“What do you remember about the man?” she asked Dr. Sowell.
“Very little, I’m afraid. I saw him only in passing, as I had been called to an emergency elsewhere. The guard on duty may be the best person to ask, but he works the day shift so he left earlier. I can give him your phone number and ask him to call you if you like.”
She frowned at the photo, impatient. She didn’t want to wait for the guard to call her. She wanted this mystery over with now, so she could put it behind her and never have to come back to this place again.
“Did you ask my mother about the man who visited her?”
Sowell seemed surprised by the question. “No. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to interrogate her when she’d done nothing wrong.”
“At least not this time,” Kristen muttered.
Sowell gave her a pitying look. “Of course.”
Dread crept over her, greasy and pitch-black, as she realized the best way to get the answers she needed about Bryant Thompson was to go directly to the source. She’d avoided this moment long enough. Time to face the demons head-on.
“Dr. Sowell, I’d like to talk to my mother.”
Chapter Twelve
Kristen waited, her heart racing, for the guard to bring her mother out to see her. The interview room was cold, the chair uncomfortable and the atmosphere utterly bleak. Appropriate, she thought, a bubble of hysterical laughter knocking at the back of her throat.
The door to the room opened with a loud rattle and the guard entered first, his bulk filling the doorway. Right behind him, her bony wrist encircled by the guard’s beefy hand, Molly Jane Tandy shuffled into the room. Someone had cut and combed her hair since her earlier visit with the mystery man calling himself Bryant Thompson. It was almost completely gray now, chopped to chin length and hanging in stringy, frizzy strands.
A pale pink, shapeless gown covered her body from throat to shins, a dark green terry cloth robe draped over her thin arms and shoulders to combat the hospital’s chilly air. No belt, of course.
She was forty-seven years old. She looked closer to sixty-seven, her haggard face dry and lined. The bright blue eyes that had once danced with wicked charm were now rheumy and restless, darting about the visitor’s room before finally settling on Kristen’s face. Her mouth dropped open in a silent O and her eyes widened.
“Kristy,” she said, her voice a hoarse creak.
The urge to run was almost more than Kristen could control. She wrapped her fingers around the edges of the chair seat beneath her, gritting her teeth until she found the control to speak. “Hello, Mother.”
Molly hurried forward, her arm outstretched. Kristen felt her whole body recoil and almost collapsed with relief when the guard caught Molly’s arm and halted her approach. He was gentle but insistent as he settled her in the chair across from Kristen.
It hadn’t been obvious in the photo, but in person, she saw that the patient’s chair was a safe distance from the visitor’s chair, well beyond arm’s reach. The chair’s legs were bolted to the floor, and the guard bent to slide a leather cuff around her mother’s right leg, keeping her safely secured to her seat.
The burly guard took a step back, flashing Kristen a sympathetic look. She supposed he knew all about Molly’s crime and could guess just how hard it was for Kristen to be here.
Normally, she hated pity, but this time, she found the guard’s kind look to be a comfort. It made her feel less alone.
Less vulnerable.
“Mother, Dr. Sowell told me that a man came to visit you the other day. He called himself Bryant Thompson.”
“A lovely man,” Molly said distractedly. “He spoke very well of you, Kristy.”
“He spoke of me?”
Molly smiled. “Oh, yes. He told me that you’re very important now. A policewoman.” Her eyes brightened, the look in them almost beatific.
Kristen glanced at the guard. His eyes were on her mother, watchful and full of pity.
“Mother, did Mr. Thompson offer to do anything for you?”
“No, he only wanted to show me the picture.”
“What picture?”
Her mother slowly reached into the pocket of her robe. Immediately the guard moved forward, stepping between Kristen and Molly. But his watchfulness was unnecessary; all Molly pulled from her pocket was a folded piece of paper. The guard took it from her, unfolded it, then handed it to Kristen.
It was a clipping from the
“Mr. Thompson said you’re watching out for that sweet little girl, Kristy. Is that true?”
Kristen dragged her gaze from the newspaper clipping. “Why would Mr. Thompson bring this to you?”
“He said it would be good for my recovery to know that you were doing so well,” Molly answered. “And you know, I think it is. I feel so much better now, knowing that I have a chance to start over again.”
Kristen narrowed her eyes, not following her mother’s logic. “Start over again how?”
“With the little girl, of course,” Molly said. Her tone of voice sounded calm and reasoned, though the light shining in her blue eyes was sheer madness. “Now that you’re taking care of the little girl, you can bring her to see me.”
Kristen stared at her in horror, realizing what her mother was suggesting. “No-”
“I could help you take care of her. I could teach you how to be a mother. I miss my own sweet babies so.”
The guard made a low, groaning sound deep in his chest. Kristen looked up to find his face contorted with sheer horror.
Her own stomach had twisted into a painful knot, bile rising to the back of her throat. She pushed out of her chair, throwing a pleading look at the guard.
“Outside to the right, third door on the left.”
She bolted down the hall to the restroom, barely making it inside one of the stalls before she threw up.
She wasn’t sure how long she remained in the bathroom stall, gripping the side of the toilet as she waited out the last of the dry heaves. Apparently it was long enough for the guard to have returned her mother to her room and contacted Dr. Sowell, for a few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and Dr. Sowell’s concerned voice sounded through the heavy wood.
“Are you all right, Detective Tandy?”
She pushed herself up and flushed the toilet. “I’m okay,” she called hoarsely, staggering slightly as she went to the sink to wash her hands and face. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked like a war survivor, pale and haunted.
When she emerged from the restroom, the psychiatrist was waiting for her outside, his expression full of concern. “Hastings told me what happened. I’m sorry. I had no idea she’d ambush you that way.”
Kristen shook her head. “I knew seeing her would be difficult after all this time. I’m fine.”
“Is there someone I could call for you?”
“No, I’m okay. I just-I need to get out of here.”
He walked her out to her car. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photo print. “You almost forgot this.”
It was the photograph of the mysterious Bryant Thompson, sitting in the interview room with Kristen’s mother. Kristen had left it on Dr. Sowell’s desk, planning to return there before she left the facility.
She put it in her coat pocket with the clipping she’d taken from her mother. “Thank you. Let me know if my mother receives any other visits from this Bryant Thompson character.”
