Page 70 of Lovely Darkness

If those little killers exist, wouldn’t it be better to know about it?

This is where I’m at when Cerene reports, “Everything’s normal.” She jots something down on Donovan’s chart and hangs it on a clip at the foot of his bed. “Do you mind if I take a break?”

I shrug. “No. I guess not.”

“I’ll just be in the kitchen. I have a couple phone calls to make. I was supposed to be off this coming weekend, but…” She sighs. “You guys showed up. Doc sometimes forgets that we have lives.”

Her comment is a little bit snide and I’m not sure what to say in response. She might actually be fishing for an apology, but I’m not in charge of her schedule, so why should I feel guilty about her personal life?

After a few silent seconds she must figure I’m not going to respond, so she just walks across the room and exits via the back breezeway.

I turn back to the window, but Sasha and Maggie are gone. It takes me a moment of searching through the large gardens to find Sasha’s bobbing head as she walks along the paths.

Indie grew up here and she never went to school.

This does not make me feel better about my decisions. Maybe I don’t know much about her, but if Nick was telling the truth, she’s a disaster waiting to happen.

And she mostly looks normal when you first see her. There is nothing too crazy on the outside. No real tells. She has some tattoos, so that makes her a certain kind of person. But so many people have tattoos these days, it’s not really a reliable indicator of personality.

Still, I can see a little something in her eyes. That’s where the crazy leaks out.

And look at this place. It’s very nice. And she had three people around her growing up. One to protect her, one to train her, one to keep her sane.

My girls only had me and Syd.

But there’s a real difference there, isn’t there?

Sydney is the difference.

My kids had a traditional family.

Will it be enough to overcome their genetic dispositions?

One can hope.

I sigh and turn away from the window, forcing myself to put the girls out of my mind and focus on the man who has the answers.

Donovan.

Or Carter.

I’ve never dealt with a real double personality. They have a new psychobabble name for this condition these days, but I’m not really a psychiatrist, so I don’t keep up with the politically correct lingo. And while I was a little bit intrigued about doing another job after all these years, that sense of excitement has worn off over the past couple days.

There’s a part of me that can’t believe I actually started to miss this shit. It’s nothing but stress. Why would anyone want to live this way?

Out of habit, and not really out of curiosity, I pick up Donovan’s chart and flip to the last page, which would be the first time Doc saw him. It was over a month ago now.

There was the initial exploratory surgery, blood tests to find the metabolites of whatever drug was in that dart gun cartridge, an EEG and an EKG to check his brain and heart, and, of course, the cocktail to keep him under. It’s all very normal-ish. Until I see the note at the bottom which says, Woke up, spoke for three minutes, drifted away. See recording.

What recording?

I flip through the chart looking for a pocket that holds a little jump drive, but whatever recording is being referred to, it’s not here. I put the chart back, leave the room via the back breezeway, and enter the kitchen where Cerene is on the phone discussing something or other. She sees me, puts up a finger, then says, “Can you hold for a moment? Thank you.” She mutes her phone and smiles at me. “Do you need something?”

“Yeah. In the chart, there’s an entry from the first day that says there was a recording? Do you know where that is?”

“Check Doc’s office. I bet it’s in there.” Then she smiles—a little too big, which is code for, Go away now—and unmutes her phone to resume her conversation.

I take the hint and leave, heading even further towards the far side of the house where Doc’s office is. He took me in here that first night when he went over Donovan’s case. I’m not sure he wants me snooping around, but when I turn the door handle, it’s not locked, so… I go in.