The Other: (A Psychological Thriller) Page 10

  She opened the website for the Salem newspaper, the Emerald State News, hoping to find a more in-depth piece about the governor’s decision. The lead story, written by Lexa Robbins, contained the same canned statement from the governor’s chief of staff but also quoted some of the protestors directly. Additionally, the reporter offered details about how the closure would affect families and their mentally ill loved ones. The last paragraph mentioned that a few demonstrators claimed that staff members had “allegedly” abused and raped patients, but the director had not responded to a request for more information.

  Well fuck. Disgust and anger urged Rox to her feet. That corroborated their client’s worries and intensified Rox’s own concern for the boy. On impulse, she called the hospital. The same young receptionist answered, so Rox pitched her naturally low voice higher to sound like her client. “This is Shay Wilmont. I need to know what’s happening with my nephew Logan. He was supposed to be transferred, but he’s not at Serenity House.” Rox cranked up phony exasperation. “Now I hear Mt. Angel isn’t going to shut down. What’s going on?”

  “The closure has been temporarily put on hold.” The statement sounded rehearsed, as though she’d repeated it a dozen times.

  “What about Logan? Is he staying—”

  The receptionist cut in. “Logan’s transfer had some complications, and we’re still trying to figure out what happened. But according to the latest note in Logan’s file, Director Strada wants him to stay here for now.”

  Why was the head of the hospital personally involved in the boy’s treatment? Maybe Logan’s mother had a connection to Strada. That would explain how she kept her son incarcerated, despite his lack of violence or self-harm.

  “Is that it, Ms. Wilmont? I need to take another call.” A weary note in the receptionist’s voice.

  Rox scrambled to think of what else she could ask. This might be her last chance for direct information. “What about visitation? Logan had been restricted, but I want to see him.”

  “You’ll have to talk to his doctor. I’ll transfer you to her voicemail.” Canned music blared and Rox hung up.

  She heard footsteps crossing the gravel between her and Marty’s patios and turned. “Hey, old man. I was just going to text you.”

  He stepped onto the concrete and handed her a beer. “A new development?”

  “Sort of. The hospital might not close, and Logan won’t be transferred in the near future.” Rox sipped the cold brew. “This is new. What is it?”

  “Blackhook.”

  “I like it.” She sat back down. “It’s dark and intense, kind of like my mood.”

  “You’re worried about getting inside the facility?” Marty sat too.

  “Hell yes. I’m also worried about what happens to Logan if we don’t succeed.” She turned her laptop to face her stepdad. “The Salem paper is reporting claims of abuse, including shock treatments as punishments.”

  “Huh.” Marty glanced at the article but didn’t read it. “This validates the aunt’s concerns. I’m relieved.”

  “Where the hell is she?” Rox made a face, her frustration mounting.

  Marty sipped his beer. “It’s only been twenty-four hours since you called her, and she might be having trouble getting information from the hospital.”

  “I just called Mt. Angel, pretending to be Shay, and they told me Logan is staying.” Rox caught Marty’s eye. “Because the director wants him to.”

  “You think the mother puts pressure on Strada?”

  “Or pays him.” More than ever, Rox wanted to see the hospital’s files. “I need to hire a hacker. Remember that girl we rescued from the prepper cult in Idaho? On the drive home I learned she has mad tech skills.”

  Marty waggled his wild eyebrows. “She’s too young and that could backfire badly.”

  “But I need access to patients’ files.” Rox stood and paced the kitchen, thinking about the news story she’d just read. “What if Logan is being sexually abused? According to that report, a former patient accused one of the orderlies of raping her.”

  Her stepdad was silent for a moment. “Is the patient mentally unstable?”

  “Really? You just assume the victim is lying or crazy?”

  “I didn’t assume anything.” Marty finished his beer. “And if you want to hire a real hacker, go ahead. But illegally obtained evidence won’t hold up in court.”

  “I’m not trying to convict anyone; I just want the truth.” Rox yanked her laptop back and opened Mt. Angel’s website. “Let’s plan an extraction and go get it done.”

