Incarnate Page 15

  Then she walked out before either Graver or Kyle could see her break.

  Back in the parking lot, she’d almost made it to her car when she heard Kyle call her name. Turning, she saw him jogging toward her, his jacket flapping. For a moment, she thought he was going to apologize for leaving her hanging—maybe even offer to try to work with her, to help her prove to Graver that she was capable of doing the job.

  But as he caught up with her, she saw the steely wall in his eyes, and she knew her hopes were in vain.

  “If you’re going to yell at me, maybe you could save it for another day,” she said hollowly. “I think I’ve had just about all I can take for now.”

  “This won’t take long,” Kyle said. He was breathing slightly heavily, and his tie had flown up over his shoulder. He tugged it irritably into place. “I just got off the phone with the police, right before you came in. Dead souls. Dead souls? You actually said that the alters inside Scarlett are the ‘dead souls’ of three different people?”

  Kim had never seen him so agitated. Kyle was normally imperturbable, almost to a fault. But now his face was mottled and red, his eyes distressed, his fists clenched. Almost involuntarily, Kim took a half step back. “I might not have used those exact words . . . actually, I think I did use those exact words. And yes, there may even be more than three dead souls inside her.”

  “Why?” His voice sounded almost strangled. “Why would you say that out loud . . . especially to the police?”

  Part of Kim wanted to apologize, to admit she’d screwed up, to backpedal, but doing so would only be an effort to placate Kyle. And she couldn’t afford to put his interests ahead of Scarlett’s. “Kyle, Scarlett is not bipolar. Now, given what I’ve seen, I don’t even think she’s DID. There’s something . . .” She trailed off.

  “Go ahead and say it—supernatural?” His lips curled sarcastically.

  “Your word, not mine.”

  “Just because you can’t explain something doesn’t mean you have to leap to some ‘supernatural’ explanation.”

  “And just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it isn’t real,” Kim snapped, her anger overtaking her guilt and mortification. “When Louis Pasteur suggested that invisible things called germs caused disease, people thought he was deranged.”

  “That’s hardly the same thing.”

  “Open your mind for a moment. Please. I have substantial evidence that the alter inside of Scarlett who identifies herself as Isabel Wilcox . . . truly is Isabel Wilcox.”

  Kyle shook his head in disgust. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  “Wait.” Kim resisted putting a hand on his arm to compel him to listen to her. “First of all, Scarlett didn’t know Isabel and yet she has intimate knowledge about her. Her handwriting on the intake form is the same as the handwriting in Isabel’s journal. She knew her secret hiding place as a child. And how do you explain the bloody water pouring out of Scarlett’s mouth? Kyle, we’re on the verge of an incredible breakthrough—”

  “You’re on the verge of getting fired! If the board of directors heard what you’re saying—”

  “Scarlett needs help. She was contemplating suicide. You saw her.”

  Kyle regarded her for a long moment before shaking his head. Some of the anger had drained from his expression; now he merely looked disappointed. “Look, I know it’s not what you want to hear . . . but what if Scarlett’s violent alter is pretending to be Isabel? Showing you only what he wants so he can hide something terrible? Or . . . what if your patient’s just faking the whole thing? Scarlett Hascall could be a calculating, manipulative psychopath who stalked Isabel Wilcox and has done extensive research into Jarvis’s missing persons in order to build these personas. I mean, I know it’s far-fetched, but isn’t it more likely than she’s a vessel for lost souls?”

  “That’s not even—”

  “Stop. Please, Kim.” Kyle drew a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly before continuing. “In the past, I may have let my . . . feelings for you cloud my professional judgment. I’ve looked the other way too many times to count, telling myself that I was helping you. But I wasn’t. Time and time again, you’ve managed to alienate people—our colleagues, your superiors. And now you’ve endangered the hospital.

  “Kim, you’re fucking brilliant. It’s obvious. But you’re also completely undisciplined. What may have impressed your professors when you were in school doesn’t work anymore, because these are real people who come to us for help. Vulnerable people.” Kyle shifted slightly as he delivered the last blow. “And it’s not just them. This might sound selfish—maybe I am selfish—but I can’t risk going down with you.”

