The Lost (24 page)

“You're probably right,” Kit said, sighing. “But I'm also a hypnotist, so it helps to be a dreamer. It's easier to get people to let go and travel in their minds if I remain flexible in mine.”

She nodded to herself as she tossed a sliver of bread as far as she could, watching the two largest ducks race for the prize. “I've been told that it's easier for people to let go of their inhibitions and fears with me than any other hypnotherapist they've visited. I take them back in time and help them see what happened with new eyes. Some of my patients go back so deeply that I can almost see what they're talking about, exactly as they do—what used to be, what was supposed to be, and . . . well, now I'm bragging. Sorry.”

“No,” Mary Margaret said, sitting again. “Go on.”

Kit flipped her hair back over her shoulder, and said, “Well, I just think that there's real value in reflecting on the past. Honor what came before, and you're better able to face what comes next. Or so I've seen in my work.”

The skepticism returned. “And how much does it cost to get hypnotized?”

“It varies.” Kit emptied the crumbs from her bread bag onto the bank, then gave Mary Margaret a full smile as she joined her on the bench. The woman stiffened, but slid over after another moment. “I only charge full price for those with insurance. Otherwise I meet people where they're at. So I'll do a session in a person's home, if they want, and let them pay what they can. In the end, we're each better off for the experience. Sometimes I even do it for free.”

“Nobody does anything for free,” Mary Margaret said, her voice so hollow that Kit felt a skein of guilt weave its way through her chest. But the real harm had already been done in Mary Margaret's life. Kit and Grif might be mining it, but they weren't adding to it.

Shrugging, Kit stood. “It's an honor to be able to help others.”

Waving her farewell, she began walking back the way she'd come, counting down from ten. She'd only reached six before Mary Margaret called out. “Would you work with me?”

Kit turned, bit her lip, and walked back a few paces. “I'm sorry if I misled you, but I'm not like one of those psychics with a neon red palm-reading sign in their window. I don't regress people for fun. I only work with those who have serious trauma to work through.”

She turned to leave.

“I have demons.” The words tumbled out, pitched and hurried. Mary Margaret was standing now, too, and when Kit turned, she was close. “I have things that haunt me when I shut my eyes, and talk to me in my sleep. I know I need to let them go, because my therapist—not one like you, but a real one—she says that's the only way to truly be free of the past. That otherwise I'm only here part-time, but . . . I don't know.”

“What don't you know?” Kit asked, drawing closer.

Mary Margaret tilted her head, and the strong sun reached down to dapple her cheek. “Why does so much of life have to be about letting go?”

It was a good question. Not just for Mary Margaret or Grif, or anyone haunted by events in their past, but for Kit as well. What was worth hanging on to? What was worth fighting for? What to release? When?

Kit thought of her father, of Grif and Evie, and then Mary Margaret as well.

“Will you work with me?” the woman asked again, heat and shade fracturing the pleading expression on her face.

Kit smiled. She might not yet know what'd happened to her father, and Grif's feelings for Evie were ultimately out of her control, but maybe she could help this woman see that the past—and letting it go—didn't have to hurt so damned much.

“I'd love to,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-Three

G
rif shook his head. The idea of hypnotherapy was so hokey he didn't see how anyone could believe in it, yet not only had Kit convinced Mary Margaret to let her accompany her home, the woman had insisted she come immediately. Kit's beloved Duetto was too small for Grif to be able to ride along and remain hidden, so he was left to hoof it in the relentless summer heat, the sun a hot griddle on his head and back. He left his hat on—his old, real one replacing the fedora Yulyia Kolyadenko had commandeered—but he'd removed his coat. Holding it over his shoulder with his right hand, he studied his cell phone's map guidance, following the streets as Kit texted them. He was beginning to like the damned thing.

Yet if the Pures were looking down at him now, they were surely laughing. He probably looked like a rat in a maze. He certainly felt like one as he turned the corner of yet another nondescript street. Still, that didn't lessen the smug satisfaction he felt after reaching the street named on Kit's final text, and catching sight of the Duetto parked in the cracking driveway of a cul-de-sac corner.

It was a working-class neighborhood, and it appeared everyone was doing exactly that, but Grif still stole sidelong glances at the nearby houses before ducking into the shade on the home's east side. He'd wait there for a few minutes and let the women get settled. He wasn't sure what was needed to hypnotize someone, but if he knew dames, they'd probably fritter away a good ten minutes making small talk before getting down to business.

Grif lit a smoke, and shook his head. Hypnotherapy. Phooey. Not that he'd gotten anywhere by more traditional means. Even if Kit failed in getting any new information from Mary Margaret, it wouldn't hurt the case. “Because there is no case,” he muttered, blowing smoke back into the heated air.

A bigger concern was spending time with a woman with multiple addictions. Scratch had Kit's number now, and had already proven it wasn't shy about showing up. Kit assured Grif she was willing to take that chance, if only because he'd be with her this time.

Finished with his stick, Grif rubbed it out on the gravel, then slipped alongside the garage, careful to keep his shadow from crossing the front-room windows, though the shades there were drawn tight. He tested the front door and found it locked, so he waved his hand over the bolt, and entered anyway.

