When I told the cops in the interview and they pulled in a doctor, I thought maybe they were right. Maybe I was experiencing a psychotic break. Was it all in my head? I was starting to think so.” I leaned in and tapped a finger against the table. “But here’s the thing, Doc. The minute I was away from that apartment, the minute the cops arrested me, the minute they put me here it all stopped. Nothing. I’ve been here five weeks, no meds, and I haven’t experienced a single hallucination. Not one.”

“Except for seeing your dead mother at the tree line and smelling her perfume from a hundred yards away.”

I flopped back in my chair, cracking my knuckles. “I don’t know why I told you that. There has to be an explanation for that.”

“So you don’t deny it happened?”

“No, it happened. But it… makes no sense. I know that. That aside, can’t you—”

“You see, I can’t dismiss that. I can’t shove that aside and pretend it isn’t important. If it happened—”

“It happened. I told you. I’m not bullshitting you about any of this. I know how it looks, but I also know something isn’t right. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

“That right there is a lie.”

“What?” My body was on fire, burning me from the inside out. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Have you seen anything up here today?” He fluttered his fingers in the air above his left shoulder.

I rolled my eyes and chuckled. “You weren’t as gullible as the other doctor. It was a test, not a lie. I didn’t know how to approach this.”

“It was you faking symptoms.”

“It was the only time.”

“So you claim. How can I believe anything you say, River?”

“It’s the truth!” I slapped a hand on the table.

Cyrus startled.

Growling under my breath, I pulled back my anger and leveled my tone. “I’m sorry. I’m frustrated. I was framed for murder. My whole life was turned upside down in a matter of weeks. I’m scrambling here. I’ve been stuck in this place for five weeks. Yes, it’s better than a prison cell, which was why when I saw them veering toward psychosis, I ran with it. I didn’t have to fake anything at first. It was almost easy. But good grief, do you know what it’s like to be in here?”

I washed a hand over my face. “No, I can’t explain what I saw the other day while I was in the yard. My mother is dead. It was obviously someone else who looked like her. Wishful thinking on my part. Too many hours sitting in here with no entertainment. Maybe there’s a wild lilac tree somewhere nearby that caught the wind. The whole incident is probably explainable.”

Perching my elbows on the table, I buried my face in my palms. This was going south. How did I explain to a trained professional that I wasn’t crazy when all the evidence suggested I was?

And if not crazy, then a murderer.

“Why those three women?” he asked.

I lifted my head and squinted at the well-dressed doctor. Another rogue curl had joined the first, and I had to fight the urge to reach out and fix his hair. It was wild and untamed, a direct contradiction to the poised man in front of me.

“What do you mean? I have no idea why those women. I didn’t know them. I didn’t pick them. I didn’t kill them.”

“But why those three? If you didn’t do this, someone did. Why them? Why frame you? Was that the end goal? Kill three specific women, get you arrested, then be done with it? There has to be a reason. You must be tied to them somehow. It makes no sense.”

“I agree, but I don’t have those answers. I didn’t know them.”

“How were they discovered? The report didn’t mention that part.”

“As far as I understand, the cleaning staff had been abiding by the Do Not Disturb sign hung on the door, so no one had been in the room in quite some time. Apparently, someone issued an anonymous complaint—about what, I don’t know—and they sent a manager to investigate. He found them. Two on the bed. One still in the tub. Dead as doornails.”

Before Cyrus could speak, I added, “For the record, they didn’t find a single piece of forensic evidence that I’d been in that room. No fingerprints, no DNA, not one strand of my fucking hair. You tell me how I’d be stupid enough to reserve the room in my own name and yet smart enough to kill three people without leaving a single trace of evidence behind.”

Cyrus frowned. “I can’t answer that.”

“I can.” Our gazes clashed. “I. Didn’t. Kill. Anyone. Someone out there did. They framed me, and I doubt they’re finished.”

“Why wouldn’t they be finished? You’re in here. If they framed you, why kill again when it’s all been wrapped up with a nice, neat bow?”

