Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

“I believe her,” I said, leaning forward and waiting for his reaction to hit me. “I think she has been terrorized methodically and systematically for a very long time. And I truly believe her life is in danger.” Judging by the emotion pouring off him, he did, too.

He averted his attention by picking lint off his jacket and said, “I cannot disagree.”

“Thank you,” I said, glad for an ally. “Without breaking your code of conduct or giving anything away, do you have any idea, based upon what you’ve learned so far, who is behind these attacks?”

Regret washed over him. “No, Ms. Davidson, I’m painfully sorry to say that I don’t.”

Crap. Another dead end.

“But I can say that—” He cleared his throat and examined a fruit tree outside his window. “—sometimes our pasts come back to haunt us.”

I knew it. Whatever happened when she was five started it all, and Dr. Roland knew it. With a smile of gratitude, I said, “It most certainly does. Thank you so much for seeing me.”

He stood to shake my hand. “Can you please have her call me?”

“I’ll do my best.”

* * *

When I left the doctor’s office, I had a text from Cookie ordering me to call her.

“I think I got something,” she said.

“It better not be the flu, because we have a case to solve, and you’re not nearly as good at your job on flu medicine.”

“Well, I’m not sure if this will matter, but the Lowells had Harper institutionalized when she was twelve.”

A cold bitterness washed over me at the thought of Harper being institutionalized. Then again, I could use that information against Mrs. Lowell. “And I’ll bet that’s not something they want printed in the society pages. If Albuquerque has society pages. Rich people are weird that way.”

“I’ve heard that. Not that I’d know from personal experience.”

“Hey, I’m trying to get us a million dollars. Just hang in there a little while longer.”

“You asked Reyes for a million dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, tell him to hurry. I need a pedicure.”

“Cook, how can you think of your toes at a time like this?”

“Do you remember the time we were running for our lives from that guy with that weird eye thing and you were upset because you’d left your mocha latte at his house?”

“I’m not sure I understand your point.”

* * *

I talked Garrett into taking me all the way across town back to Harper’s parents’ house in the hopes of catching Mr. Lowell out gardening. Since he was supposedly on his deathbed, the odds were not in my favor, but I could grill his testy wife again for good measure. Mrs. Lowell knew something, and she was damned well going to tell me. And now, thanks to Cookie’s prowess with search engines, I knew something, too.

I couldn’t have had much more time before everything came out in the open. I had to take advantage of the ace up my sleeve while I could.

Oddly enough, Garrett got through the gate easier than I had the first time I came through. It probably helped that he didn’t try to order a taco. We were shown into the drawing room again. I loved being able to say that.

I nudged Garrett with my elbow. “This is the drawing room.” An inane giggle bubbled out of my chest.

“You scare me sometimes.”

“That happens to me, too. It’s weird.” I looked at the signature on one of the paintings on the wall. It read Norman Rockwell. “Holy cow,” I said, impressed.

“Ms. Davidson, really,” Mrs. Lowell said, shushing me with a hiss and a glare, and she hurried inside the room and shut the door.

“Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Norman Rockwell in real life.”

Her chest swelled with pride. “Jason acquired that at an auction in the early aughts.”

Did she just say aughts?

After Garrett introduced himself, we sat down and I decided to get right to the point. “Can you tell me about the period in which Harper was institutionalized?”

Her face stretched into a mask of humiliation. No idea why.

“As you know, nothing we did was helping, so yes, we had to have her institutionalized when she was twelve.”

Twelve? My heart broke for her.

“We tried several forms of therapy there until we found one that worked.”

She meant until they found one that shut Harper up.

“Unfortunately, Harper’s short-term memory was affected by some of the treatments, but her behavior improved immensely.”

Without any further explanation, I knew exactly what kind of treatments she was talking about. Electroshock therapy. She was talking about ECT. My disdain of Mrs. Lowell sank to an all-time low.

“We were able to bring her home, and everything went back to normal for a couple of years. Years, mind you. But slowly her erratic behaviors resurfaced until we had no choice but to ask her to leave.” When my brows shot up, she qualified her actions with, “She was eighteen at the time, and we bought her a house. It’s not as though we threw her out on the street. Then she married that hooligan just to spite us. That lasted all of five minutes.”

“Mrs. Lowell, can you remember anything out of the ordinary happening to Harper around the time you and Mr. Lowell married? Was she threatened or bullied?”

“I’ve been over this a thousand times with her therapists and the police. The only thing that changed, that would have brought on such extreme behavioral changes, was our marriage. Nothing else happened.”