That’s when it hit her that she couldn’t call him. Not ever again. A paralyzing sadness had her stopping short in the center of the building as if she’d bumped into an invisible brick wall.
Dougie had been one of the few friends she’d made in this world who wasn’t gifted or dealing with some kind of mental ailment. He’d been nice and normal and…and he’d used her and lied to her.
If only he could have been honest. She wouldn’t be left with this hollow feeling that their friendship had been nothing more than a ruse to maintain contact with his wife.
Cass tried to imagine a scenario where he’d told her everything the next morning.
Of course the easy answer was simply to forget what he’d done and forgive him, but she couldn’t imagine that she would ever feel comfortable with him again. Absolutely, he could never touch her again.
Some friendship.
A clicking noise distracted her from her thoughts, and Cass looked up at the old-fashioned schedule board that still turned over the departure times rather than posting them on monitors around the station. The Boston Coach was now boarding on track eleven.
For two hours she would have nothing to do but sit and think about Dougie, sit and think about what she was going to tell Dr. Farver and sit and think about whether or not she was somehow connected to a killer.
The good news was that with everything on her mind, she didn’t have to think about Malcolm and what she suspected could have happened last night had he actually reached out to touch her.
Definitely better to think about murder.
The route to the institute was as familiar to Cass as breathing. The brick-front town house in the northwest section of the city had really been more of a home to her than her grandparents’ house had ever been.
After Cass’s mother had disappeared and her grandmother discovered she’d be raising Cass, she had tried to turn the statuesque colonial in the Baltimore suburbs into a home suited for a child. But Cass’s grandfather’s stern presence had lingered everywhere. There was the No Food or Drink Outside the Kitchen rule, the No Playing Roughly on the Grass rule, the No Loud Noise After Six O’clock in the Evening rule. The No Friends Over for Playdates rule.
None of the rules had been overly harsh or difficult to follow. They had just made being a kid less fun. The feeling that she was a chore to her grandparents, rather than a joy, a burden rather than a welcome addition, had never escaped Cass growing up, and it obscured her memories of the lighter moments. Because there had been those, too.
Helping her grandmother in the kitchen. Working with her grandfather on his model train. It hadn’t all been grim. Until Gram’s health had started to fail. Then her life had ended quietly with the hospice workers, her husband and her grandchild at her side.
She’d connected with Cass briefly just that once. The message had been simple. Goodbye. I love you. Everything is going to be all right.
But she’d lied. Or she hadn’t known what would happen. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Cass eventually had gotten away from her grandfather, away from the asylum, away from all of it.
She stopped in front of the building numbered 802. It hadn’t changed. The modest gold plaque by the door proclaimed it to be the Institute of Psychical Studies, as legitimate looking as any other scientific center in the country. And why not? Dr. Farver had earned degrees in psychology, philosophy, religion and parapsychology. He was funded by wealthy donors who believed in his work and his research. He regularly published his findings regarding the evolution of telepathy in the human brain. He was respected by his students, his research subjects and his staff.
Unfortunately, he was considered a quack by most of his scientific peers.
It never seemed to bother him. He didn’t listen to the sly whispers behind his back at academic conferences although he heard them. He pretended to imagine that when his colleagues asked questions about his research they were sincere, and so he answered as if they were, although he knew they weren’t. At least that was what he had always told Cass.
Knowing that it wouldn’t be locked during the day, Cass reached for the door and opened it. Dr. Farver liked to create the feeling that everyone was welcome, especially for those who weren’t always so easily welcomed by society.
Madeline “Mad” Edelman had not changed in the five years Cass had been gone. She sat in her spot at the reception desk as always. Her bifocals sat as low as they could go on her nose without falling off. She typed away on the keyboard, gazing at the monitor as if she still couldn’t get over that it wasn’t a typewriter.
She wore a loose-fitting purple dress that floated around her large, round body like a cloud. Her jewelry was always practical as well as pretty. Hematite today, because it was good for the blood.
“Hey, Mad.” The words caught in her throat as Cass announced her presence.
She watched the woman raise her head at the unexpected intrusion, then saw in her face, her emotions transform from surprised to happy to nostalgic when her eyes landed on Cass.
“Cassandra.” She clasped her hands to her overendowed bosom so hard that her glasses popped off her nose. “I knew it. I knew you would come back some day. Dr. Farver said…well, it doesn’t matter. You’re here. I was so worried about you.”
The guilt that had been plaguing her didn’t get any lighter. Cass realized how wrong it had been to cut off everyone from her institute days. Mad hadn’t deserved to be ignored. Certainly she deserved more than a lousy Christmas card each year.
It had just seemed that cutting all ties would be easier when she’d left.
And it had been. For her. That didn’t make it right. Exactly what she’d done by avoiding her grandfather’s funeral. Easy. Not right.
“I’m sorry. I could say that I wanted to call, but the truth is…”
“Stop. Not a word.” The woman stood with an easy grace despite her girth and circled the desk with the poise of a dancer. She stood in front of Cass and placed her hands on her cheeks. Cass could see the marks of age that had crept in over the years. The lines around her mouth were deeper, her jowls were heavier. But she still smelled like lavender.
“I mean it. I should have called.”
“It’s over. You’re here. You’re good? No, you’re not good.”
Clearly, Cass hadn’t done a very good job of hiding her recent tribulations. Then again she’d never had a very good poker face.
“I’m fine. I need to see him, but I didn’t even call to see if he had an appointment open.”
“Lucky you, he’s free.”
“Really?”
The older woman winked at her. “Really. He doesn’t know it, but his two-thirty just became his three o’clock. Go on. He’ll want to see you.”
Cass leaned in and kissed the woman’s cheek. “Thanks, Mad.” She followed the stairs behind the reception area that led to the second floor and Dr. Farver’s office. Students and subjects, those Dr. Farver considered to be especially unique, were housed in the third floor attic. Cass and Leandra had called that attic home for almost six years.
The blond bombshell had wanted Cass to follow in her footsteps and join her in taking the Hollywood elite for large amounts simply by doing what she did as naturally as breathing.
Cass had passed.
Now Leandra was the famous L. Morningstar, booked years in advance by the stars to do readings. She appeared on
