The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [157]
He nodded, unmistakably baffled but without the distrust and resentment he’d had before. Now the confusion was mixed with deep concern. “Sophia. That’s her name. How do you know he called her that?”
“I saw them. In the gazebo. In a dream. That’s how I know that he wants me to set him free . . . except I think I’m going insane.” Tears welled and slipped one at a time down her cheeks. “My mother’s aunt, Betsy Marie, heard voices. And she talked back to them. She used to sit in corners and have long conversations with herself.”
“Shhh. Here, let’s sit.”
“I haven’t slept well in months . . . then when I did, in the gazebo, I finished an entire storyboard. In my sleep, Craig. In my sleep! And did I tell you I know things? Things I have no way of knowing?”
“Oh God, here we go again. Take deep breaths. Slow, in and out. I’ll get Wanda—”
“No.” She reached out and held his face with her hands. She sniffed and closed her eyes, squeezed the remaining tears out, and released him long enough to brush them away before making contact again—on either side of his neck below his ears. The scruff of his beard was natural and grounding. “I’m fine. I promise. Physically, I’m fine. Mentally . . .” She took a moment to search his eyes with hers. They were patient, not scattered ; curious, not critical; caring—and that’s what she needed. “I don’t know. I see it. I see that there’s every outward indication that I’m certifiable, but I don’t feel it. Inside, I don’t feel it. Confused? Yes. Terrified? Yes. Delusional? Probably, but when I hear or see or know something I have no way of knowing, I’m as certain about it as I am of being here with you now.” She paused. “That sounds like a textbook definition of delusional . . . and the cliff path is still a puzzle to me because I walked it, I did, half a dozen times or more, but it doesn’t exist.” She lowered her hands reluctantly from his neck to her lap and bowed her head. “I guess I am insane.”
“No. We’ll figure—”
Help me. Tell him.
“Oh, for crying out loud, tell him what?” she cried out to the ceiling, hands pleading. “I’ve told him everything I can think of.” She glanced at Craig and assessed the shock in his face. It was amazingly mild. With a defeated sigh, she decided: in for a penny . . . “I also hear voices. Inside my head.”
He didn’t break eye contact with her. “Tell me about them. What do they say to you?”
“Not them. Him. He says, ‘Help me, tell him, free me.’ Sometimes he gets a little . . . snide with sarcastic remarks.”
Who, me?
“He wants you to tell me something?”
“I guess. Or Gus. You’re the only two ‘hims’ I’ve seen since he started talking.”
“And this has all started since you got here? The seeing things and the voice?”
Tell him. Tell him about the dream.
“What is it?” he asked, noting the expression on her face—it begged forgiveness for what she was about to say.
“I told you about the dream of your parents, in the gazebo?” He nodded. “There was a little boy there with them—blond, freckles across his nose—it’s him. The voice is his.”
“Oliver.” The name came on a whispered breath. She nodded, though she would have given anything to save him the pain.
“I’m so sorry.”
He leaned back into the couch beside her and laced his fingers in his lap, pondering the possibilities. He wasn’t yelling at her to leave or glowering with fury—she let hope take root.
After a few minutes, he said, “What are you supposed to tell me?”
“About the dream, I guess. That’s all he’s told−”
The other dream. The other dream.
“The falling one?”
“What?”
“I think he wants me to tell you about a different dream. I’ve been having it for months. Long before I got here.”
“He’s talking to you now? This moment?”
She gestured yes.
“Can he hear what we’re saying?”
“I guess. He sounds annoyed that I’m not telling you what he wants you to know.” She didn’t hesitate to add, “It wouldn’t kill him to be more specific.”
She heard