“Jesus. For a smart guy, you’re pretty stupid. It’s like Lay’s potato chips. ‘Bet you can’t eat just one’ or whatever their motto is. Same shit. Don’t you ever watch crime shows? Serial killers are compelled to kill. They might stop for a time, but they won’t be able to help it. Don’t you know anything about these kinds of people? You’re the doctor.”

“I’m a psychiatrist, not an investigator. Yes, criminal psychology is a thing, but that was not the focus of my studies. I specialize in psychosis, not sociopaths. I’m not a forensic psychologist. I’m a psychiatrist. There’s a difference.”

“Fine, Mr. Specialist, what do you think of me then? Am I experiencing a psychotic break? Am I textbook? Am I schizophrenic? Sure sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

Cyrus didn’t speak. His astute gaze shifted all over my face like he could tug the truth to the surface. Like if he looked hard enough, he’d find his answer. Even when it felt like his fingers were rooting around inside my soul, touching something deeply private, unearthing secrets I’d told no one, I waited him out.

When he didn’t respond after a full two or three minutes, I held my hands wide. “Come on. What do you think, Doc?”

“I’m undecided.”

“Analyze me out loud. You’re doing it in your head right now. I see you. I’d like to hear this.”

“That would be unprofessional. This entire meeting is unprofessional. I should have walked out the door the minute I arrived yesterday.” He tugged at his hair, making a royal mess of his curls. “This is not how I conduct—”

“Fuck professional,” I snapped. “Just fuck it. Lay it on me. All of it. Ignore our history. Fuck my feelings. Just tell me.”

He pressed his lips together, breathing forcefully in and out before speaking. “This could be part of a delusion. The whole thing. A persecutory delusion.” Cyrus nodded. “You firmly believe someone is out to harm you despite contradictory evidence. You admittedly have been having what could be described as hallucinations.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Auditory, visual, and olfactory. There are no witnesses that can validate what you saw and heard if those experiences happened at all. Suppose they didn’t happen, and you’re making them up. In that case, you’re an incredibly smart criminal mastermind who has a solid enough understanding of schizophrenia to throw off professionals. Or you are truly experiencing a psychotic break. However, there is a lot of contradictory evidence at play here. Hence why I said I’m undecided.”

“Or I’m tangled in a web of someone else’s making, and there’s truly a killer out there who framed me.”

Dr. Irvine slumped and absently tried to fix the mess he’d made of his hair. “Or there’s that, however unlikely.”

We sat in silence for a long time.

When he stared into space, I couldn’t resist the urge any longer and reached out, pushing a curl off his forehead, sorting out the wild mess he’d made on top. The strands were soft like I remembered, sliding over my fingers like silk. I flashed back to our shared weekend. My fingers had woven through those curls, gripping them as I’d driven into his stellar ass. I’d played with them absently during one of our long, lazy conversations on the couch when he’d talked about his preference for gin over beer, his head on my chest.

Cyrus blinked out of his daze and frowned.

“You keep tugging at these curls and you’re going to look like that guy from Ancient Aliens, albeit a far sexier version, but still.”

Cyrus lost his professional edge. For a long minute, all we could do was stare at one another. I dropped my hand and shrugged like it was no big deal, but it was evident in his posture and the way his breathing changed that I’d thrown him off-balance. He was back there too.

My dick stirred as a fire burned behind his eyes. I ignored it, knowing there was no help for my arousal in this joint. Five weeks was a long dry spell.

Eventually, the tension blew away. Cyrus sat forward, leaning on the table, bringing himself closer. He wet his lips, avoiding my gaze. “So, for the sake of argument, if you’re right about this, what the hell am I supposed to do about it? You should be making your case to a lawyer, not a psychiatrist.”

“I have. I can’t afford a fancy defense attorney. They appointed me some sniveling, pimple-faced kid fresh out of law school who barely listened to my side of things. If you deem me of sound mind, the evidence will sink me. I’ve already been told they won’t grant me bail. I’ll rot in a cell for the rest of my life. I’m out of options. Help me prove I’m innocent.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Get me out of here and help me find the real killer.”

