“And here I thought I was moving up in the world, when he asked me to marry him.” Claire shakes her head. Her words have become blurred and rounded. She pauses, and the silence licks about us like the river.
I say, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? That he cheated on me? That he got killed? Please.” She prints wet circles on the bar with her bottle. “He always was too slick. There were other women in Portland, too. I always wondered — did he and Pastor Harkness? — but he wasn’t her type, not really. She liked them a bit lost. A bit rugged.”
“Did she — Victoria — have a permanent partner? Or…?”
Claire scoffs. “With all those willing boys to choose from, all of them wanting to worship at her feet?” She drops her gaze. “Shouldn’t be mean. Shouldn’t judge. Did them some good. Made them feel better. Women too.”
I try to sort this out. “You mean she had relationships with women as well?” I feel my suspect pool expand exponentially, and my eyes glaze.
“Nah. I mean she made everyone feel special. Like they had something to offer. Like they could touch the Spirit like her, if only they tried.”
Claire’s plenty in touch with spirits herself.
I’m not far behind. The JD coats my senses like an ermine robe. I feel warm and snuggly, my problems a distant shadow on the shore.
“Did Victoria have relationships with many men?”
“Wouldn’t say relationships. She liked to be of comfort, liked to show love.”
“Physically, you mean? Sex?”
“Sometimes. It wasn’t exclusive, with her. Never stuck with any one guy. Maybe she and Dan were birds of a feather.” A taste of wormwood in her tone. “I wish — I wish —” Claire’s voice breaks.
Here it comes. Please, can we just leave?
Shut up, bitch. I’m listening here.
“What do you wish?” I strive to focus my eyes, but it’s so much easier to let them relax, let the bar dissolve into gentle blurs.
“Just that things could be different, that’s all.”
“Did you know she was writing a book?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you ever read it? Or did she tell you about the contents?”
“She was abused as a child. She was pretty open about it. Said healing could only happen when the wound was exposed to the air. That the abuser was a victim too.” Claire snorts. “Some victim. My opinion, someone hurts you, you don’t go around hurting other people in revenge. Coward’s way out.”
“And the book?”
“Pastor’s way out. Turning ugliness into something like love, something useful for others. Not revenge. Healing. Forgiveness.” Claire empties her bottle. Again. “Don’t think I could forgive something like that, myself.”
I think of the evil that I’ve seen. “Yeah, me neither.”
“Audrey?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know who killed Victoria?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Do you know who killed Daniel?”
“No.”
We stop talking. The neon signs buzz. A truck rumbles by on the street outside. A drop of water falls from the bar sink faucet and hits the stainless steel basin with a plink like a musical note.
“Claire?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll keep trying. I won’t give up.”
“Okay.” Claire peels the label off her bottle, using her thumbnail. It comes off in a single piece, slightly tattered at the edges. She smooths it carefully on the bar top. “Neither will I.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WHO SANG THAT song “Monday Morning Coming Down?” Or is it Sunday morning? Whatever, my Monday starts out like I stuck my head in a church bell right before Quasimodo started to ring it. I can hear my brain thumping in time with my pulse. And the spikes of sunlight that penetrate the shades are lasers aimed directly at my eyes. The ceiling spins slowly above. Seems like a good day to stay in bed.
When Phoebe calls later, I almost don’t answer. Almost let it go to voicemail. But. I’d gone this far, told her unthinkable things. So I pick up, my voice a husky rasp. Phoebe says the other consultant she wanted to talk to is in her office now. He’s a friend, and I can trust him absolutely. She assures me she hasn’t told him anything about what she and I discussed, but he might be able to throw some light on my hallucinations. Could I please come over?
I whimper like a distressed animal. Do I have to? But. I need answers. Plus, Phoebe is sure to have coffee. So, out of the cot, down the suicide stairs, into the shower. Water beating like warm rain. Clothes. Hair. I carefully don’t look at my face.
Trepidation knots my belly as I walk up the stairs to the street, up the sidewalk to the Rutherford house and down the stairs to Phoebe’s office. No escaping the hills of Astoria. The cold hardness under my feet makes me realize I need some grounding. Need to know where and how I stand: on the brink of madness, completely over the edge, or somewhere else entirely.
I knock and the door opens.
Phoebe greets me with a smile. “Hello, Audrey. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”
Over the threshold. Bluebeard, or the good fairy? Only one way to find out.
She gestures to a man beside her, saying, “This is the colleague and friend I told you about. Bernard Flowers.”
He says, “Call me Bernie.” We shake hands. His is warm and dry. Mine is cold and a bit damp. He’s white, older, dressed in a chunky cabled sweater and wide-waled corduroys.
Phoebe says, “Bernard is a psychotherapist with an expertise in psychic phenomena.”
Wait, what? I’m confused. “I don’t —”
Phoebe
