“Thank you. Now, Saxon, I want you to look at Mia. Really look at her. You feel rotten, you’re dizzy, but you still see her clearly. Do you see anyone else?”
He blinked, shook his head. “I don’t know—wait, yes, there is someone. I don’t know where he came from, but he’s there, in her bedroom, standing behind her. He has his hand on her arm and he’s turning her around to face him.”
“What does he look like?”
“I can’t see him clearly. All I can think about is throwing up.”
“Forget your nausea, your dizziness, Saxon. You aren’t feeling that now. You feel fine. Picture the man. Focus on him. Do you see him?”
“Yes, I can see him, but he’s blurry.”
“Describe him to me.”
“He’s older, in his forties, I guess. And he has this weird widow’s peak, you know, his hair sort of spears forward, then he’s bald on either side of it.”
Sherlock took a shot. “That’s good. Saxon, don’t look away from him. Watch him. Is he talking? What is he saying? No, don’t shake your head. Focus. Listen. Can you hear him now?”
“Okay, yes.”
“Good. What is he saying to Mia?”
“He’s asking her why I’m not under, asking her how she could screw it up. Why she hadn’t done what she was told.”
“Does he sound angry?”
“Yes, but not screaming anger, more like ice-cold anger, the kind my dad used on my mom that makes you shrivel up. That’s why she left, I think.”
“Okay, I understand. What did Mia say?”
“She said to give her a minute and I’d be out and he could take all the photos he wanted.” He frowned. “I don’t understand. Why was this man there? Why was Mia talking about photos?”
“Don’t worry about that now. Think back. What happened next?”
Saxon fell silent. Sherlock knew he was trying to remember but she wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. After a few more questions and rephrasings, Sherlock guessed he’d fallen unconscious then, too deep for memories or impressions.
“When you woke up the next morning, you were in your own bed?”
“Yes.”
“What were you wearing?”
“I still had my pants on, even my shoes and socks, but my tie and shirt and my undershirt were gone. I couldn’t find them. I felt really bad, a killer headache. I tried to remember how I got home from Mia’s, what h
appened, but everything was—blank.”
“Did you call Mia?”
“I did, half a dozen times, but her cell phone went to message. Then a friend came over—Ollie Ash. He was my roommate in college. He wanted to go to breakfast, tell me about the AI program he was working on, but I didn’t want to, I felt too bad.
“Ollie said I should go take a shower and some aspirin. I felt a little bit better after that, but I was worried. I knew something was wrong. While I was dressing, I heard the news on the TV from the living room.” He stopped dead, then whispered, “The newslady was talking about a woman’s murder, and she gave the address, Mia’s address. I remember thinking, how can she possibly be saying those things?”
“I came running out of the bedroom. I’d told Ollie I was seeing an amazing girl, but I hadn’t told him her name. I stood there, not wanting to believe it, but that newslady went on about her, kept showing her picture.”
“You said Ollie didn’t know about Mia. What do you mean?”
“Only my dad knew about her.”
“Why was that? Was keeping secret her decision?”