A laugh exploded from Cyrus. He collapsed back on his chair, and he lost it. It wasn’t a small sound either. It was a genuine, right from the belly howl that shook his whole body and transformed his face. Tears shimmered on the surface of his eyes, turning them into glistening blue oceans. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, but his chest kept bouncing, a smile splitting his face. Laugh lines stood out beside his eyes, and I was caught off guard, not just by the suddenness of the wild outburst but also by Cyrus’s radiance.

The laugh transformed the stoic doctor into something utterly beautiful. It was a side of him I’d seen before. Once. At my apartment. It had rattled me then, and it rattled me now. There was a softness to his good looks. A purity and wholesomeness most people didn’t have. For a moment, all I could do was watch him.

My dick liked this side of Cyrus too, and I shifted, trying to get comfortable with an aching hard-on in the too-tight sweatpants.

I wanted to thread my fingers through his ash-brown curls and tug his head back, exposing the long line of his neck. I wanted to trace my tongue over his Adam’s apple and taste the flush that covered his pale skin. Taste his musk, his cologne, his essence. I wanted to suck over the pulsing vein in his neck until I made him squirm and beg. I could still hear the noises he’d made before. Cyrus was a beggar, a screamer, a moaner.

The sex had been good. The other stuff had been… unexpected.

My dick gave a pitiful pulse.

Jesus. It had been far too long. I needed to get laid.

I didn’t normally go for older men. That night at the bar had been random. There was something about Cyrus that had caught my eye and drawn me in. We’d had a good time, until… it had gotten complicated. It was the laugh then, and it was the laugh now.

God, that laugh. It did something to me.

“You’ve lost your mind,” he said when he finally calmed enough to talk.

I couldn’t have smothered my smile if I’d wanted to. “Good. Is that your formal diagnosis, Doc? Is that what you’ll put in your report?”

He ignored my attempt at banter. “It would be a cold day in hell before I ever broke a patient out of a unit. Not only would I lose my license, but I’d lose the respect of my friends and colleagues. My family. Everything I’d ever written would be thrown out. My reputation would be forever tainted. Everything I live for would be ruined. If this was your end goal in asking me to listen, then forget it. We’re done here.”

He shoved back from the table and collected the brown folder.

“Wait. Our time isn’t up. Sit. Please. What if… what if I could prove I didn’t kill anyone?”

Cyrus leveled me with hard blue eyes. “I’m not breaking you out of here. That isn’t an option, so get it out of your head right now.”

“Fine. Help me find the real killer. He—or in this case, I think she—is out there.”

Cyrus’s brow furrowed. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. You have the police report. We can—”

“I have part of the police report. The parts that pertained to your mental health or that were thought to be relevant to help me diagnose you. Your interview, your neighbor’s observations, your”—he waved a hand like he was trying to find the right word—“boyfriend’s claims.”

“Dalton isn’t my boyfriend. He’s a guy I often see at the bar, and we like messing around on occasion.”

“Why did you tell me you didn’t know his name? That was another lie.”

“Why are you so focused on my fuck buddy?”

Another silent stare-off began until I chuckled and waved the question away. “Never mind. You know I’m not fucked in the head, so maybe between us, we can figure out what’s going on so I can get my life back.”

Cyrus stared at the door leading back into the rest of the hospital like he was considering his escape. When he shifted his gaze back, he said, “I can’t unequivocally say you are of sound mind.”

“Jesus. Seriously? What do I have to do? A song and dance? I’ll get on the table right now.”

Cyrus was silent for another long minute before shaking his head and sighing. “No dance. Talk to me about your mother. Let’s explore this avenue for a minute and see what I think after.”

A ripple of apprehension ran through my system, and goose bumps popped up along my arms. The moment in the yard replayed in my head for the hundredth time. Dr. Irvine was still focused on it. It made sense. It was a part of my story I couldn’t explain. It didn’t fit with the rest of it, and he must have seen the confusion on my face.

