Incarnate Page 13

  Mrs. Wilcox hurried into the room, her hair pulled back in a headband that matched her gray sweater. Kim followed close behind. “Mrs. Wilcox—”

  But the woman ignored her. She didn’t appear to notice Zack, either, but focused intently on the wall beside the bed, kneeling in front of it.

  “Izzi . . . ? Baby?” she crooned softly.

  Muffled sounds came from behind the wall. Mrs. Wilcox crouched closer and ran her hands along the wainscoting. There was a mechanical click, and then the wall seemed to split, a panel hidden by the decorative molding sliding to the side to reveal a secret cubbyhole a few feet deep and wide. Inside, curled in a ball, Scarlett lay clutching an old, battered doll that was missing an eye. She looked up at Mrs. Wilcox, her face full of fear.

  “. . . Mom?”

  SEVENTEEN

  “Please, honey,” Mrs. Wilcox said softly, nudging a plate of cookies closer to Kim, “call me Jen.”

  Kim had pleaded with Zack and Holt to allow her to talk to Scarlett before they arrested her, but they’d refused. At one point, Zack had even threatened to arrest her, too, if she didn’t stop talking and stay out of their way.

  But as she’d finally given up in defeat, Mrs. Wilcox had emerged from the powder room, where she’d gone to collect herself. While the police officers took Scarlett away in handcuffs, Kim asked Isabel’s mother if she could ask her a few questions about Isabel. She saw a chance to delve a bit deeper into her theories about Scarlett’s connection to Izzi—potentially even to gather information that could clear Scarlett of any involvement in Izzi’s murder. She was glad Mrs. Wilcox had agreed.

  “These are delicious, thank you,” Kim said, even though she couldn’t taste anything. The anguished look Scarlett had given her when she was being led away was seared in her memory. “What happened just now—I’m so sorry that she came here. To your home. Scarlett is . . . struggling.”

  She couldn’t divulge any information about Scarlett’s condition, but she also understood how painful the intrusion must have been for Izzi’s parents. The best she could do was to try to learn more about the case to keep something like this from happening again.

  For a long moment, Mrs. Wilcox was silent. “When Izzi was a little girl, she was afraid of monsters,” she finally said. “We tried everything to calm her, but nothing worked. One night, I came in to kiss her good night . . . and she wasn’t in her bed. We thought someone had taken her. We called the police.

  “We searched everywhere until we finally found her, fast asleep with that doll in the cubby. The former owner of the house had built it to hide his coin collection, which was apparently quite valuable, and we thought Izzi might use it for a playroom, but she never showed any interest in it until that night.

  “From then on, she would sometimes sleep in there if she was having nightmares. I think she felt . . . safe, there.” She teared up again, dabbing at her eyes delicately with an embroidered handkerchief. “How do you think that girl knew about Izzi’s cubby?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Kim said. “I’m so sorry. I wish I had an explanation.” As she forced the last of her cookie down, she felt the weight of Jen Wilcox’s grief and bewilderment pressing in on her. What would this poor woman think if she knew the theory Kim was entertaining? That her daughter’s soul might somehow be inside Scarlett? Was there any way to say something like that aloud without sounding completely insane? Without destroying a mother?

  “I just . . . I’ve had this feeling I’ve never told anyone about,” Jen said. “It’s like . . . I can sense that she hasn’t moved on. That she’s waiting for something. Some kind of closure.”

  Kim’s pulse quickened. Maybe Jen would be receptive to Kim’s radical theories. And this matched her own evaluation of the Izzi alter: that she was restless, dissatisfied . . . waiting. “Can you tell me more about that?” she asked carefully.

  Jen glanced up at her quickly, then away. “I don’t want you to think I’m crazy,” she said, with a heartbreaking little laugh. “But I’ve known she was lost to us. That she was dead. Ever since that first night when she didn’t return my texts. I couldn’t tell anyone . . . I mean, you’re a psychiatrist, so I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “People think there’s no room in psychiatry for the things we can’t understand,” Kim said. “When nothing could be further from the truth. Some of my colleagues don’t want to admit it, but much of the way the human mind works—it’s still a mystery to us. Science can go a long way in helping us diagnose and treat a variety of conditions and disorders. But there’s this enormous, mysterious space where we’re all just basically fumbling in the dark.”

