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It’s going to feel like you were holding the knife as it slashed him open, and it will feel so good.
Shut. Up.
“I’ll do that, Tammy. Thank you. And please, call me Cat.”
She smiles at this invitation to familiarity. “Okay. Cat? Don’t let this lot upset you. They’re all just trying to get my attention. I’ll tell you a little secret. I’ve seen parts of Brenda’s story, and predictably, it is excellent writing, but lacking soul. The execution is there, but there’s none of the passion and wildness that I see in your work. She has, and will continue to, spend her career writing small. These retreats are an excellent way to cull the writers trying to get noticed who are in love with their own prose. Brenda has been doing this for a long time, and she hasn’t had any real success yet. You’re young. You’re supremely talented. You’re going to get pushback, so you might as well learn this lesson now: Be above it all. Don’t let them get to you. You will succeed where they fail.”
This can’t be real. Tammy Boone likes my work. Loves my work.
Don’t be an idiot. They pay her to say these things. She gives all of the students the same line.
Shut. Up.
Tammy has a benevolent smile. I’ve seen them before, from people who are genuinely good inside. There was a therapist, once, when I was young, who had that same shining light inside her. She probably saved my life. And now, in a similar vein, Tammy Boone is glowing like an angel and offering me a leg up.
“Um . . . thank you?”
“You’re welcome. So buck up. I guarantee we are going to see it all again tomorrow. This is what the first few days are like. You are a gladiator in the arena, and you are still standing.” She gives a symbolic thumbs-up. “Okay?”
Fine. She likes you. Smile pretty for her.
I am desperate to escape now, feeling the claustrophobia build, just me and Tammy Boone—and me! Don’t forget me!—talking about writing like this is any other day. Being encouraged like this is too much. I am absolutely going to take a pill the second I get back to the cabin. The psychotropics help dim the demon’s voice. They ruin the creative voice, as well, but I’d rather write shitty fiction than indulge the monster in my head. I can’t believe I’ve let him in while I’m here, of all places, of all times. Where I’ve gone to escape. Where I’ve gone to relax. To connect with my creativity, and finally, finally, write the book I’ve always dreamed of writing. I am here for two months, and damn it, I’m going to make this work if it kills me. I have so much to see. So much to do. I’ve been trying to get here for a long, long time.
The Brockville Writers’ Retreat almost guarantees a publishing contract when the query letter mentions a successful graduation. If you have to query at all—it’s well known that the retreat leaders often pass the favorites along directly to their own publishing teams. The deal announcements in the publishing trades read “a graduate of the Brockville Writers’ Retreat” as if the writer earned a double PhD inastrophysics and mythology from Harvard. I’m not going to screw this up, damn it. There is too much at stake.
I’ve wanted to be an artist since I could pick up a crayon and scribble on the thick art paper in my kindergarten class. A writer since I started making the dot above myia cheery little open circle. At first, the voices were plentiful, and I drew them on the page, skilled drawings for one so young. Then came the words, a torrent of imagination. My childish stories had many points of view, enough that they put me into the gifted-and-talented program at school. I thrived under the individualized attention of the teachers, but it was always a struggle to keep my mind under control. The voices, the characters, the points of view—they were all living in my head.
As I got older, many of those internal characters peeled off. My mind became inscrutable, even to me. It was cacophony, chaos, impossible. I stopped showing people my art, because the darkness of those bleak lines freaked people out. I remember once seeing Munch’sThe Screamand feeling at ease. This was me. I wasThe Screampersonified.
And then there was the horrible time when I lost my mother, which I never talk about.
After that, I had professional psychological help. A million meds, a million conversations. And eventually, I was left numbed and with only one extraneous voice. I hate him. He loves me in too many unhealthy ways to count. And we are stuck with one another.
I am twenty-nine years old, about to be divorced, having an early midlife crisis. I’ve cut my hair and run away to the Blue Ridge Mountains, to a small town in the middle of nowhere, to a retreat that might or might not help me get where I need my career to be, and I am already screwing it up. I don’t want to be on the radar; that woman, Brenda, sensed it and called me out at every chance. This kind of attention makes me uncomfortable. As if some people can see inside my mind, see the scrolling black circles that live there. As if they, too, can hear the voice.
My demon loves every minute of discord. He feeds on it. Stress makes it worse.
You know it, baby. Come to Papa.
I need my meds.
I leave the writing cabin and hurry toward mine. I will suck down a pill, drown the bastard out, take a walk, do my assignment, and all will be well. It has to be. I have nothing left.
Wednesday
Chapter Twelve
Halley
At 6:30 a.m., the FedEx truck rumbles into the drive. Halley, hair dripping and already fully caffeinated, signs for the package, then retreats to the kitchen and sets it on the table, trying to get up the courage to open the envelope. It is thick. Theo must have gotten some photos. It was bad enough reading the autopsy report. Will she be able to handle seeing her mother’s body cut open, reduced to the machine that houses the soul?
Part of her wants to walk away from this. Like her dad says, it’s a dangerous road, memory. But what sort of scientist would she be if she shied away when things got difficult?
This is your family.
That’s not enough of a deterrent. Her incessant curiosity is usually a help. Usually. Now, it’s going to get her in trouble. She can feel it like a breeze coming through the window.
The envelope opens. The pages spill out. Theo has been thorough. He’s contacted the Nashville homicide people and gotten more than he’d promised.
