He sounds disdainful, as though he can’t imagine why anyone would still be so devoted to Georgia.
They took her phone so she wouldn’t be able to communicate with her fans directly. Evelyn said,What if you’d made a statement that contradicted ours?I recall a press release issued by Callie a few days before Georgia died, explaining that she’d checked herself into rehab. Georgia’s months of sobriety wouldn’t have fit with their story.
“Your mother’s notes say that Georgia was doing well when she was here.”
Evelyn showed up to Mom’s funeral in a tailored suit, not a single hair out of place. She shook my hand and said she was sorry for my loss. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize her tonight. She hardly looks like the same person.
He gave you too much,she said.The coroner had a daughter to send to college.
I was trying to save my son,she said.
“My mother’s notes are protected by doctor-patient confidentiality,” Andrew says, then adds, “Plenty of addicts fall off the wagon after rehab.”
I wonder if he knows, like I do, thatfall off the wagonhas origins in the temperance movement, when individuals who pledged to abstain from alcohol were said to beon the water wagon, from the image of horse-drawn water wagons that were used to dampen dusty roads each summer. Surely no one but the child of an addict bothers looking up that sort of trivia.
You understand,Evelyn said.You’re a mother, too.
The final piece of the puzzle clicks into place.
61Lord Edward
I limp into what looks like a disorganized study and see Amelia standing on one side of an enormous desk. Leaning against the desk is a man, his back to me. Amelia is bleeding.
“It’s time for you to go back to your room,” the man says. The room smells like cigarettes. There’s a baseball bat leaning against the door; I pick it up and run my fingers over it.
“Dr. Rush?” I ask.
The man—my therapist—turns to face me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his blazer and pressed slacks. He looks smaller.
Amelia shakes her head. “He’s really a wannabe musician.”
She seems to think this will shock me, but I already know Dr. Rush used to be some kind of rock star. Anne read me his bio aloud when she decided to send me here. Andrew Rush earned a PhD in psychology after his own brush with fame, the experience rendering him uniquely suited to work with high-profile clients.He’s perfect for you,Anne had said. I knew she meant not only that he had personal experience with celebrity but that he’d had his own youthful dalliance—with music—before falling in line and pursuing the family business.
“Edward, thank goodness you’re here,” Dr. Rush breathes. “As you can see, one of our patients is a bit confused. She broke into my house, and I’m afraid she’s become a danger to herself and others.”
At once, he lunges across the desk and wraps his arms around Amelia like a straitjacket.
“Amelia isn’t dangerous,” I say, but even as the words come out of my mouth, I question them. I knew how much she wanted to access her mother’s file. I recall the broken glass I stepped over to get here and take in the pile of papers on the desk in front of her.
Dr. Rush gestures for me to take his place restraining Amelia. “I need you to hold her while I get something to calm her.”
He sounds nearly as reasonable as he does during our therapy sessions, though only half his words are accented with the Northeastern drawl I’m used to hearing from him; the other half are punctuated with the Southern twang I heard earlier. Somehow, with Amelia squirming beneath his grip, his calm voice is more unsettling than if he were screaming, like a doctor listing clinical statistics after delivering a fatal diagnosis.
“Of course, it’s highly unusual to ask one of our guests to assist with something like this, but as you can see, special measures must be taken.”
Something to calm hermeans he wants to sedate her. Well, why wouldn’t he? She broke into his house. She’s twisting beneath his arms. She’s become, Dr. Rush said,a danger. I take a single step forward.
“Edward.” My name sounds like a plea coming from Amelia’s mouth. She looks so small beneath Dr. Rush, but I know how strong she is. She supported my weight more than once. “Please. He killed my mother.”
I stumble backward, bumping into the doorway behind me.
“Lord Edward.” Dr. Rush has never called me that, his voice solicitous. “As you can see, this patient is suffering from paranoic delusions.”
Amelia thought she saw something in the woods the other night. I told her it was a trick of the light, but could she have been hallucinating?
“My mother wasn’t really here for rehab. I’ll tell the police. They’ll question Evelyn. That’s why she was trying to get out the other night, right? To tell me what really happened?”
“You think the word of Florence’s grieving, mentally ill daughter or my demented mother will convince anyone of anything, Amelia Blue?” Dr. Rush smiles cruelly, and for a moment he looks nothing like the calm therapist who’s been speaking with me all this time. He evensoundsdifferent, emphasizing Amelia’s full name like it’s the punchline to a joke.