  Kim blinked. It had been a hell of a speech—one that sounded like he’d rehearsed it. It mortified her to realize that he had clearly been thinking about breaking up with her for a while. Figuring out a way to distance himself from her fuckups and mistakes.

  “I would never—” she began.

  “Let me finish. I came to medicine because, yeah, I’m an idealist. I want, no, I need to help people. And I can’t do that if I throw my principles away the first time a beautiful woman clouds my judgment. So—”

  “So you’re breaking up with me,” Kim said tonelessly, her heart too numb to react.

  “I . . .” For a long moment he just stared at her, his gaze searching her face. Then he said gently, “Yes. I am. Look, I’ll do my best to control the damage around here, but I’m not sticking my neck out for you again. On the off chance—and I hate to say it, but I do think it’s a pretty small chance—that you are able to be reinstated, we’ll find a way to work together. I promise to remain professional. But, Kim, for me to make that work, there can’t be any more . . . inappropriateness between us. No calls, no texts—”

  “No nooky in the staff lounge,” Kim said. The numbness was quickly sliding down into horrible acceptance . . . the same feeling she got every time she took a risk, hoping that finally she was ready for intimacy, for the sort of closeness that other people seemed to manage without effort—but then ended up alienating a lover or a friend.

  It had been a long time since she’d let this happen. The move to Alaska, the thousands of miles between her and her past, the physical barriers of geography and climate—all of these had combined to trick her into thinking that this time it would all be different.

  But she never should have tried. One of these days, she would finally have to accept that she was never going to be able to run from herself. “I get it. And I know you won’t believe me, but I am sorry. For ever involving you. For . . . all of it.”

  All of it but Scarlett, she added in her own head, where her determination to help this girl was hers alone.

  TWENTY

  “Here you go, boss,” Evelyn said, plopping a stack of folders on his desk that afternoon. She was wearing her signature scent, a heavy cloying perfume that went well with her bombshell-blond hair and shocking pink nails, but didn’t exactly conform to dress code. Funny how neither Holt nor any of the other higher-ups at the station had ever called her on it.

  Evelyn may have charmed half the station, and she was a damn fine officer to boot, but she was still several years Zack’s junior, so she got stuck with the grunt work. Like digging up everything the station had on Scarlett Hascall, anything they might have missed before.

  “I took the liberty of going through these,” she said, plopping into her chair at the desk across from his.

  “Naturally,” Zack said drily. “Because that’s exactly what ‘get these to me as soon as possible, Evelyn’ means.”

  “Fuck off, it only took me about five minutes. I’m a fast reader. And besides, they all say pretty much the same thing. Scary, creepy, messed-up girl with a tendency toward violence. But she’s still just a little girl, and not all that strong. I could bench-press two of her. Do you really think it was her? Who killed Isabel, I mean?”

  “I’m not saying it was definitely her. But I think we
have to consider the possibility, yes. Hey, Evelyn . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  For a moment Zack deliberated about whether he should tell her all the details of what had happened at the Wilcoxes’ house yesterday. It had been unnerving, to say the least. Seeing Scarlett Hascall with that ancient, ragged doll, in the cubbyhole that she couldn’t possibly have known about, had disturbed him more than he’d let on.

  Kim’s theory that the girl was harboring the souls of dead people was as crazy as thinking Elvis was abducted by aliens.

  But on the other hand, even if Scarlett had somehow managed to learn the most private details of Isabel Wilcox’s life, Zack couldn’t imagine that she was that good an actress. And no killer he’d ever encountered had gone to such elaborate lengths to throw off suspicion, especially when, if she’d simply done nothing at all, no clues would have ever pointed her way.