  “Fumbling in the dark,” Jen repeated doubtfully.

  “I’m sorry, maybe that was a poor choice of words,” Kim amended. “I like to think that when I use my intuition, I’m not so much relying on the mystical and unscientific, as opening myself up to the possibility that there are channels of knowledge outside the five senses, outside the current limits of medicine.”

  “You mean . . . like there could be spirits guiding you?” Jen asked, almost hopefully.

  “Nothing as specific as that,” Kim said carefully. “I don’t believe in ghosts, if that’s what you mean. But I do believe that the line between life and death is not as hard and fast as we like to tell ourselves. Just as science has discovered that there is a fertile space between the conscious mind and the unconscious, one that we have only begun to explore, I believe that there may be much more to learn about the place between life and death.”

  Jen’s eyes were bright with emotion. “I think I agree with you,” she said. “But half the time I think it’s just—just a mother’s hopeless yearning. I could never tell my husband any of this.”

  “If you like, I’d be happy to give you the name of an excellent therapist,” Kim said gently, her heart aching for Jen. “Someone who could give you a safe place to explore thoughts like these, and to grieve.”

  “I—I think I would like that,” Jen whispered.

  Kim wrote down the names of two well-regarded therapists in town.

  Jen took her hand. “Thank you,” she said.

  As Kim was leaving, she noticed an elaborately decorated journal lying on the counter. The colorful stickers were worn and peeling, the cover plastered with drawings. In the top right corner the name Izzi was spelled out in bubble letters that had been carefully outlined and shaded. Over the last I was a face with wide eyes and a tongue sticking out.

  “Oh, that’s Izzi’s journal,” Jen said. “I found it the other day when I was going through some of the things in her room.”

  “Do you mind if I take a quick look?” Kim asked, hope beginning to take root.

  Jen understandably hesitated, then seemed to decide there was no point in preserving her daughter’s privacy now. She gave a quick nod.

  Kim picked it up and flipped through the pages. As she scanned the entries written in a careful, looping hand, an eerie sense of recognition came over her.

  The handwriting was the same as Scarlett’s from her intake paperwork at the hospital.

  She dropped the journal, reeling. If she’d been looking for proof, here it was. Scarlett’s handwriting that day was identical to Izzi’s. And handwriting was difficult to fake, even for professional con artists. There’d be no way she could have so quickly and easily imitated Izzi’s style that closely.

  Plus, Scarlett knew about the secret cubby in Izzi’s room.

  And Scarlett had known that Izzi would be found in the bay . . . and the bloody water that poured out of her couldn’t be explained away, as hard as Kim tried.

  Scarlett had been telling the truth all along. Somehow, her body had become a sanctuary for the soul of Isabel Wilcox.

  EIGHTEEN

  Somewhere between walking out of the Wilcox house and getting into her car to drive away, Kim realized she needed more evidence to back up her insane theory, so she quickly hustled back up the front steps, knocked on the door, and aske
d Jen Wilcox if she could borrow Izzi’s journal. Kim promised to return it quickly, and Jen reluctantly handed it over, silently hoping that it would be returned with some answers about her daughter’s death.

  Kim sped back to the hospital, snagged a parking spot near the side entrance, and took the stairs up, to avoid running into any of her coworkers. She was on a mission and was eager not to have to explain herself to anyone, least of all Kyle. After a quick stop in her office, Kim found who she was looking for in the fourth-floor break room.

  “Hey, Nga,” Kim said. “Any chance I can use your secret decoder ring? I have a handwriting sample I’d love for you to look at.”

  As the hospital’s speech pathologist, Dr. Nga Nguyen was responsible for evaluating and treating a variety of communication disorders and delays, mostly vocal. But her interest spread to all forms of communication. Nga’s fascination with handwriting analysis had left Kim bored to tears the one time they’d gone out for drinks. Suddenly, however, Kim found herself wanting to know more.

