She sighed, studied the ceiling, and said, “I’ve been eighteen months with Carlos. He’s a stand-up guy. He divorced his wife for me, and I really do love him. Not only that, I genuinely like him. He’s my best friend ever. But I know what’s coming in six months, a year at the outside, and I … I guess I want to learn how to be a sleepwalker and stay with someone forever.”
I smiled. “That’s a good goal.”
“Something we can talk about next time?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Cassidy took her iPhone off the table and got up. “Thank you, Dr. Cross.”
“You’re more than welcome. I’ll need an e-mail address to send my forms.”
“Oh,” she said, her brow knitting. “I had a computer virus over the weekend and I’m between e-mails at the moment. I’m opening a new account on Gmail tonight. Can I ping you with it?”
“That works.”
“Thank you for understanding all this.”
“It’s what I do.”
“And you do it well,” she said. She smiled uncertainly and left.
I stood there a few moments, wondering if Bree and I were sleepwalkers, then deciding that if we were, I was more than happy in my semiconscious state of marital bliss.
Remembering I had to take some leaves I’d raked and bagged out front for pickup, I went outside. The light was fading. Drizzle fell. I got the leaf bags, carried them around the house, and put them on the sidewalk.
I happened to look down the block and saw Cassidy getting into a black Nissan Pathfinder. Wondering if her Carlos might be driving, I walked a few yards that way and was in deep shadow near a retaining wall when the Pathfinder came closer, headlights off.
I could see the silhouette of Cassidy sitting sideways, facing the driver, who was just a dark shape until the Pathfinder crossed beneath a street lamp. For a second his face was clearly visible through the windshield.
Recognition stopped me cold. I was confused.
What was Annie Cassidy doing with Alden Lindel?
CHAPTER
69
GRETCHEN LINDEL’S FATHER used to tell her that the brain could be the strongest part of the body, or the most fragile.
“It’s your choice, Gretch,” he’d said not long before she’d been taken captive in the twisted world of sickos.
Lying on her filthy mattress in her plywood cell, holding her left leg so it wouldn’t be irritated any further by the manacle around her ankle, the seventeen-year-old was doing everything she could to keep her mind strong.
I am going to get out of here, Gretchen kept telling herself. I just have to survive long enough to get the chance. I’m going to be like Dad. Nothing they’ve done hurts me in any way. It makes me stronger. This only makes me stronger.
But it had been several days since they’d come for her. Hour upon hour of silence created all sorts of dark voices in her mind.
Doubt crept up on Gretchen and whispered that she’d die there in the box. Fear wormed its way into her stomach and said they’d take her again before that happened. Self-pity wrapped her head and heart, told her she was defeated.
But time and time again, whenever Gretchen realized the voices of despair were taking control of her thoughts, she’d think of her father and everything he’d endured, and she’d take heart.
I will survive. They can’t hurt me. This will only make me—
The dead bolts turned. She closed her eyes, not knowing if this was a meal or another of their twisted games. If it was a game, she was done crying. She was done being scared. They seemed to feed on her fright, and as the door swung open she vowed to give them none.
The big one in black came in carrying a semiautomatic AR rifle. Her father had one just like it.
“It’s time, Gretchen,” he said from behind the paintball mask. “We’re all but done here. Cleanup time now.”