  Still, the thought of explaining all this to Evelyn underscored yet again how insane the dead-soul theory was. Evelyn, a strong advocate of Occam’s razor—the simplest answer is always the best—might not think Scarlett was capable of murder, but she would never let him live it down if Zack confessed that on some small level, Kim’s theory was starting to resonate with him. Besides, CSI had combed through Scarlett’s house for any trace evidence connecting her to Isabel, and they had confiscated her computer and some notebooks. If Scarlett was guilty, they’d know soon enough.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Evelyn got up and wandered off, probably in search of one of the younger officers to terrorize. Zack shoved the files into his backpack. Tomorrow they’d have to let Scarlett go if they still didn’t have enough evidence to officially charge her with Isabel’s murder. Maybe a change of scenery would be good—help him see an angle he might not have otherwise. Either way, if he sat in this station much longer, he was going to lose his mind.

  * * *

  ZACK WAS JUST PUTTING the finishing touches on a simmering pot of puttanesca sauce, watching the Mariners game he’d taped the night before, when his doorbell rang. He wiped his hands on a towel and turned down the sound, then went to the door to find Kim Patterson huddled on his porch, without a jacket, in the chilly rain.

  “Hi,” she said in a small voice, not meeting his eyes. Even if she hadn’t been underdressed and freezing, her wet hair plastered to her neck, looking like a surprisingly attractive drowned rat, the way she uttered that single word made it clear that something was bothering the good doctor.

  “You’re not dressed for the weather,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I just spent eight years in Southern California. I’m not used to this.”

  “Is this some ploy to force me to let you in?”

  “Um, if I say yes, will you let me in anyway?” Her nose twitched, and she brightened a bit. “What is that incredible smell?”

  Zack rolled his eyes and stood aside to let her enter. She made a beeline for the kitchen like a hound tracking a scent, and appropriated a dish towel to dry her hair.

  “Don’t tell me you made this,” she said. “I haven’t eaten all day. Do you have a little Italian grandmother stashed somewhere around here?”

  As if on cue, a young woman’s voice called out from the other room, “Did you steal my razor again, Z, or have you switched to pink?”

  Kim shot Zack an apologetic look, realizing immediately that he wasn’t cooking for one. Before he could respond, Brielle wandered in. She was dressed in a paint-splattered old man’s shirt with the cuffs rolled up, her hair piled on top of her head. Her expression of surprise quickly turned sly. “Wow, Zacky,” she said, “you didn’t tell me a girl was coming over!”

  “My sister, Brielle,” Zack said. “We’re twins, believe it or not, despite her various deficiencies. Genetics—it’s a crap shoot.”

  “I love you too, baby brother,” Brielle said, extending her hand. “I’m three minutes older.”

  Kim shook hands, giving Brielle a shy once-over. Zack could guess what Kim was thinking: women were often intimidated by Brielle’s casual beauty, something he was pretty sure his sister wasn’t aware of—but about which he was in no rush to inform her. She was willowy and graceful, where he was muscular and forceful; she had wild dark ringlets down her back, where he kept his own hair cropped meticulously short. They shared the same wide, soft brown eyes, the sculpted chin, and cheekbones, but on her, they came together in effortless femininity.

  “I’m Kim Patterson,” Kim said at last. “Your, uh, brother is working on a case that involves a patient of mine.”

  “She’s a headshrinker,” Zack said, checking on the pasta. “Now, didn’t you have somewhere to be?”

  Brielle smiled, mischievously. “Oh, you want some privacy?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that, I just . . .” Zack stammered, causing Brielle’s smile to grow wider, until Kim saved him.

  “Do you live here, too?” Kim asked Brielle, looking around Zack’s spacious living room. He’d knocked out a few walls when he bought the place, keeping the original pine trim and painting it warm shades of ochre and red.

  “She has her own damn apartment in the back,” Zack said. “Though you wouldn’t know it since she spends all her time in here making a mess.”

  “I’m painting his study,” Brielle said. “In exchange for his cooking me dinner all week. Want to see?”

  “You were just leaving,” Zack said menacingly.

  Brielle sighed theatrically. “If you get bored, Kim, come on back, I’m in the guest room above the garage. I’ve got half a bottle of bourbon and I was going to watch Dirty Dancing.”