  The petite doctor looked up, surprised to see Kim. “What the hell happened to you? Everybody’s talking about it. Did one of your patients really try to kill you?”

  Kim didn’t have time. “Naw, that wasn’t me. I think it was Dr. Griffin in Rehab. Can I see you in your office? This is kind of . . . personal.”

  Nga perked up. “Handwriting sample that’s personal? Secret admirer, or stalker? Or both?” Then her eyes widened. “Is this about the affair you’re having with Dr. Berman?”

  This caught Kim off guard. Obviously they weren’t being as sneaky as she thought. “Dr. Berman? Affair? No, again, wasn’t me. Maybe that’s Dr. Griffin, too.”

  “Dr. Timothy Griffin? So, Kyle and Tim are a thing?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t judge. But I do need your help. Your office?”

  Sixty seconds later, Dr. Nguyen was closing the door to her office as Kim produced Isabel’s journal, as well as Scarlett’s medical intake paperwork that the troubled teen had filled out while channeling Izzi.

  As soon as Nga glanced at the writing, she peered up at Kim. “This was written by a woman.”

  Kim held her gaze. “Don’t judge.”

  Nga swallowed her smile and began to examine the two samples, making some notes and using a magnifier to peer closely. Kim leaned over her shoulder, about ready to explode in anticipation.

  Nga’s eyes darted back and forth between the journal and the intake paperwork. She nodded. “The D. Both samples have this anger tick in the upper zone. And see here, her ovals are done clockwise, which is very unusual. The angles, the arcades, identical.”

  “So they’re a match?”

  Nga decided to hold Kim over a barrel for more information. “I don’t know. Mind telling me what this is about?”

  Kim definitely minded, and though she had anticipated the question, she wasn’t prepared with an answer. “Oh, uh . . . just wanting to return this girl’s journal.”

  “Lie.”

  “She’s a friend.”

  “Lie.” Nga held up the intake paperwork. “Unless you’re treating your friend. Is this person competition? For Dr. Berman?”

  “I told you, I’m not seeing Dr. Berman.”

  “Do I have to say it again?” Nga decided she did. “Lie.” She herself was married to an accountant, and had offered to set Kim up with his brother.

  “Okay, the truth, this journal could belong to a patient. She’s a—waitress on the promenade,” she said. “She works the night shift.”

  Nga shook her head, disappointed. “You’re quoting ‘The Ballad of Dorothy Parker.’ That’s a Prince song.”

  “Okay, can you just answer my question? Are these two items written by the same person?”

  “Yes.”

  “So they are a match?”

  “I’d say with ninety-nine percent certainty that the person who wrote in this journal is the same person who filled out this questionnaire.”

  So Isabel and Scarlett had produced identical handwriting . . . which meant that the alter truly was Isabel.

  Scarlett hadn’t lied.

  Kim smiled. “I could kiss you, Nga.”

  Nga smiled back. “I wouldn’t judge.”

  Kim kissed her quickly on the lips and moved toward the door. “Listen, thank you so much. I’d love to buy you a drink sometime to say thank you.”

  “Great. I’ll invite my brother-in-law. He’s a catch. And a better kisser than me.”

  * * *

  KIM WALKED INTO THE Jarvis police station with more confidence than she felt. Seated on the tall stool at the reception desk was a sixty-something woman with rhinestone-trimmed glasses and an elaborate bleached-blond updo.

  “I need to see Scarlett Hascall,” Kim said, flashing her most professional smile. She’d worn her only pair of high heels, along with a black pencil skirt, and, yes, her hospital name tag. She felt guilty using her title to try to curry cooperation, but not guilty enough to forgo using everything in her arsenal to try to help Scarlett.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” the receptionist said. “She’s in holding.”

  Kim thought for a moment, buying time, trying to imagine how her father would handle the situation. Roger Patterson was known to be a gentle, easygoing man, and yet he nearly always got his way in departmental matters.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Kim said, snapping her fingers and turning up the wattage of her smile. “Zack mentioned that. You know what, don’t bother calling him, he’s expecting me—I’ll just show myself back.”

