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Caroline is confused. “Who?”
“The woman murdered in my cottage. In the 1940s. What if Teddy goes into his bedroom for Quiet Time and communicates with her spirit?”
Ted laughs like I’ve made a joke—and Caroline shoots another angry look in his direction. “What, seriously? You mean like a ghost?”
There’s no turning back now. I need to outline my case: “The names are so similar. Annie and Anya. Plus, you said that Teddy never liked to draw in Barcelona. But as soon as you moved back to the United States—as soon as you moved onto this property—where Annie Barrett disappeared—he started drawing like crazy. Those were your exact words: ‘like crazy.’”
“I just meant he has an active imagination.”
“But he’s talking to someone. In his bedroom. I stand at his door listening, and he’s having long conversations.”
Caroline narrows her eyes. “Do you hear the ghost, too? Do you hear the sad baleful voice of Annie Barrett giving art direction to my son?” I admit that I don’t, and Caroline reacts like this proves something. “Because he’s talking to himself, Mallory. It’s a sign of intelligence. Gifted children do it all the time.”
“But what about his other problems?”
“Problems? Teddy has problems?”
“He wets his bed. He wears the same striped shirt every day. He refuses to play with other children. And now he’s drawing pictures of a woman getting murdered. You add all that up, Caroline, I don’t know. I’m worried. I think he should see a doctor.”
“I am a doctor,” Caroline says, and all-too-late I realize I’ve struck a nerve.
Ted reaches for her wineglass and fills it.
“Honey, here.”
She waves it off. “I am fully capable of assessing my child’s mental health.”
“I know—”
“Really? You don’t sound like you do.”
“I’m just worried. Teddy is such a sweet, gentle, innocent boy. But these drawings feel like they’re coming from a different place. They feel dirty to me. Impure. Mitzi thinks—”
“Mitzi? You showed these pictures to Mitzi?”
“She thinks maybe you disturbed something. When you renovated the guest cottage.”
“You talked to Mitzi before you came to us?”
“Because I knew you would react this way!”
“If you mean rationally, then yes, you’re right, I don’t believe a word that woman says. Neither should you. She’s a burnout, Mallory. She’s a drugged-up, fucked-up mess!”
And the words just hang between us. I’ve never heard Caroline swear before. I’ve never heard her use this kind of language to describe an addict.
“Look,” Ted says. “We appreciate your concern, Mallory.” He rests a hand on his wife’s knee. “Don’t we, hon? We’re big believers in honest communication.”
“But we will not blame Teddy’s bedwetting on ghosts,” Caroline says. “You understand that, right? The state would take away my license. Bedwetting is normal. Being shy is normal. Having a pretend playmate is normal. And these pictures—”
“Mommy?”
We all turn and there’s Teddy—standing on the far side of the pool fence, dressed in his fire truck pajamas and holding his Godzilla doll. I have no idea how long he’s been waiting or how much he’s heard.
“I can’t fall asleep.”
“Go back to your room and try again,” Caroline says.
“It’s late, big guy,” Ted says.