“She’s dead. My mother’s dead.”

“You said. You claimed to have grown up in foster care, is that right?”

“Yes.” I gritted my teeth, my muscles tight and unwilling to relax no matter how many times I told them to unwind.

“Talk to me about her.”

“Why?”

“If you want me to help you, I need to figure stuff out. I feel it’s important. Humor me.”

“Because it’s the one thing that doesn’t make sense. Am I right?”

“To be honest, not much of your situation makes sense. Go. Talk.”

“Fine.” I huffed a breath and crossed my arms, glaring at the doctor. “They took me away from her when I was born. She wasn’t a heavy drug user at that point. From what I was told, she used opioids and some other, lighter stuff. Maybe pot or… I don’t know. Whatever she was on, I was born addicted. I had to go through a withdrawal program before they shipped me off to my first foster home.”

“How often did she visit you?”

“We had supervised visits once a week from the time I was born. She didn’t always make it. My earliest memories are cuddling up on her lap while I sipped a juice box and she read me Berenstain Bears books. We’d eat Cheese Whiz on crackers, and sometimes in the summer, the social worker let her take me to the park across the street. Never alone. She’d take me down the slide because I was too afraid to go down by myself. She pushed me on the swing. We’d watch the ants in the dirt as they made their anthills.”

“You had a good relationship?”

“It was all right, considering I didn’t live with her. I got to see the best side of my mother. When she was at her worst, she didn’t come around. Maybe she wasn’t allowed. Sometimes months would pass, and I wouldn’t see her.”

“How did that make you feel?”

I glared at Cyrus. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Doc. How the hell do you think I felt?” I shook my head, huffing a humorless laugh. “I took what I could get. When I was little, I was convinced they’d let me go live with her if I was really good. I didn’t understand back then that it had nothing to do with my behavior and everything to do with the fact that she couldn’t quit using.

“She brought me presents for my birthday when she remembered. Nothing major. A used book. A dinky car. One time, she even brought me a cake and sang. I always thought she had a pretty voice. Musical.”

There were times I could still hear it as she smiled from behind the burning candles. After the song had ended, she scooped me up in her arms and swung me around in a circle, laughing and kissing my cheek, telling me she loved me.

“I was nine when she brought the cake. It was chocolate with rainbow sprinkles. She gave me a red-and-blue Batman and Robin plastic watch that year. She probably found it on the discount rack at Walmart or at the secondhand store or something, but I loved it.”

The watch was sitting in a box of confiscated items in a locked room in the hospital’s basement. They’d stripped me of everything when I was admitted. The watch was in the pocket of the jeans I’d been wearing. I carried it with me everywhere. After bouncing foster homes so many times, the watch was the only item I had left that connected me to my mother. Everything else was gone. As a child, I’d worn it everywhere. As an adult, I’d kept it tucked away in my pocket until they’d taken it from me.

“When was the last time you saw her—apart from the other day in the yard?”

“When I was a teenager. By that time, I understood everything far better, and I’d grown to hate her and blamed her for everything wrong in my life. It was her fault I was in foster care. It was her fault I had to change schools and bounce homes and why I had no friends. So when she’d visit, I wasn’t exactly receptive. We’d argue, or we’d sit for a solid hour and not talk to each other. She tried. She made so many empty promises. She was going to get better. She was getting a job. Things would change. It was all bullshit. I was ornery, and she was trying to make me feel better. Sometimes, I would decide I didn’t want to see her at all, and I’d skip out on our visits.”

I shrugged. “I was a miserable teenager. One day, she stopped coming altogether. Like I told you before, Child Services tried to get in touch with her for a long time, but she’d fallen off the grid. She was addicted to heroin by then. Skinny and sickly and always strung out. It wasn’t a stretch to believe she’d probably overdosed.”

“You would think someone would have known or found her.”

