Page 48 of The Hanging Dolls
“Back in the day, people got over world wars without therapy,” he grumbled. “And yet here I am.”
“People also got by without modern medicine and yet we use them. Now tell me, why are you here?”
“I’m sure you’re reading about what’s happening in this town.” He pulled at a thread on the orange couch.
“Yes.” She pressed her lips in a thin line. “I can’t imagine how traumatizing it must be for you. It must be reminding you of your late sisters. Are you hallucinating again?”
Travis looked up, his breath catching in his throat. They were standing behind Melissa like wraiths with empty eyes. When he blinked, they disappeared. “No. That time is behind me.”
“Are you still taking your medication?”
“I haven’t taken it in years. Don’t need it. I’m just on medication for my high blood pressure.”
“This case might open wounds that have healed. You might relapse.”
If Melissa knew that Travis was seeing his dead sisters standing behind her, she would prescribe him medication or worse, declare him unfit for duty. He couldn’t afford to sit at home. And nothing felt more imperative than untangling the mystery of his son. Despite the chaos that surrounded him at work, all the world’s problems dwarfed in front of his child. That was the curse of being a parent.
“That’s not the only reason I’m here.”
“Then what is it?”
“My son, Ryan.” His voice trembled. “I worry about him.”
“I remember you told me you always felt there was a distance between you two. Has something changed?”
He nodded. “He’s involved in something. He stays out all night and when he’s home he locks himself away in his bedroom. He doesn’t talk to me. I want to respect his privacy so I’ve been holding back on going through his stuff. But I called his school yesterday and they said he’s been ditching classes.”
Melissa nodded, sympathetically. “He’s seventeen years old, Travis. Teenage years can be very turbulent. Especially for someone who lost his mother at a young age. Have patience.”
“I don’t have patience, Doc.” His voice was laced with desperation. “If I ignore him… what if he… what if he’s on some wrong path?”
Melissa stared at him, puzzled. “Do you suspect something concrete?”
What if his darkness had spilled over into his child?
“No,” he lied.
“It’s possible that you’re deflecting.”
“Deflecting?”
“That the deaths of Lily and Tara are weighing so heavily on you that subconsciously your mind finds it easy to focus on Ryan.”
Travis turned her words around carefully. The pressure in his chest returned with full force. With trembling hands, he picked up a glass of water and guzzled it.
Melissa watched him warily. “Are you okay?”
“I just can’t talk about it. Not today.”
“Okay… not today.”
Scott knew he shouldn’t drink. He had worked too hard to give it up. But why were bad things so easy to give in to? Was he using the deaths of Lily and Tara as an excuse? Maybe ifhewas better, they would still be alive. The cab glided haphazardly through the winding, dirt roads of Harborwood.
There was an itch stuck in his throat. It scratched him every time he took a breath. Only one thing could make it better—that rich, smoky liquid with notes of oak and his damnation. He loosened his tie and clenched and unclenched his fists, suddenly clammy.
“You all right?” the cab driver asked, watching him squirm in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah,” he replied curtly, his hands finding a flask in the inside pocket of his coat. He weighed the empty leathery flask in the palm of his hand. It was his father’s flask—the only thing Scott had inherited from him other than a weakness for alcohol. He had kept it all this time.
