Clearing his throat, the psychologist tried again. “Mrs. Berndt, psychopaths lack the neurological framework to develop a sense of ethics and morality. Violent and cruel, they show no remorse for their actions because they don’t feel emotion.”
“But my son can be charming.”
“Yes, I’m sure he can be. And while psychopaths don’t feel emotions, they learn to mimic them to gain people’s trust. They’re highly skilled at what’s known as ‘impression management.’ That’s part of what makes them so dangerous, Mrs. Berndt. That, and the fact that they don’t have a moral compass, a sense of right and wrong.”
Those words left an indelible impression that Jason has used many times over the years as a gauge, a measuring stick. I’m not a psychopath, he reassures himself. If I were, I wouldn’t feel satisfaction every time I kill. Psychopaths don’t feel emotion.
He looks at Cynthia, his face a composed mask of indifference. And tonight, I’m going to break your pretty little neck.
CHAPTER 15
“With most of my books, I’ll actually go out and look at the setting. If you describe things carefully, it kind of makes the scene pop.”
—JOHN SANDFORD
Walking together part of the way to their cottages, Fran turns to Cynthia. “Wow, this evening was intense.”
“Yes, it was.” Cynthia nods her head in agreement.
“I’ve never known anyone who does what you do. I’m impressed that you use your intuitive gift to help families who’ve lost someone.”
Eyes bright, lips trembling, Fran fears that at any moment she might weep. She looks at Cynthia through pain-filled eyes. “I want to thank you for what you said after reading my palm the other day. It’s made me realize that I’ve sacrificed my life on the altar of my inability to conceive.”
With a keen sense for another’s wellbeing and the evening’s conversation fresh on her mind, Cynthia responds, “It’s left to the living to miss those who aren’t—including those who’ve never been born.”
Fran reaches for Cynthia’s hand. “I’m beginning to understand that I’m enough just the way I am. Thank you.” She squeezes Cynthia’s hand in a parting gesture. “We’ve both had quite a day.” Stifling a yawn, she continues, “I’m heading to bed. I’ll see you at tai chi in the morning. Good night.” And with that, Fran turns onto the path that heads north to Dickens cottage.
Cynthia is restless. She needs time alone, time to be quiet, and time to reevaluate. In the distance, the low rumble of the sea—like a siren’s song—beckons her. Instead of veering east to Brontë cottage, she heeds the enticing plea and the main house falls from sight as she winds her way through thick tree trunks with a ghostly sheen to their bark. Between the sound of the wind-whipped leaves and the surf, she is soothed. The gulls are down for the night, so there’s no screeching. And if there is the sound of boats rocking at their moorings, it’s muffled by the lashing wind.
Tucked behind an unpruned hedgerow of photinia, a natural barrier Niall planted to ensure privacy, a line of perplexion creases Jason’s compact forehead. What the hell? Shifting slightly, he continues to watch Cynthia. He’d counted on her heading straight to her cottage.
Treading over pine needles that have been years gathering, and gnarled tree roots that have been decades growing, Cynthia walks with unfailing certainty, guided by her inner compass. Her nostrils catch the scent of Douglas-fir, cedar, and the unmistakable rank scent—like rotten parsnips—of drying hemlock needles. Years ago, she’d learned from her mother that while hemlock and fir needles both have two white stripes, fir needles can be rolled between your fingers, but hemlock can’t because the needles are flat.
Unbidden, thoughts of the past come flooding forward. Cynthia had been relieved when her father died, guiltily and honestly relieved. It was her mother’s death that had devastated her. She wished her mother was here now. This forest is muddy green, drab, in comparison to the vibrant, lush foliage of her youth. Life is so much shorter than we realize.
The clouds are low and threatening. The air is drenched and salty. Thunder booms in the distance, but Cynthia continues, drawn to the sea.
Jason follows Cynthia at a safe distance. A stealth and panther-like predator, he relies on quiet and strategy. His slit-like eyes, iced silver in the night, are coldly calculating, piercing, as he watches Cynthia turn, this time down a rutted dirt path.
So intent on his quarry, Jason doesn’t see the exposed pine root and falls with bone-jarring intensity. With heart leaping in his throat, Goddamnit! rings through his head as he balls a fist to keep from releasing a sound, nails digging bloody crescents into the palm of his right hand. Bitterness curdles his thoughts, making him almost blind with rage. Resisting the urge to use his other hand to smash the bottle of wine he’s taken from the main house, he remains quiet.
Cynthia steps out from the thick forest onto the bluff, a large clearing that borders the wind-whipped cliffs. Crossing the vast expanse, she notices the ground is barren except for intermittent chunks of fist and boulder-sized rocks. It looks as if the area has been bombarded by a meteor shower.
Peering in tension-filled silence from the camouflaged space of shoulder-to-shoulder trees, Jason watches Cynthia as intermittent flashes of lightning illuminate the night. She seems to glide, not walk, over the uneven ground.
He remembers Niall’s remark during dinner about their storms. “Lightning and thunder are rare in this part of the country.” Well then what the hell is going on?
In the eeriness of the night, Jason doesn’t doubt for a moment that Cynthia’s a witch. I bet she brought the storm with her.
Cynthia is a sight of understated elegance in the now-soaked caftan hugging the
