Chapter 47

Thursday, April 25

Holly is clear with Walter as soon as she steps into his home. “I didn’t come to talk this morning,” she says as she wraps his bony frame in a gentle hug.

“You prefer semaphore now?” he asks as soon as they separate, moving his arms as if using imaginary flags to communicate.

She grins. “I mean I’m not here for heavy discussions about death. Or divorce. Or professional disgrace.” What she doesn’t say is that his proximity alone is enough to make her feel more grounded. Safer.

But Walter’s spark is back, and he isn’t willing to leave it at that. “Don’t be boring, Koala. I can talk about the weather with the few nearly dead friends I have left. Tell me what’s going on with this volatile tribe of yours. And the police investigation.”

Holly provides a sanitized update. She leaves out any mention of having questioned her clients while under the influence of ketamine, wondering if she’s doing so more to protect his feelings or to shield herself from his disappointment.

After she finishes, Walter stares in disbelief. “This psychologist was blackmailing her own patients?”

“Apparently.”

“You could probably stand to tighten your client-vetting process a notch or two.”

Holly can only laugh. “No kidding. It never occurred to me to look into Liisa’s background.”

“What do the police think?”

“I haven’t heard from the detective since I left his office yesterday. To be honest, I get the feeling he’s sick of me and my off-the-wall theories.”

“Are they? Off-the-wall?”

She sighs. “Aaron seems to think so.”

“Does his opinion matter that much?”

“It does to me, Papa. Yes.”

“You’ve always known your own mind. Since you were this tall.” He levels a hand with the height of the table. “What do you think, Koala?”

“Look, it could all be unrelated.”

He eyes her without comment.

“An opioid user relapses and overdoses,” she continues. “That happens all the time. An alcoholic falls off the wagon, gets incredibly drunk, and rashly decides to jump off her balcony. She certainly wouldn’t be the first. And an unethical psychologist takes her bitterness and jealousy over her professional downfall out on another colleague by trying to prejudice a few patients. That one actually makes some twisted sense.”

Walter views her for a long moment. “All in the same group. Do you believe in coincidences that large?”

Holly shakes her head.

“Neither do I, Holly. So what are you going to do?”

“What can I do?”

“Look for a better explanation.”

She nods.

Walter sips his tea. “Can I ask you something?”

She can tell by the quietness of his voice that he is feeling vulnerable. “Of course, Papa. Anything.”

“This group… all the tragedy and adverse outcomes… do you believe the psychedelics are to blame?”

Holly has wondered the same recently. But she knows it would contradict all the data that has been accumulated for decades on the effects of psychedelics. “This group consisted of seven highly accomplished people. But all of them are—were—addicts, deeply scarred by personal traumas. And each of them had been hiding secrets for years. Essentially, their whole lives have been facades. Ready to topple at any moment.” She pauses. “No. I don’t blame the psychedelics. Not directly, anyway.”

He tilts his head. “What does that mean? ‘Not directly.’?”

“I think the buried traumas and memories that have surfaced during therapy have affected their states of mind. But blaming psychedelics would be like blaming the ocean for the rocks that appear at low tide.”

He grunts. “Then again, those rocks would stay buried forever if not for the tide.”

She shakes her head. “Honestly, I think it’s the group itself. Not the medication. Getting the seven of them together has somehow created a very… combustible environment.”

Walter accepts her theory with a shrug.

They sit in silence for a few moments, until Holly’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and sees that the call comes from her office line. She raises the phone to her ear. “Hi, Tanya.”

“Sorry to bother you, Holly,” her assistant says. “But I have Liisa Koskinen’s daughter, Kimberly, on the other line. She insists on speaking to you.”

Holly’s heart skips a beat. “Of course, patch her through, please.”

“Dr. Danvers?” Kimberly asks in a voice that is similar to but higher pitched than her mother’s.

“Speaking. Hello, Kimberly.”

“Do you know where my mom is?”

“I… I haven’t seen her in a few days. Why do you—”

“She was supposed to come here yesterday, but she canceled last minute.”

“Where is ‘here,’ Kimberly?”

“San Diego. I’m a senior at UC San Diego. Mom always drives down on the day of my infusion.”

“Infusion? I’m not following you.”

“For my Crohn’s disease. I get an intravenous infusion every six weeks. But sometimes I react to it. Not to be gross, but like puking and gut rot. Mom usually stays the night with me.”

“I see,” Holly says, wondering why Liisa never mentioned anything about her daughter’s illness. “Did your mother tell you about me, Kimberly?”

“She said you were helping her. That she’d gotten off the Xanax thanks to your therapy.”

“She did?” Holly can’t hide her surprise. None of it squares with her impression of Liisa as a woman driven by grievance and bitterness. “Did your mom call to tell you she wasn’t coming?”

“She texted.” Kimberly sighs. “I’m really worried, Dr. Danvers.”

Holly grips her phone tighter. “Why?”

“It was a weird couple texts. And now she’s not answering my calls. Which isn’t like her.”

“Did your mom say why she couldn’t make it?”

“No. Only that she had something urgent to do.”

“Urgent?”

“Yeah. And then she texted to say she wouldn’t be reachable for a while.”

“Did she say why?”

“No. Her last text simply said… ‘I’m sorry, Kimmie. I love you.’?” Her voice catches. “She hasn’t replied to any of my texts since.”

Holly feels cold invisible fingers wrap around her neck. “That was yesterday?”

“Yeah, in the early evening.” Kimberly’s pitch rises. “In the text, she called me Kimmie, Dr. Danvers!”

“She doesn’t usually?”

“All the time. Except when she has something serious to tell me. Then she always calls me Kimberly. And Dr. Danvers?”

“Yes?”

“Mom has never once texted to say that she loves me.” Holly can hear Kimberly swallow. “It just… didn’t sound like her.”