Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

I've borne witness to some of the worst things family members can do to one another.

The mother who faked a letter from a doctor stating her child showed signs of abuse after a visit to her father's house.

The father who poured sugar in his own car's gas tank and tried to pin it on the mother to illustrate her alleged mental instability.

The parents who nearly went bankrupt during a two-year custody battle that constantly snagged on minutiae, such as which parent's home would hold their child's saxophone. The saxophone war ended up costing them thousands in legal fees—far more than the price of buying a second instrument. The child's resulting stress and intensive therapy cost them even more.

Never before has a case consumed me like this one.

So I'm breaking yet another rule.

I'm not taking on any other clients until I finish the Barclay case. Rose will get my full focus; I'm going to fast-track all of my interviews. Everything else in my life will be put on hold.

I owe it to Rose to make sure she gets into a safe environment as quickly as possible. I need to get her to safety. I think of the oppressive, eerie heaviness that descends whenever I step through the Barclays' door and suppress a shudder.

I still need to interview Beth, Harriet, and the piano teacher I'm calling the Thin Man in my mind, and I want time alone with Rose.

But first I need to talk to Rose's psychiatrist, Dr. Gina Markman.

As dusk descends upon the city, I stand outside Dr. Markman's building, scanning the area where Rose picked up the shard of glass. The sidewalk has been swept clean by now.

I pull open the heavy door to the lobby and bypass the elevators to take the stairs, as is my habit, to the seventh floor. It's not for the exercise; elevators make me deeply claustrophobic.

The reception area of suite 726 has a few soft-looking chairs and a rack of glossy magazines. But it's empty. Dr. Markman told me she had a full day and couldn't meet me until 6 p.m., when the office closed.

I'm a bit early, so I take a seat.

Ten minutes later, she is nowhere to be seen.

She's a busy woman. But I bet that's not the only reason why she's making me wait.

Therapists are typically bound by confidentiality unless their client is a danger to themselves or others.

I'm one of the few people who can get an order from a judge to force therapists to divulge information about clients who are minors.

I had to send one to Dr. Markman to get her to agree to meet with me. This is her countermove.

At 6:15 p.m., the sound of heels against the wooden hallway floor announces her arrival before she comes into view. Even her quick, sharp footsteps sound annoyed.

When she rounds the corner, I rise and offer my hand. "I'm Stella Hudson. Thanks for meeting with me." As if she had a choice.

She's strikingly beautiful, with flawless black skin and hair cropped as close as a knit cap. She looks young enough to be a grad student, and I briefly wonder if she's a prodigy, like Rose.

"Gina Markman."

She gets points for not introducing herself as Doctor, and for her stylish outfit—wide-legged black pants and a hot-pink wraparound silk blouse that I immediately covet.

"I can give you thirty minutes. Let's chat in my office."

Technically, I can ask her as many questions as I want. But I know her heart is in the right place. She's trying to protect her client.

I need to make her understand I am, too. That we're on the same team.

Dr. Markman leads me into her office, which is smaller than I'd expect. She takes a seat behind her desk, and I claim the chair opposite her. Her desk is enviably neat, with just a laptop and wireless mouse, a silver letter opener, and a crystal candy dish on the surface. There's a Degas print on the wall, and a painting of the ocean at sunrise. Her diplomas—from Columbia for undergrad and Tufts for medical school—are in side-by-side frames. A window overlooks the city, and through it, I can see the light gray-white peak of the Washington Monument.

Aside from the dish of individually wrapped hard candy, there's nothing in this room for children. I wonder how she can work with kids in such a sterile environment.

"This isn't where I meet my patients," she tells me, as if she can read my mind. "But I let their parents wait here in order to preserve privacy. There's an art therapy room down the hall where I hold sessions. It's much more child-friendly."

"I'm trying to learn as much as I can about Rose and her parents," I tell Dr. Markman, plunging right in. "The divorce proceedings have reached an impasse. I need to make sure the custody arrangements serve Rose's best interests, and no one else's."

She nods, her lovely chiseled features softening a fraction.

"Rose Barclay is an unusual patient. Unfortunately, I can't say I know her well at all. Clearly she's in a trauma state."

"What can you tell me?"

"I haven't formally tested her IQ yet, but I'm certain it's extraordinary. She's brilliant. I gave her some puzzles early on, just to get a sense of her cogency. She aced them, even the ones intended for much older children. Her mind is something to behold."

"Has she given you any indication of how she feels about her parents?"

Dr. Markman considers my question, then shakes her head. "She expresses herself through art. If there is a clue about her wishes in those pictures, I haven't been able to find it."

"I'd like to see some of Rose's pictures."

She hesitates, then rises to her feet. "Follow me."

