Tim was admitted to Greenlake a few years after the findings were published. Could he have been misdiagnosed? During the pre-trial investigation, he’d admitted to hearing voices off and on in the months prior to the murders. A true symptom? Or was he coached on what to say to avoid a prison sentence for life? She’d have to look at the trial transcript, or speak to the lawyer on the case to be sure.
As for sociopathic traits, at no time during their brief interaction had Tim tried to challenge her or stare her down. No hint of grandiosity. No attempts to beguile or charm. Not a glimmer of anything other than what he appeared to be: heavily medicated, befuddled, confused. A man who knew almost nothing of life beyond the stultifying routines of a state institution.
In the room next door, a television was switched on, with the volume cranked up. Screeching tyres, shouting and gunfire. Earplugs would have been a good idea, but she hadn’t anticipated the need to spend the night. She hauled herself off the bed to look out at the car park, covered in a growing layer of snow. The storm showed no signs of stopping. In the bathroom, she washed her hands and studied the tired set of her mouth. As she coiled her dark hair and fastened it with a clip, she could see a narrow strip of lighter hair, barely perceptible, coming through at the roots. She’d have to visit the hairdresser soon.
Stretching out on the bed, Erin turned the day’s events over in her mind. The proper assessments would help her form a more accurate picture of Tim’s mental state. Based on today’s meeting, he appeared functional enough. Placid. Probably harmless. Provided he continued to take his meds.
Just like Leonard Whidby.
She shut her eyes and pushed the thought away.
*
The motel cafeteria smelled of damp wool and bacon grease. Erin slid into an empty booth by the window with a view of the motorway. Heedless of the weather, a stream of lorries thundered past, as the snow continued to fall in the deepening dusk. She might be stuck here for days, but with any luck, the roads would be clear by morning. She had a full day ahead of her, and a roster of patients to look after.
A waitress with sallow skin and vacant eyes set Erin’s coffee on the Formica table, along with a wedge of apple pie.
‘Anything else for you, hon?’
Erin shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Enjoy the pie. Fresh made today.’ The woman’s smile snapped into place like a rubber band. Was she on something? Erin’s first guess would be Valium, though it could be any number of things. Oxycodone, Xanax. So easy to get these days from unscrupulous doctors or dodgy websites flogging black-market pills.
She tasted the coffee, surprisingly good, before ferrying a piece of pie into her mouth. An older man at the table next to her, with heavy jowls and rheumy eyes, folded his newspaper and struggled into a threadbare coat.
Unsure of her next move, and wary of venturing onto the treacherous path this case would lead her on, her first inclination was to daydream of escape. A cobbled, sun-drenched village in the mountains of Spain where no one would find her. She could get a job at a local café. Spend her free time lounging under a hot sun. Anything other than face what lay ahead. But now that she was no longer just a doctor, but a potential conduit to Tim’s past, walking away from his case was not an option any more.
Dread pooled in her gut, but if she was certain about anything, it was this: those scrawled words of Tim’s were not the by-product of a diseased brain. The Viking? That was her brother’s nickname.
11
The Meadows
Lansford, New York
March, Present Day
Niels had vanished. He wasn’t in the staffroom or his office, but he hadn’t signed out, so he must be somewhere in the clinic’s main building. As Erin passed through the vaulted central atrium, trying to track him down, she nearly bumped into Greta, lurking behind a potted palm as she polished off a slice of chocolate cake.
‘We missed you at the staff meeting yesterday,’ Greta said, brushing crumbs from her lips. ‘Not playing hooky, were you? Niels was out, too. Some family emergency, so I ran the show. We allocated group assignments and the on-call schedule for April. You’ll find them posted in the usual place.’ She waved a heavily beringed hand and swept past.
Notes from the piano drifted through the half-closed door of the music room. Erin peeked in to find a slender woman at the bench, her posture supple as a ballerina’s. It took her a moment to remember who she was, the woman who came in twice a week to accompany the girls in their Music & Movement classes.
As if sensing she wasn’t alone, the woman paused in her playing and looked up.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Erin said. ‘I was looking for Dr Westlund.’ She tried, and failed, to recall the woman’s name. Karen was it, or Katy?
The woman propped her glasses on her head. Her hair, a sleek bob of chestnut mixed with grey, curved around her cheek. In her fawn trousers, mauve cardigan, and sensible flat shoes, she blended easily into the background. Like me, Erin thought.
‘I haven’t seen Dr Westlund since this morning.’
The sun slanted through the windows and pooled on the waxed floor. Erin hung back in the doorway, reluctant to disturb the peaceful mood. The woman’s neat figure and quiet grace suggested someone caught between two realms. One in this world, the other inside her head.
‘What was that you were playing?’ Erin asked. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Haydn’s Piano Sonata 33.’ Her smile was warm. ‘One of my favourites.’
Erin apologised again for the disturbance and backed away. Niels might be in the conservatory, a desired spot on chilly days. But as Karen, or Katy – she’d have to ask Niels– resumed her playing,
