Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [72]
Amanda, she knew.
Knew what?
She never dyed her hair. Never wore a scrap of makeup. But vain, regardless.
Vain about what?
A seducer. Not for sex. Secrets. She knew everything. I never figured out how. A dangerous woman.
Yes, I can see that. I can indeed. Would you like some water? Here let me pour you some—and here is a straw so you can drink. That’s right. Don’t strain, I’ll hold it.
I am . . .
Yes?
Frightened.
Yes.
What will happen next?
You will be examined. Declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. The judge will dismiss the case on the condition that you are committed to a state facility. Where you will likely end your days.
What are the alternatives?
Her face is becoming clearer. Not a ghoul at all. A plain, doglike face. A face you can count on.
Untie me?
I believe I will. I believe you are calm enough. Here—and I feel the pressure around my arms, then legs, slacken. I pull myself up to a sitting position in the bed, drink some more water. Feel the blood start flowing back into me.
Yes. My illness is getting worse.
And it will get worse still.
The woman is silent for a moment. Then, I want to know why Amanda died, she says.
I believe I could. Kill. There is that in me.
Yes. There is that in many people. I have a recurring dream that I have killed my sister. I am overcome by shame. And afraid. Not of the punishment. Of having people know what I really am. I think that’s why I became a cop. As if the trappings of good would keep me safe from that nightmare.
I pause and try to clear the thickness from my throat. It is hard to talk.
The knife in my hand always felt right. The first incision, to get inside the body, that playground beneath the flesh. But those guidelines. To know what is acceptable. Stay within parameters.
The woman stands up, stretches, sits down again.
Jennifer. I want you to help me.
How?
You know something. I want you to try. She takes the plastic bag away from me, holds it up. Do you recognize this? A Saint Christopher’s medal. With your initials engraved on the back. Can you think of any reason Amanda’s blood would be on that medal?
No.
Did you wear the medal?
Sometimes. As a reminder. A talisman.
And do you have any ideas about who killed Amanda?
I have ideas.
The woman leaned forward.
Are you protecting anyone? Jennifer, look at me.
No. No. It’s better this way.
The woman opens her mouth to talk, then looks hard at my face. What she sees there convinces her of something. She lays her hand on mine before she leaves.
I am sitting in the great room. Although there are clusters of other residents in the vicinity, I am alone. I want to be left alone. I have much to think about. Much to plan.
The door to the outside world buzzes, and a woman enters. Tall, brown hair cut smartly to her jawbone, carrying a suitcase made of buttery leather. She comes straight over to me, holds out her hand to be shaken. Jennifer, she says.
Do I know you? I ask.
I’m your attorney, she says.
Is this about our wills? I ask. James and I just redid them. They’re in the safe-deposit box.
No, she says. This is not about your will. Can we move over here? Good. Let me help you. Much better.
Dog trots over, settles himself at my feet.
How cute. Look how he loves you. She makes herself comfortable in her seat, sets her briefcase on her lap, and opens it up. This is not a happy visit, I’m afraid. It’s about your being a so-called person of interest to the police in an investigation. I have some bad news. The DA’s office has decided to charge you. In one sense, this is just a formality. You will be examined, be found mentally incompetent.
None of this makes sense, but her face is serious, so I make mine serious too.
The bad news is you won’t be able to stay here after that. You’ll be committed to a state hospital. I’m trying to get you into Eglin Mental Health Center here in the city. But the DA is pushing for the Retesch facility downstate, which is substantially more restrictive.
She stops, looks at me. I don’t believe much of this is getting in.