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“I said I’m sorry. Look. I’ll make it up to you. Double sessions next week. We’ll work through this.”
Bell shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brendan.” She looked down at the counter. “I’ll give you the names of some other therapists.” Then she looked him in the eye. “I’m officially firing myself.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I’m sorry. I just did. It’s for the best.”
Bell had turned cold and matter-of-fact, like Holmes had never seen her before. She picked up her cell phone. “Can I call a wrecker to pull your vehicle out of the snowbank? I know a guy in town.”
Holmes yanked his phone out of his pocket. “Don’t bother. Poe can tow me. He just bought a goddamn monster truck.” He tapped in the contact number.
As he waited for Poe to pick up, Holmes slumped back against the countertop. He felt defeated and embarrassed—but mostly angry.
Now he had two more people to be mad at. Dr. Alicia Bell. And himself.
CHAPTER 35
IT WAS 2:00 a.m. when Auguste Poe slogged his way up the stairs to the lodge’s second floor. Margaret Marple and Brendan Holmes had already retreated to their separate bedrooms. Virginia and Helene Grey had turned in long ago. He was the last one stirring.
It had been a fruitless night of research with Marple. They were all dreading the return of the FBI team in the morning, with the inevitable finger-pointing and I-told-you-so’s. All Poe wanted now was a couple of hours of rest in a comfortable bed. He was hoping Helene wouldn’t toss and turn too much.
He pulled off his boots outside the bedroom door and set them down softly. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it as gently as he could, then pushed the door open and tiptoed inside in his stockinged feet.
The bedside lamp clicked on. Grey sat up in bed.
“Sorry, sorry,” said Poe in a whisper. “I was trying not to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” said Grey. “I was waiting.”
“Tonight’s research was a waste of time,” said Poe. “A real clusterfuck.”
“I know. I ran into Margaret earlier.”
“Sorry I didn’t come to bed. I tried to do some more digging solo and then I dozed off.”
Poe pulled off his sweater and unbuckled his belt. He sat on a chair and pulled off his socks. That’s when he noticed that Grey was holding something in her lap.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You tell me.” Grey slowly lifted a three-by-five-inch color photograph and held it out at arm’s length. “I was looking for a Tylenol in your dresser. I found this instead.”
The photo was a studio portrait of a woman in her twenties. Dark hair, pale complexion. Very pretty.
Poe slumped back in the chair. “That’s Annie.”
“I know who it is,” said Helene. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. My question is, why is it here—in our bedroom? Did you bring it from New York?”
Poe lowered his eyes. Of course he did. He’d carried that picture with him for over a decade. Ever since the night…
“Auguste! You cannot let her memory keep haunting you! I’m carrying your babies. Our babies. You have a chance for a whole new life. With me. With our children. But not unless you let go of the past!”
“Annie’s been dead for ten years,” said Poe numbly. “She’s gone.”
Helene lowered the photo. “Is she? Have you ever really put her to rest? You never talk about her, but I get the feeling that somehow she’s still in the way.”
“She’s not,” said Poe.
“Auguste, look—it’s hard enough trying to decipher your relationships with Brendan and Margaret. You three are like some kind of secret society, and I know I’ll never be on the inside of that. I’m not sure I want to be. But I sure as hell can’t compete with a beautiful ghost.”