  Marty gave her a cautionary look. “You mean, after we give ourselves a day or so to work out the details.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course. Do you have any new ideas?”

  “A few.” He gave her a sly smile. “One is pretty strange.”

  “Strange can work. What is it?”

  Marty leaned forward. “If we can get Shay to cooperate, we send her in with cockroaches, then show up later as exterminators.”

  Rox laughed. “I like the originality, but I’m skeptical about all of it.”

  Her stepdad scowled. “Be open-minded.”

  “Okay.” She took a long swallow of cold brew. “What else have you got?”

  “An unannounced safety inspection.”

  “I like it.” Rox tapped her keyboard to open a note file. “But that might require a lot of fake paperwork, and they could call the main administration office to confirm.”

  “I know. This is a tough one.” He rubbed his head. “Do you have a better idea?”

  She’d been thinking about it since yesterday’s failed attempt, and there weren’t any great options. “What about an electrical issue? We already have the uniforms and signs to stick on a van.”

  Marty raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Unless we can force a power outage, that may not work.”

  “So let’s knock out some power.”

  Chapter 20

  Sunday, October 14, 3:45 p.m., Salem

  Lexa searched online for an hour without finding a single detail about Shannon Wilmont. Or at least not a woman with that name who lived in Oregon. According to the high school friend, Shannon had withdrawn after her husband divorced her, so Lexa wasn’t too surprised to come up empty. She’d already hit a dead end with Shannon Goyer, except for the partial LinkedIn profile, so Lexa didn’t bother to try the maiden name again. Why had Shannon used it on LinkedIn instead of her married name? For the privacy? If so, why get on LinkedIn in the first place?

  Lexa checked Shannon’s LinkedIn contacts and discovered they were all artists. Maybe Shannon was in the arts as well and had considered selling her work on the internet. Or maybe she’d applied for a grant and needed a social media presence. None of it mattered if Lexa couldn’t find her. Or if Shannon refused to talk to her when she did.

  Still, the LinkedIn page listed her address as Canby, and Jill Palmer owned property in Canby, so maybe Shannon lived in her sister’s second home. Maybe Jill and her husband had taken Shannon in when she got divorced, then let her stay in the Canby house when Blake Palmer was elected governor and the couple had moved to the capital. Total speculation! But that’s how she found leads to follow and questions to ask.

  Lexa stood, her body ready to get moving. She couldn’t go home though. Kiona had texted again, but she wasn’t ready to deal with him. Not until she made up her mind about their relationship. Canby wasn’t that far. Even if she struck out, it would only be an hour wasted.

  As she drove north, the seemingly endless blue sky they’d had for months darkened, and the temperature dropped. Suddenly cold, she shut off the AC, and cranked up the music. The trip was a long shot, but it could also turn into a goldmine of information. At one point, Lexa checked her rearview mirror and thought she saw Kiona’s jeep behind her on the freeway. Why would he follow her? He’d acted jealous and suspicious before, but nothing too crazy. Lexa focused on the road. She wasn’t going to think about him right now. She was working and needed
to practice her questions. But what if Kiona interfered with her interview? She couldn’t let that happen.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror again, but didn’t see the jeep this time. He probably wasn’t back there, but she would watch for him when she turned off the freeway. If she had to, she could make unexpected maneuvers to lose him. The thought made her smile. She was turning into a real investigator.

  By the time she found the remote home—with no help from a GPS app that almost drove her into a huge pond—the day had grown dark and her stomach was growling. Lexa ignored both and climbed from her car. For a moment, she took in the house and its stark but beautiful setting. Crafted from huge dark stones, the home sat at the end of a long driveway. Maple trees, with leaves just starting to yellow, dotted the property. The front windows in the single-story building were dark, covered by a thick drape. The property also had a separate garage and overgrown landscaping. No cars were in sight, but a light was on.