Cyrus wasn’t taking notes, but he was listening intently, absorbing every word.

“Not if she was on the street again. She was always living on the street. Homeless people die all the time, and no one cares. If they aren’t carrying ID, they just get buried in a common grave when no one claims the body. She didn’t have family other than me. My grandparents had long ago washed their hands of her, so there was no one.”

Cyrus cocked a brow. “Grandparents?”

“Don’t get excited. I’ve never met them. I have no idea who they are.”

“Hmm. Your mother was on the street?”

“A lot. She couldn’t hold a real job, so she sold her body for drugs and food. She’d get a place, then lose it within three months when she shot up her rent money.” I shrugged. “It is what it is.”

Cyrus rubbed his chin, and his eyes shifted side to side in that same manner that told me he was deep in thought. “That was approximately what? Twelve or thirteen years ago?”

“Yup. Something like that. When I turned eighteen, I tried to find her. No luck. Dead end after dead end. No one keeps tabs on drug-addicted prostitutes.”

“Tell me about the other day in the yard.”

“I’ve told you all there is to tell. The woman just looked like my mother. Obviously, it wasn’t her. I know it’s impossible. And yes, I smelled her cheap perfume.” Shoving away from the table, I went to the window and glowered at the spot among the trees. “It makes no sense. Logically, that couldn’t have happened. It must have been someone else. But who or why they were there, I have no idea. It could have been someone out for a walk. The perfume?” I shrugged. “Like I said, maybe it was the scent of wildflowers caught on the breeze.”

“It wouldn’t be unusual for the mind to insert the memory of her perfume if the sight of the woman reminded you of your mother. It’s an association.”

“See? It was probably nothing.”

When Cyrus didn’t speak, I turned back, half-expecting to catch him staring at my ass again. He was lost in his head, frowning.

“So what now, Doc? Are you writing me off? Is this over? You know some of this makes no sense. You see it too. Maybe you can’t admit it, but you see it. Deep down, you know I’m perfectly fine up here.” I tapped my temple. “And if I’m right, then—”

“I know. Then there’s a killer out there who got away with murder.”

“Is getting away with it. I bet she isn’t done.”

“You speculate.”

“I don’t have access to newspapers or the internet. I can’t keep track of shit. I’m stuck in here—”

“I’m not breaking you out.”

I held up my hands. “I’m just saying. I can’t do much from here. My ability to research or look into anything is severely limited.”

Our eyes locked again. Held. Cyrus broke first and checked his watch.

“Time is up.” He snagged the file folder and stood. “I need to think about this.”

When he headed for the door, I shot across the room and snagged his arm, stopping him. His whole body went still, and he stared ahead, refusing to meet my eyes. A flush climbed his neck, and his breathing changed.

“Doc, listen.” I kept my voice quiet, standing close. “You’re a smart man. You know something else is at play here. I know I was an asshole with you in the end, but that doesn’t mean I’m capable of murder. Please, before you walk away, at least consider all the facts. Help me.”

He swallowed, his throat clicking. “I said I had to think.”

“Will you come back tomorrow? Deliver your verdict to my face first before you write me off?” I loosened my grip on his arm and gently stroked the inside of his elbow with my thumb.

“Let go of my arm, River.” The hair at his temples carried a hint of silver in the ash brown. It curled near his ear and was slightly damp with perspiration. He was nervous. His pulse fluttered in his neck.

I leaned closer, inches from his ear, and whispered, “The sex was hot. You were a firecracker between the sheets. If it means anything, I’m sorry I hurt you.”

The flush that had started under his collar bloomed in his cheeks. He wet his lips and stiffened.

It couldn’t hurt to stroke the man’s ego. I wasn’t a head doctor, but I got the feeling Cyrus had a lot of insecurities. An apology might go a long way.

Before he could say anything more, I released my hold and stepped back.

It took Cyrus a moment to pull himself together. When he was more composed, he cleared his throat, ducked his chin, and said, “Have a good night, River. I’ll see you in the morning.”