The Girl from Widow Hills Page 10

“I know how it is here,” he said with a tight smile. “After hours is when the work really begins, am I right?”

“Partly.” But I had managed to keep up just fine to this point. That was the work culture at a place like this. Each of us putting in the extra hours, here and at home—a shared exhaustion that bound us together. Even though I was in a different department, it permeated everything. They had their patient appointments, I had the administrative meetings; and after, we did the paperwork or the research or the list of obligations that had to be fulfilled one way or another. We were in it together, and it kept us all afloat.

“The older I get, the harder it is to sustain,” he added, though I was guessing he was somewhere in his thirties, and he seemed to be holding everything together just fine. “You’ve got to make sure you’re putting yourself first. Carve out rest. Stick to healthy patterns. Eat well. Exercise.”

I let out a small laugh, and he genuinely smiled, like he was pleased with himself for successfully cracking through my surface. But the truth was, I hadn’t noticed the creeping exhaustion, the lack of nutrition or energy, until he started tallying it off. I felt the inadequacies all rising to the surface under his gaze. All the things I wasn’t doing to keep myself healthy. The caffeine in place of calcium, potential weak spots in my bones. The quick meals on the go. The bags of chips I grabbed from the cafeteria instead of the apple. Layers of stress piling on top of one another, my body rebelling. The simplest things.

Still. “I was hoping for something a little more concrete and attainable,” I said. Not a change yourself, change your life mantra.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair, getting comfortable. “Usually, I’d like to run some tests before prescribing something. Especially since you’re not sure of your medical history. We could try to track down your old records to get a better idea of a previous diagnosis, but even then . . .”

I was already shaking my head, and he stopped talking. “It was so long ago,” I said. Twenty years since the sleepwalking; ten years since the last therapist.

He blinked slowly. “Well,” he continued, “either way, it’s not as simple as taking a pill. We’d want to get to the root of things, the underlying cause. Find any stressors, make lifestyle adjustments. See if we can’t manage this without pharmaceutical intervention, which can have its own list of side effects. Make sure you really are sleepwalking and not, say, having a seizure.” He scanned the paper in his lap, as if looking for answers hidden under my words.

“I woke up outside,” I snapped. “My neighbor found me.”

He looked up from the pad of paper on his lap, eyes wide and jaw tensed. The first true sign of emotion. Of excitement. A peek behind the curtain.

“You live alone?” he asked.

This was more information than I generally liked to disclose to a sociopath. “Would that change the diagnosis?”

“It’s important to educate the people around you.” He clicked the top of his pen, once, twice. “I’d like to do a sleep study.”

“You want to watch me sleep.”

“Not just me.”

“That’s not better.”

“You’re funny.” He didn’t laugh.

“Thing is, I don’t really have time for that,” I said, deflecting. “As I’m sure you can relate.” I also worried I would be a guinea pig. Something to pad his bottom line. Prove his worth at a new place.

He leaned forward again, clasped his hands together, then placed them on his knees. “All right,” he said. “Let’s talk again after the weekend.” Then he pushed himself to standing, strode past me, cracked the door. The receptionist looked up from her desk, where she’d been waiting for us to finish so she could finally leave for the day. “Jessie?” he called. “Let’s get Olivia on the schedule for later next week.”

I stood, effectively being dismissed. “And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, I want you to document your sleep. When you go to bed each night, when you wake. Any incidents. And if so, what you were doing in the lead-up to them. What time of night they’re occurring. Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll figure it out.”

He put a hand on my shoulder, caught my eye, smiled reassuringly.

Up close, I noticed a nick on the underside of his jaw. A crumb on his collar. I started a tally, smiling back.

TRANSCRIPT FROM SPECIAL REPORT WITH SALLY HOLMES AND GUEST LOU JORDAN, CIVIL ENGINEER

OCTOBER 19, 2000

 

SALLY HOLMES: Tell us about the drainage pipes that everyone’s been talking about.

LOU JORDAN: Right. Well, the county drainage system all flows south. If she entered, as they believe, where there was a missing grate at the northern access point below the town center, there are four different forks farther south, depending on the water flow.

SH: It’s my understanding that they found her shoe near the access point. If she got swept down into the pipes, would there be any air down there?

LJ: During the surge, no. The pipes were likely flowing at full capacity. All water, no air. But there are access points above. Twenty-three different input locations, and if the water was high enough, it could hypothetically bring you close.

SH: So you’re saying she could have made it to one of these locations?

LJ: [Pause.] There’s always a possibility. But then what? The access points should all be sealed iron grates. And when the water recedes, she would drop back down with the water level.

SH: And it’s going to rain again.

LJ: Yes, it’s going to rain again tonight.

SH: Is there a chance she’s still alive in those pipes?

LJ: That’s not for me to say. I’m just an engineer.

SH: Well, as an engineer who designs these systems, what would you be doing right now? Would you be draining them?

LJ: There’s no way to do that in time for the next rain. Me? I would be searching. I would pray to God I found her before nightfall.

CHAPTER 6

 

Friday, 7:30 p.m.


ELYSE AND BENNETT WERE already at the bar, though at first I could only see Elyse.

She was leaning half across the bar top, in a green shirt that somehow caught the dim light, gesturing to the bartender, who was already smiling and walking toward her.

She had that effect on people. Even Bennett. Even though he found her too happy, or too loud, too herself. Impossible to embarrass, or entirely unself-aware. I knew he enjoyed her company, despite himself. She had dark hair that was halfway between wavy and curly, and the only time she wasn’t waging battle with it, pushing it out of her face or tucking it behind her ears, was when it was tied up in a messy ponytail on top of her head. She never seemed quite put together, and there was a certain charm in that.

“See?” Elyse said, turning to Bennett. “I told you. She always comes.”

Bennett pressed his lips together and looked away, as if embarrassed to be caught talking about me. Elyse technically reported to him, since he scheduled the nurses’ shifts, and he seemed to always be trying to maintain some semblance of a professional distance with her.

“I was just saying,” he said, picking up his half-empty beer. “What? You were late.”

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