  Lexa glanced at her list of questions, checked to ensure that her recorder was working, and strode toward the dark wooden door. She rang the bell, feeling nervous. After a long wait, a voice called from inside, “Go away! This is private property. Didn’t you see the No Solicitors sign?”

  Had she missed it somewhere on the driveway? “I’m a reporter with Emerald State News. Are you Shannon Wilmont?”

  A long silence, then the door opened a crack. A vertical section of a woman’s face appeared. “What do you want with me?” She looked forty-something and had a strip of auburn hair showing.

  Lexa gave her best smile. “I’m writing a profile about your sister Jill, the governor. I’m hoping to learn something new about her.”

  “I have nothing to say.” The door started to close.

  No! She couldn’t let that happen. “I’m interested in you as well,” Lexa pleaded. What could she say to hook this woman? She went for a long shot. “Will you show me your art?”

  Shannon’s eyes blinked in surprise. “Seriously? No one has ever asked me that before.”

  “I love art.” If it was pretty and not that weird abstract stuff. “Can I come in?”

  The woman shuffled her feet as she tried to make up her mind. “Only for a minute.” She reluctantly opened the door.

  Lexa stepped in and was hit with a heavy musty odor. The place looked tidy enough, with chairs tucked under the kitchen table and no obvious debris or clutter. But artist tools lay on a corner chair, and ugly ceramic bowls took up space everywhere. By the smell, Lexa assumed no one had deep-cleaned in a long time.

  Shannon shuffled into the middle of the room.

  “Are you hurt?” Lexa asked.”

  “I have chronic pain from fibromyalgia.” She sounded weary. The woman picked up a bright grass-green bowl with leaf imprints. “This one is my favorite.”

  “Beautiful,” Lexa lied. She stared at Shannon, realizing she looked like her sister Jill, but older and with less makeup. Also her hair hung limply, and the big glasses made her seem owlish. Lexa imagined the two girls in high school—with Jill being prettier and more vibrant. Probably more popular too. Lexa felt sorry for Shannon. The woman hadn’t been able to have children either.

  She spent a few minutes looking at bowls, then asked about other artwork. Shannon pointed to the paintings on the living room walls—all drab landscapes. Lexa pretended to admire them. Finally she said, “A friend of yours has been worried about you because you stopped contacting her.”

  “Who?”

  “Heather Dobbs.”

  “Oh her. She’s annoying. Who needs high school friends?” Shannon was too flippant to be sincere.

  Good, Lexa thought. That way the next question couldn’t ruin their nonexistent relationship. “Heather also said you wanted to have a baby and couldn’t. Is that why you became a recluse?”

  Shannon’s eyes pinched with pain. “So much happened that you’ll never know. But yes, I wanted a baby. I even spent my inheritance on in-vitro treatments at the Hopewell fertility clinic.” Bitterness oozed from her voice. “Cat had success, of course, and I didn’t. The story of our lives.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lexa wanted clarification on so many issues. “Who is Cat?”

  “That’s Jill’s childhood nickname. I’ve never stopped using it.”

  A soft thump in a back room surprised Lexa. “Is someone else here?”

  Shannon let out a strange laugh. “I’m sure it’s just the cat.”

  Lexa wanted to run from the cold musty house and this sad bitter woman, but reporter’s curiosity made her stay. “I’ve noticed that the governor’s child is never photographed or talked about. What can you tell me about him?”

  Shannon’s eyes blazed. “He needs to be protected from people like you.” Her tone was venomous. “My sister won’t like you talking about the boy. You’d better be careful.”

  Startled, Lexa drew back.

  “That’s right. You need to leave. I shouldn’t have let you in.”

  Lexa thanked her and bolted for the door. In her car, she made notes. Gov’s childhood nickname is Cat. Check birth records. Check Hopewell fertility clinic. Get JKS to hack records?

  She started her car, anxious to leave. She would record the rest of her observations verbally as she drove away.