The stunted foyer was more afterthought than entry, but Grif paused there, listening for signs of life. He also listened for animals, though he'd already instructed Kit to text him if a dog lurked inside. Deeming it safe, Grif followed the low murmur emanating from deeper within the house, footsteps silent on the thin brown carpeting. He needed to time his reappearance in Mary Margaret's life, and not only to help Kit glean what information they could from the troubled woman's memory. It was rude, he thought, to drop in like some overgrown bird—feathered and friendly, but shocking enough to send a fragile mind back into the loony bin. At least she wouldn't actually be able to
see
his wings.

A dark stain rounded to the right, indicating a high-traffic area, so Grif headed that way. Emboldened by the low exchange of voices, he peered into a living area containing pretty much what he'd expected. An old television propped atop particleboard. Mismatched coffee and side tables. A sofa draped in a dingy gray throw, and a rip that bulged with white against the dark leather.

Drawn toward the voices—or voice; it was only Kit's now—he continued down a hallway that branched off in three uninspired directions. A half-bath lay directly ahead, while the room he'd passed from outside sat dark on the right. The one containing Kit's soothing, low voice was on the left. Again, peeking first, he headed that way.

“The brooch I've given you is what we call a focus,” Kit was saying. “It's from the fifties, so if you feel yourself distracted by any thought or slipping back into the present, just run your fingers over it. Give it a squeeze. You can look at it if you need to, but return to your relaxed state as quickly as possible.”

“Okay,” Mary Margaret answered.

“I'm going to count backward from ten, and by the time I'm finished I want you to tell me what you were doing in 1959.”

Grif entered the room. Kit was seated on a wooden chair that had once been a part of a kitchen set, and Mary Margaret was reclined on the bed, eyes shut, brooch clasped tightly in hands that rested between her breasts. He placed a hand on Kit's shoulder as he crossed to the center of the room, causing her to jump and glare at him, though her voice didn't hitch as she continued her countdown. Grif didn't dare risk making any noise by sitting in the chair by the window, or spook Mary Margaret by dropping to the side of the bed, so he just stood at the foot of it, and waited.

“Okay, Mary Margaret,” Kit said, having finished her back count. “It is 1959 now, the month of . . .” She looked at Grif, who mouthed the answer to her. “August. How old are you, and what are you doing?”

“I'm twelve years old,” Mary Margaret answered immediately. That was right, and Grif tilted his head, wondering if this hypnosis crap really worked. Immediately, he decided it did not. Mary Margaret wanted to be put in a trance, and Kit had openly admitted she was relying on that deep desire. Why not? Grif thought. The drugs and booze obviously hadn't worked.

But what the hell had happened to her, he wondered, trying to spot the twelve-year-old he'd known. Why hadn't anyone cared for her? How could things have gotten so bad that she was surrounded by cast-off things, and worse, looked right at home among them?

“I'm sitting in my room,” she said, as if she could see it, and it was happening right now. “It's all white . . . sham and sheets and curtains. I have a Cissy doll, and she's in white, too. I'd begged my father for her, but he said I was too young and I'd break her. But Uncle Sal got her for me, and even Dad didn't cross Uncle Sal. I took good care of her. We always dressed the same, but then she got lost . . .”

Mary Margaret's voice trailed off, and though she didn't open her eyes, her face scrunched up as if in pain.

“When did she get lost?” Kit asked.

“When I was taken.”

Grif felt Kit look at him, but he didn't move. Mary Margaret's word choice unnerved him, too. Lost. Taken. All because of something in her past. Maybe their
shared
past.

“Tell me about that day, Mary Margaret.”

The hands tightened around the brooch, but Mary Margaret kept her eyes shut, and her breathing gradually steadied, still unaware that Grif was standing there.

“It's afternoon. Broad daylight. Safest neighborhood in the city. Safest house in the world.”

Yes, she'd been at her uncle's house, Sal DiMartino, the day she was taken, which made the abduction especially nervy. The niece of the city's biggest kingpin, taken from his own front yard.

“My mother and aunt are at their weekly ladies' league meeting. They say they play cards afterward, but they pack flasks in their totes. Mother covers hers with her scarf and gloves.” One corner of her mouth quirked up. “Dad never asks her why she needs a scarf in the summer.”

“And where is your uncle?” Kit pressed.

“In his study. My brother, Tommy, and Dad are with him. They have the door shut. I know to stay away when it's shut but I want to show Cissy to my uncle. I want him to see I'm taking care of her. She's wearing her gloves and her pearls . . .”

“So you enter the study?”

“Yes.”

“And what does your uncle do?”

“Nothing. Uncle Sal never got angry. He smiles, and Tommy ruffles my hair, tells me my doll is real pretty, but Dad shoves me toward the door, and I stumble. He yells at Gina for letting me in.”

“Who's Gina?”

“My nanny.”

Kit looked at Grif, who nodded. The police had questioned Gina repeatedly in the days following Mary Margaret's disappearance, but she hadn't seen anything. Shortly after that, Gina disappeared as well.

