“Good.” I reached for the sedatives she still took at night. As I uncapped the bottle, I looked closely at her face.
My mother was still pale and slept a lot. But whatever Dr. Hyde was doing, it really was working. Not only was Mom lucid all day, but she even smiled now and then. Not the forced, pained grimace I’d gotten used to but a real, if tentative, smile.
I handed her the pills, and as I reached for her water glass, I noticed the clock on her nightstand.
It was just after ten o’clock. Would Tristen be at the school yet? Would he be getting ready . . . ?
It didn’t matter, I reminded myself, offering Mom the water. It was his life and his problem. There was nothing I could or should do.
“Jill.” Mom interrupted my thoughts.
I looked over to see that she was holding out the empty glass, which I accepted. “Yes?”
“Dr. Hyde . . .” She closed her eyes, preparing to drift off to sleep. “He’s really helping me. We’ve sorted so much out. And I realize now how much I’ve let you down since your father died.”
“No, Mom.” I set down the glass and took her hand. “You’ve been sick.”
“Yes, that’s what Frederick says,” Mom agreed. “But still, I feel awful to think how much you’ve had to handle.”
“It’s no big deal,” I reassured her. Yet a part of me was thinking, “Frederick”? Not “Dr. Hyde”? Was that weird or did most patients address their therapists so informally? “Just keep getting better, Mom,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“You’re a strong girl, Jill.” Mom squeezed my hand, starting to sound groggy. “Thank you for taking such good care of me. And please say thank you, too, to Frederick’s son . . .”
“Tristen,” I reminded her. Had Tristen drugged her so effectively that she’d forgotten his name, even?
“Yes, Tristen.” Mom choked a little, and I was surprised to see a tear run down her cheek. “If it wasn’t for you asking him and his intervention . . . I don’t know if I’d even be here today,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea how close I was to giving up . . .”
“Don’t say that, Mom,” I cried. “You wouldn’t have—”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But you shouldn’t worry now. The last few months are starting to seem like a bad dream. I would never hurt myself, not now.”
All at once, I felt myself starting to choke, my throat tightening.
Mom wouldn’t do anything crazy. But Tristen might—that very night. At that very moment, he might be ingesting something dangerous . . .
My eyes darted to the clock again. Almost ten fifteen.
“Tell him when you see him, Jill,” Mom added, in the sleepy voice that always told me when the medicine was taking effect, “that I will never forget what he did for me. Frederick said that Tristen spoke so powerfully on our behalf that he felt compelled to take my case . . .” Her voice trailed off, the pills and warm soup and the effort of confiding so much taking their toll.
“I will, Mom,” I promised, forgetting in that moment everything that Tristen had done to her. I stood up, feeling sick and filled with terror and remorse. If I didn’t try to stop him, his blood would be on my hands. “I have to go.”
“Where, Jill?” Mom murmured. But she sounded barely awake.
“Out,” I said. “I need to thank Tristen—right now!”
Mom was already dozing, though, and I didn’t think she knew that I’d left her. Closing her bedroom door behind me, I darted down the hallway, pausing only to grab my backpack and a paper clip from my desk, and praying that I wasn’t too late.
Chapter 41
Tristen
I HAD DIFFICULTY picking the lock at the school. My hands shook almost uncontrollably—not in anticipation of the fate that I probably faced, but due to what I’d just read on my father’s computer.
A draft of a journal article. A piece that he’d obviously planned as his magnum opus. An exploration into the troubled psyche of none other than Dr. Frederick Hyde. The doctor as patient—and savior, too. An article that convinced me that my father had been overwhelmed and defeated, months ago—that I lived with only the beast.
I jabbed the paper clip into the lock, mastering my fingers and gaining entry.
With typical hubris, my father had been confident that he could vanquish the monster, armed with nothing more than self-analysis and an arsenal of pharmaceuticals.
As I closed the door behind me and walked into the silent school, passages that were burned in my mind came back to me verbatim.
I have come to believe that the Hydes are, indeed, subject to a genetic anomaly . . . The dreams intensify . . . Regression therapy ineffective . . . Yet I remain confident of a solution . . .
The document chronicled months of self-examination and the methods my father had employed to gain control of the nasty soul that fought to emerge. These passages were interrupted by extensive notes on cases that Dad had deemed similar and the long-term, even trans-generational, effects of certain chemical compounds on the human body.
The article was raw, unedited, but in the powerful sweep of Dad’s self-assured prose, I could read his excitement, his desire to battle the beast and win. Dad had never once doubted that he would be the victor—even as I could clearly see him losing, in his own words. Last night—three hours lost—awoke frustrated . . .
I made my way down the corridor where in just a few hours teachers and students would flood. If I did die, who would be the first to find me? That idiot Messerschmidt? Would he scream to see my body? Would there be blood, given what I was about to drink? Would it pour from my mouth, spilling from my corroded stomach?
I picked the lock on the classroom door, fingers more sure.
My father had also chronicled his excitement upon finding and teaming with an unidentified American collaborator who was so clearly Dr. Jekel. Have located and begun correspondence with
