Page 4 of Devotion

Or… is there something else entirely?

Something detectives have missed?

A troubling thought hits once I’m seated behind the wheel of my car again. It’s that these murders don’t appear to be slowing down. And if I’m right about that, this city’s latest threat will see to it that there’s no shortage of bodies.

2

Layla

Steam billows from my cup-o-noodles where it cools on the counter. I head to the pantry next and tuck a bag of cheese puffs beneath my arm, stopping at the fridge for a soda while I’m at it.

I justify my junk food binges by telling myself it’s fuel, must haves for the long, late-night shifts I spend on the hotline. I mean, a girl can’t guide the lost through thepsychic realmon an empty stomach, can she?

I place my “fuel” on the counter, pretending this isn’t just an excuse to eat things I’d otherwise deny myself, and grab a spork from the drawer. As I’m pushing it closed, the back door swings open, sending my heart into overdrive.

“Holy shi…”

My father arches a dark brow, and I catch myself, remembering that he hates it when I curse in his presence.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I pant, clutching the edge of the counter.

He plucks an earbud from his ear and eases the door closed. “Sorry. Guess I should’ve knocked first when I saw the light was on.” His briefcase lands on the barstool with a light thud, then he points at the door. “However, I wouldn’t have been able to just pop in on you like that if you’d—”

“…locked the door. I know,” I say with an eye roll.

“And yet…”

“I get it. I’ll do better. Promise.”

He sighs, and it quenches his frustration when I stretch onto the tips of my toes to kiss his cheek. When he doesn’t continue the lecture, I assume I’m off the hook. He scans the array of food on the counter next, and then takes notice of my purple t-shirt with the mystical crystal ball in the middle. The one I’ve effectively deemed my work uniform. His mouth curves into a knowing smile.

“Taking calls tonight, Madam Dorothy Dreamwalker?”

I nod. “You know it. But that’s Madam Divina Dreamweaver. Get it right.”

He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “Excuse me, Madam. But I’m guessing you knew I was going to mess that up. Seeing as how you’re psychic and all.”

“But of course.” I nudge him playfully with my elbow, clumsily gathering my food for the short trek across the yard to the garage, and then up the side steps to my apartment. But before I make an exit, I notice the dark circles underneath his eyes as he scoops coffee into the filter, preparing for a little late-night work session of his own, I imagine.

I glance toward his earbuds and phone on the counter, guessing what he’s been listening to. Several months ago, he transferred a collection of cassette tapes to mp3 files, making it easier to conduct research for his book on-the-go.

But these aren’t just any files.

They’re recordings of past sessions with a patient whose case nearly consumed him. I used to think that he let himself get so deeply immersed because it gave him something to obsess over after Mom died. But since then, I’ve wondered if it was more than that. I’ve wondered if he would’ve been just as obsessed if Mom were still with us.

One of the few memories I’ve managed to retain is of me sitting outside the door of my father’s home office. I couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen, but it’s so vivid. Warm, yellow light poured out of the room through the small sliver between his door and the frame. I crouched low, making myself silent and small, so he wouldn’t notice me. I just remember needing to know what was so dire that it took him away from me all the time. What was so enthralling that he buried himself within it, shutting me out of his world at a time that I needed him so desperately? And it was as I hid there, betraying his trust, that I finally got my answer.

This patient, my father’s obsession, was a man named Maxwell. He was around my father’s age, and like Dad, he was also a widower. For the most part, his life was unremarkable. He was wealthy, although I never quite sorted out where his money came from, but I got the impression that he was born into it, old money. That detail wasn’t particularly important to me, though. However, whatwasintriguing, were the confessions Maxwell made to my father. Dark, wicked thoughts, desires that were allegedly all hypothetical, but… there was so much detail.

So much…feelingin the way he described these acts.

Torture.

Violence.

Death.

In the recordings, my father spoke in the same low, reassuring tone I’d heard him use with other patients, but something was different. He dug so deep into Maxwell’s world I worried he’d get lost in it. Was he so invested because… he saw my mother reflected in this man? A fellow broken soul?

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