“She's angry with me, too,” Mary Margaret continued. Her voice was light now, thin as a twelve-year-old's limbs. “She makes me go out back to play and tells me she'll bring lemonade. But she's sneaking my aunt's gin while she can, and she takes too long, and I want to play on the tire swing out front, so that's where I go. Me and Cissy. Both of us in white.”

“So you're alone in the front yard, on the swing,” Kit said, earning only a nod. “Then what?”

“The car comes out of nowhere. I see him running toward me, and I try to scream but he's too strong and fast. I'm in the backseat, and I still can't find my voice. Why can't I find my voice?”

Though seated feet away, Kit reached out, as if to soothe her. The calming action threaded her words. “It's okay, Mary Margaret. You're telling your story right now. You
do
have your voice.”

“I don't want to be here anymore.” And this time her voice was small.

Kit glanced at Grif, clearly wondering the same thing he was: where exactly did she mean? He circled his hand in the air, telling Kit to speed up.

“Okay, Mary Margaret. Let's fast-forward. Tell me about the day you were found. Tell me about the man who found you.”

The tension left the woman's body almost immediately, and her arms loosened. “He is stronger and faster than them all. He's gentler, too—with me, I mean. On the day they find me, he gets to me first, even though the guns are going off and the police are screaming and the men are dying. He's picking me up, and whispering in my ear. ‘You're safe. You're a good girl. That's a good girl.' ” She was breathing hard now. “It's over fast, and he's tucking my head into his arm so I can't see. He's so gentle, you know? Why didn't Daddy find me? Why didn't he come and save me?”

It was exactly what she'd asked of Grif then. He shut his own eyes, and swallowed hard. He hadn't known how to answer the twelve-year-old, and he didn't know how to answer Mary Margaret now, but he was going to have to tell her something, because when he opened his eyes again, she was staring directly up at him, her own gaze wide. She surprised him not by screaming or panicking, but by saying the same thing she said when he appeared fifty years earlier.

“Take me out of here. I don't want to be here anymore.”

She was so calm about it that for a moment Grif wondered if she couldn't also somehow see his wings. After all, his job was to take the Lost souls home . . . like he'd taken her home before. But she wasn't dead, and her vision was merely mortal, because then she said, “You look exactly the same.”

“I know.”

“I had a crush on you,” she added unexpectedly.

Sure, she had. She was twelve. He'd saved her life. “I know that, too.”

“But they killed you anyway.”

The room fell as silent as the past.

“Who killed him, Mary Margaret?” Kit finally said.

But she didn't answer. Mary Margaret was no longer in the past, yet she wasn't fully here, either. She was in her own world, and she looked worried and unbalanced . . . yet somehow comfortable with both. “If I'd just listened to Gina, if I'd stayed in the back, then I wouldn't have been stolen, and you wouldn't have to find me, and then they couldn't have said that you did those awful things.”

“And what was that?”

“Raped me.” The words gushed from her as if launched from her throat.

It took a long minute before Grif could unstick his tongue. “I didn't . . . I would never.”

“I know. But Tommy didn't believe me.”

“Tommy?” Grif shook his suddenly clouded head. He thought he'd been ready for the truth, but how could any man—any decent man—be ready for this? “Your brother?”

Mary Margaret nodded. “He came to me the night I returned. He thought I was sleeping . . . and I was at first. But he was crying, and I'd never heard my brother cry before, so that woke me up. He put his hands in my hair, and whispered in my ear. He said he had it on good word that you'd been in on it with the Salerno family, and that you'd turned on them when things went south. He said, ‘That bastard Shaw bragged about how he hurt my little sister, but now he's going to get his, family-style.' ”

Grif had to work to unclench his teeth. “Who was his source, Mary Margaret?”

“Tommy disappeared,” she said, shaking her head. “The same night you and your wife were killed. And that was my fault, too. If only I'd stayed in the backyard . . .”

Mary Margaret's face crumpled, and she began to cry, but Grif didn't hear her.
Tommy disappeared the same night you and your wife were killed.

“Grif?” Kit said, breaking character, seeing him when she wasn't supposed to. But her voice was as far off as Mary Margaret's, and Grif heard only static. He saw a blurred shadow knocking him against a wall. He felt the searing heat of a blade splitting his belly. He felt that knife in his hand and he reacted, slashing blindly.

“It was Tommy.” Grif's whisper came out in a harsh rasp. Tommy DiMartino, all of twenty-two years old, nephew to Las Vegas's biggest mobster, full of swagger and wearing driving gloves and fury in his eyes . . . he was the one who'd attacked Grif and Evie in the suite at the Marquis.

And Grif had killed him.

Grif glanced back at Mary Margaret, because she didn't seem to know that. She'd said only that Tommy had disappeared. So whoever had cleaned up the mess had erased all evidence of Sal DiMartino's nephew having died along with Evie and him.

So who had attacked Grif from behind? Who busted the vase over his head, spilling his brains and life out on that white marble floor? Who felled Evie, too?

Was it Sal? Had the old mobster shaken Grif's hand and thanked him for safely returning his niece, all while planning and plotting Grif's and Evie's deaths?