  She walked past the desk, feigning confidence, but half expecting the receptionist to catapult over the top and tackle her.

  But no one followed her as she made her way through a maze of cubicles, reading name tags until she spotted Zack near the back of the large space, a coffee cup in his hand.

  “Detective Trainor!” she called. “I need to speak to Scarlett.”

  “You can’t be back here,” Zack said, clearly not happy to see her.

  “Please, just five minutes.”

  He scowled. “About what?”

  “I . . . I don’t . . .” She glanced down at the notebook in her hand—the one she’d borrowed from Jen Wilcox, filled with the thoughts and dreams of an adolescent Izzi. The one whose handwriting, she thought, was a dead-on match for the girl they had arrested for murder.

  If she didn’t do something, Scarlett’s case was going to move forward, taking her ever closer to being sentenced for a killing that Kim was certain the girl hadn’t committed. Except . . . even Kim had to admit that the case against Scarlett was damning. There was no rational, scientific explanation for what was happening. Dissociative identity disorder—which already had plenty of detractors—had never, to Kim’s knowledge, been associated with people who were dead. Never, in case history, had she come across a patient who had been proven to house the souls of the deceased. It was, frankly, impossible, according to the standard of proof that Kim held as a scientist.

  But Kim’s intuition was just as strong as her intellect. It had to be, to endure the things she’d endured—to survive the things that had happened to her. And as strong as faith—not traditional religious faith, perhaps, but faith in the essential goodness of humans. And while there were certainly some people who were afflicted by various traumas or psychoses that caused the proper function of their conscience to deviate, Kim did not believe this was the case with Scarlett.

  Either way, Kim had to talk to Scarlett, to, at the very least, settle the questions in her own mind.

  “Let me guess,” Zack said, clearly exasperated. “Doctor-patient privilege? Word of warning, Dr. Patterson, from here on out, I’d plan on doing Scarlett’s psych sessions in state lockup.”

  “All I’m asking for is five measly minutes,” Kim said through gritted teeth. She met his gaze, trying to tell him wordlessly how important this was to her, and for Scarlett.

  The standoff lasted for another maddening moment. She took him in, noticing just how long his l
ashes were, and that he had brown eyes with flecks of gold around his irises. Finally, he softened. “Okay, fine.” He led her back to a closed door, unlocked it, and stood aside for her to enter. “Five minutes.”

  The door closed firmly behind her. Scarlett was sitting at a table, looking frightened and alone, but when she spotted Kim, she brightened slightly. There were four chairs in the room in addition to the table, and nothing else—except for a large mirror that Kim knew was a one-way device that allowed investigators to watch. She had no doubt that Detective Trainor was watching her now.

  She sat down in front of Scarlett and seized her hands. “We don’t have much time, so listen carefully. You didn’t do anything. Okay?”

  “You don’t know that. I don’t even know. I had this dream . . . I saw her. I killed her.” Scarlett’s face was pale, her eyes bloodshot. Kim’s heart contracted in her chest. She knew how devastating it was to think . . . to think yourself capable of something so terrible. She couldn’t let Scarlett believe herself to be a murderer, not even for a second.

  “I have a dream where a Japanese spider crab in ruby slippers teaches me how to juggle coconuts. Dreams don’t mean anything. Listen, we’re going to figure this out. I am going to do everything I can to help you.”

  Scarlett nodded, looking close to tears. “They keep asking me about the night she disappeared and—and why I went to Isabel’s house, and I just can’t remember anything. But no one believes me.” The last words came out as more of a sob.

  “Okay, take a deep breath.” Scarlett complied, and her shaking slowed a bit. Kim nodded. “Good job. Okay. Scarlett, what do you remember from earlier?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all kind of a blur.”

  “Do you remember coming to see me at my office? Do you remember trying to hurt yourself?”

  Scarlett refused to meet her eyes, scratching listlessly at the table with her fingernail.