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday, October 16, 6:15 p.m., Portland

  Rox pulled the purple dress from the closet and laid it on the bed. Kyle would be so surprised. He knew she’d bought it during the magnet treatments, with him in mind, but she’d never worn it—because he’d ended their relationship when her personality began to change. She’d thought the differences had been a subtle improvement, but he’d begun to doubt that he could trust her. Yes, she had withheld information from him, just so he didn’t have to arrest her. But deception was part of her job. Just as it was part of his. Detectives lied to the public as well as to suspects.

  Kyle had eventually recognized that and come back around to admitting that he needed her in his life. Rox enjoyed his company and even loved him in her own way, but she didn’t exactly need him. She would never tell him though.

  She took off her sky-blue T-shirt and reached for the dress. A shiver of anxiety rippled up her spine. Ignore it! She pulled the dress over her head and snugged it into place, then turned and observed her image in the mirror. The plum color was lovely and the drop-waist design flattered her long body.

  But she didn’t look like herself. Or feel like herself. She sometimes wore a wig and phony glasses when she conducted in-person research, like she’d done at Mt. Angel, but that was putting on another character. Somehow, it was easier than violating her color scheme. Just stop looking! This was for Kyle. She pivoted away from the mirror, moved to the closet, and searched for the right accessories. Damn. She had cobalt-blue pumps and black strappy heels, and that was it for dress shoes. She grabbed the black ones, sat on her bed, and pulled them on.

  As she walked out of the room, she caught sight of herself and froze. She couldn’t do this. It was like wearing someone else’s skin. Rox yanked off the dress as she headed back to the closet. After changing into cobalt blue, she felt her shoulders relax. Maybe she should just give the damn purple thing away and stop pressuring herself to be normal. The effect of the treatment was clearly wearing off—except for the side effects. She’d experienced a bad headache that morning for the first time in days and was a little worried. Mostly because she and Marty had the extraction planned for the next day. What if she was in too much pain to function?

  Oh hell. Maybe she should have filled that prescription. But the medication was intended to prevent seizures, not headaches, so it might not make any difference. Rox shook off the negativity and headed for the door. A date with Kyle usually meant great sex, and she was looking forward to that. It might even cure her headache.

  As she drove toward their favorite Thai restaurant, Kyle called. She put in her earpiece and said, “Let me guess, you’re gonna be late.” As a former cop herself, she tried to cut
him slack on his tardiness.

  “I’m not sure I can make it at all. I’m working a new homicide.”

  He often was. “But you have to eat, and you’re only a few blocks from the restaurant.” Pleading? How lonely had she been?

  “Actually, I’m driving to the bureau now. I’ve been out at the scene for hours.”

  “I can wait or meet you somewhere.” She wanted to see him, even without the sex. She also missed real investigative work and loved hearing about his cases.

  “All right. I’m ready for a break. Let’s grab some pizza at the Hut in the Powell Street Station. I can be there in fifteen minutes. You call in the order.” Kyle sounded relieved.

  “Will do.” Disappointed to miss the beef stir-fry she’d been craving, she was grateful Kyle had suggested pizza as a backup—one of the few restaurant foods she would eat.

  “See you soon.” He hung up.

  Rox pulled into a bank parking lot, looked up the restaurant’s phone number, and ordered a large pepperoni, with sausage added on Kyle’s half.

  Twenty minutes later she was seated in a Pizza Hut, watching an unsmiling young man bring the pie to the table. Kyle hurried in soon after. Three inches taller than her, Kyle towered over everyone standing near the counter. His squarish handsome face held a grim expression—until he noticed her. He didn’t exactly smile, but she read pleasure in his eyes as he sat down. For a cop, it was the best he could do while on the job, especially in public. In bed, he was passionate and verbally affectionate, almost like another person. Rox suspected those moments were what kept her bonded to him.

  Before he sat down, Kyle squeezed her shoulder, a gesture that surprised her.

  “Are you okay?” Rox knew crime scenes could be hard to take.

  “I’m better now, seeing you. Thanks for getting me away from the homicide for a moment.”