  “Now.”

  Brielle slugged her brother, a blow that glanced off his bicep with no more impact than a gnat, and let herself out.

  “She’s trying to squeeze me out,” Zack complained, picking up a hand-painted tray she’d given him for his last birthday and holding it as gingerly as if it was giving off deadly radiation. “Keeps leaving her shit everywhere.”

  “I take it you’ve never been married,” Kim said.

  “No, can’t say I have.” Zack felt his face grow warm. “So. What can I do for you? I guess you might as well join me, if you’re hungry.”

  “Well, after that heartfelt invitation, how could I possibly say no?”

  Zack dug his tongue in the side of his cheek before picking up a bottle of red wine. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  Kim shook her head playfully. “No, I couldn’t possibly.” She started to walk toward the door before turning back immediately. “Well, if you insist.”

  Five minutes later, Kim was seated across from him in a borrowed, oversized, but dry, button-down with a glass of red wine in hand.

  “I want you to help me research Scarlett’s alters,” Kim said. “I think they might hold the key to figuring out what happened to Isabel.”

  “That’s a huge leap. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re no longer treating her.” Holt’s friendship with Peter Hascall had come in handy—the man had confirmed that Kim was no longer Scarlett’s doctor, meaning she no longer had any right whatsoever to interfere with the investigation.

  “I mean, technically, no, but what I do on my own time is my business.”

  “Tell you what then, Nancy Drew, I made that from scratch,” he said, pointing to the food on her plate, “so why don’t you stop talking for a minute and try it.”

  Kim dug in and practically moaned with pleasure. Zack smiled in satisfaction. More than one woman had fallen for him thanks to his cooking. But he was well aware that Kim had a boyfriend already, a line that he’d never cross. Not to mention the fact that pursuing Kim would be thoroughly unprofessional.

  She was cute, though. Even with the rogue piece of fusilli poking out of the corner of her mouth.

  Talking around a mouthful, she asked, “How did you learn to do this?”

  Zack shrugged. “My dad was a good cook, at least when he was sober. He taught himself—he’d buy cookbooks at secondhand stores,
and he’d start with the first page and try every recipe until he got to the end.” He smiled fondly. “Cooking and football—that’s how we bonded. Until he died.”

  Kim’s gaze turned sympathetic—a look he hadn’t seen from her before. It changed her face, somehow. “It must have been awful for you and your sister—losing him.”

  “Yeah. Pretty much turned our world upside down.” He twisted his wineglass by the stem, swirling the contents thoughtfully in order to avoid her gaze. “I don’t want to give the wrong impression, though—Dad was a mess. He was in and out of trouble the whole time we were growing up. All minor stuff—check forgery, shoplifting, getting into bar fights—and he couldn’t keep a job, so we were constantly leaving one cheap-ass apartment for another when he got us thrown out. Honestly, life got a lot more stable after he was gone.”

  “Doesn’t take away from your loss.”

  Zack cleared his throat. “I had Holt—he and Dad had crossed paths more than a few times by then, and I guess Holt felt responsible. So he took in me and Brielle. It was easier with me than her, I think—he didn’t have any idea how to handle a teenage girl.”

  “So you became a sort of surrogate parent for her.”

  She was watching him carefully, her eyes narrowed and unblinking. Zack resisted the urge to fidget under her scrutiny. “Watch it, Doc, I’m not one of your patients.”

  “Sorry, I’m just curious. I promise, no . . . head shrinking.”

  Zack took a sip and regarded her thoughtfully. “I saw a counselor back then, you know,” he said. “Holt set it up. Guy he knew from the job. All he ever wanted to talk about was the trauma of Dad dying. And then I’d feel guilty if I had other things on my mind. Typical teen stuff, I guess, but I acted out a lot.”

  “So you were in trouble with the law,” Kim said. “But Holt was the law.”

  “Yeah.” Zack smiled at the memory. It wasn’t something he talked about often—but it seemed natural somehow to confide in Kim. Which probably made her a very good psychiatrist. Definitely something to watch out for.