Dr. Markman leads me down the hallway and opens the door, flicking on the lights. Here is the therapy environment I expected: It's warm and homey, the walls and furnishings decorated in bright primary colors. There are beanbag chairs and stuffed animals, baskets of toys and dolls, stacks of books, a big dollhouse, an easel and mason jars full of paintbrushes and colored pencils.

Dr. Markman walks to a closet and taps in a code to unlock the door. She reaches inside and finds a large folder. Instead of handing it to me, she clutches it to her chest.

"Art is subject to interpretation," she tells me. "People can look at the exact same image or read the same book and come away with very different impressions."

"I understand."

"Often, what we see in art is a reflection of us. Of our optics. Our mindset. Have you ever tried to read a novel and not enjoyed it, then gone back at another point in time and loved it? The story didn't change. But you did. This is an insight into who we are at any given moment and what we bring to our unique intersection with art."

She's preparing me for something. What am I going to see in that folder?

"Rose has been through so much," Dr. Markman continues, still clutching the folder.

"May I?" I hold out my hand with a warm smile.

"Rose has drawn a number of pictures. They're all variations of the same scene."

In what feels like slow motion, Dr. Markman finally relinquishes the folder. I open it.

The first picture is a death scene.

A long-haired woman—Tina—is splayed out on the stone patio, her limbs at sharp angles to her body. Looking down at her are two figures that can only be Rose and her grandmother Harriet. They are holding hands.

The scene isn't horrific.

It looks peaceful.

Rose has drawn flowers surrounding Tina, a rainbow of pinks and yellows and purples and blues.

It's as if she wanted to make her nanny's death pretty.

I look at the two figures holding hands and suck in a breath.

I recoil as my mind registers what I'm seeing.

Rose's grandma is drawn in simple strokes. She's looking down at Tina's body, her mouth a round shape of surprise.

But Rose has no eyes.

Above her nose are two black circles. They look like holes.

"What does this mean?" I ask Dr. Markman. My throat is so tight my voice sounds strangled.

"At this point, anything we want it to mean. Pick your interpretation. She doesn't want to have seen Tina like that. She doesn't want to be asked about what she has seen. A dozen other possibilities. Depending on the beholder. Depending on the mindset of the artist."

I pull my phone from my purse and snap a picture of the drawing.

I flip to the next page. It's the same image. Tina, broken on the stone. Harriet wearing a shocked expression. Rose with black holes for eyes.

I force myself to channel my thoughts into the clear questions I need to answer: Which parent does Rose belong with? Is one a danger to her?

"How does her mother interact with Rose during the sessions?" I ask.

"Oh, no. I don't allow parents in here." Dr. Markman shakes her head briskly. "This space is for the child only. Beth waits in my office while I work with Rose. My patients need to be able to express themselves freely."

The room is warm, but I feel as if I've been plunged into ice.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Markman tells me. "I have a dinner engagement. I need to go."

She leans in closer. "Are you okay?"

I can't answer.

"Are you a trauma survivor?" she whispers.

It's like she is reading my thoughts again. As if she truly sees me, and knows what I've endured.

She nods, confirming her own question. "I thought so. From the moment we met. I have a sense about these things."

She lays a warm hand on my forearm. It's as if she is willing me strength. Giving me a transfusion from her own reservoirs.

I close my eyes. Inhale it in.

My arm suddenly feels cold again. I open my eyes and see her standing at the doorway, waiting for me to follow. "I'm going to lock up. Can you see yourself out?"

I manage to thank her for her time. I walk down the hallway and take the stairs back down. I step into the lobby and push through the doors onto the street.

Rush hour grips the city. Traffic is snarled and people clog the sidewalks. Beams of light from cars and taxis and buses cut through the gray dusk. A police car futilely wails its siren, but there's nowhere for the cars ahead of it to move.

It's trapped.

There's a bus shelter a few feet ahead. I make my way to it and sink onto the bench, my legs weak.

Of all the things I learned and saw when I was with Dr. Markman, the one I can't get out of my mind is the crystal candy dish.

Beth Barclay brought Rose here only a few days ago. She waited in Dr. Markman's office while Rose drew a self-portrait: the girl with no eyes.

Beth must have seen the candy dish.

And the framed diplomas. The Degas print behind glass. The silver letter opener, shaped like a knife. The window framing the Washington Monument.

It's hard to imagine Beth agreeing to wait in a small room surrounded by objects that supposedly torment her.

And as soon as that thought hits me, another realization lands: Beth would have needed to travel in a car to take Rose to the appointment. She'd be surrounded by glass windows and shiny mirrors during the duration of that ride.

I need to consider the possibility that both Ian and Beth lied to me. That there's another reason why they've removed all the glass from their house.