Page 62 of Bad Luck Vampire

“Lies,” she snapped.

“It was in both the police report and the fire investigator’s report,” he told her firmly. “It was even mentioned in your caseworker’s files and your medical files from the psychiatric hospital. It was arson, I promise.”

Sophie stiffened, dismay and confusion filling her face. “The psychiatric hospital shut down years ago. How could you even know I—?”

She paused abruptly when Alasdair put his hands on her shoulders. He wanted to offer her comfort, but she stiffened and then lowered her head in what looked like shame and whirled away to rush out of the room.

Alasdair hurried after her. He could have caught up to her easily, but didn’t and gave her space until she reached the bedroom and started to close the door. Afraid she’d lock it and he’d have to break through, he rushed forward and caught the door before it was shut. When he pushed it open and stepped into the room, Sophie quickly backed away until she came up against the bed, a trapped expression on her face.

She looked around almost wildly, as if seeking escape, but when there wasn’t one, Sophie suddenly went strangely calm and Alasdair watched the transformation with fascination. It was honestly impressive how quickly the change came over her. She breathed out a small, resigned sigh, then straightened, her expression turning cold as she faced him. Her voice was expressionless when she asked, “How long have you known?”

“Known what?” he asked cautiously, feeling as if he’d suddenly found himself in a minefield.

“That I was in a psych ward.”

Alasdair stilled. She was trying to seem uncaring, but this façade she’d pulled on wasn’t without cracks, and he didn’t miss the shame that slipped through in her voice. He took a breath to think before finally saying, “About a minute . . . if it’s even been that long since Tybo mentioned it just now.”

Sophie closed her eyes, unhappiness in every line of her body. It was also present in her voice when she said, “Well, now that you know, you can take off if you want. I’ll understand.”

That brought a scowl to his face. “Sophie, I’m not taking off. I don’t care if you were in a psychiatric hospital as a child.”

Her eyes flashed open and just like that she was on the defensive again. “How did you know it was when I was a child if you didn’t know about it before Tybo mentioned it? He didn’t say when it was.”

Alasdair smiled faintly. “Sweetheart, they started shutting down mental hospitals in the US back when Ronald Reagan was president. I’m sure Canada wasn’t far behind. But aside from that, it’s my job to know about such things, and I’m aware that there haven’t been any here for at least a decade, probably more. You had to have been a child or young teen.”

When Sophie just eyed him warily, he said, “I’d guess that your stay had something to do with the deaths of your parents when you were eleven? I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy losing them at such a young age. You didn’t have anyone else. They were your whole world. No one would judge you for needing help to cope with a major loss like that.”

Sophie’s shoulders suddenly sagged, and she dropped to sit on the end of the bed.

After a hesitation, Alasdair moved cautiously forward. When that didn’t spook her, he continued until he’d reached the bed. Alasdair then sat down next to her and took her hands in his. That’s all he did at first, sat holding her hands, but after a moment he asked, “Will you tell me about it?”

Sophie seemed to struggle with the request. He watched several expressions flicker across her face, before she finally said, “I thought it was morning when I woke up.”

Alasdair blinked. He’d meant tell him about her incarceration in the psychiatric hospital, which is what he’d thought was bothering her, so her lead-in was somewhat confusing. He didn’t realize she was talking about the night her parents died until she continued.

“Bright light was pouring through the open window where Megan was standing. She was looking out with the oddest expression on her face, so I got up to see what she was looking at. That’s when I saw the light wasn’t from the sun, but from fire. My house was on fire.”

Sophie took in a deep breath and then went on, “I remember seeing Megan’s mom and dad running across the lawn in their pajamas, heading for my house, and then I heard the sirens and looked up the road. I could see the lights from the fire trucks in the distance. Then someone screamed.” She paused and swallowed. “It was... so agonized. A nightmare scream. I looked back to my house and my mother was stumbling out the front door. She was on fire.” Sophie shook her head. “It must have been her nightgown that was on fire, but the flames seemed to be engulfing her. She looked like she’d stepped out of hell, and she was just screaming and screaming.”

Her voice broke and Alasdair tightened his hands on hers.

“I don’t remember much after that. I guess I was in shock. I was told that I started screaming and just wouldn’t stop. I had to be sedated, and was taken to the hospital for observation. I was told that when I woke up there, I wouldn’t talk to anyone, not the nurses, doctors, the police, or the caseworker who had been assigned my case when it was realized I had no family. Although I don’t remember any of that either.

“The doctors called it traumatic mutism, because while I didn’t let out a peep while awake, I woke up screaming every night. The doctors labeled that night terrors,” she announced, and added dryly, “They had labels for everything.”

“Doctors always do,” Alasdair murmured. “I suspect it makes them feel more in control.”

Sophie grunted a half laugh at that, then sighed. “I was transferred to a psychiatric hospital for treatment to help me deal with my trauma and night terrors. They tried a wide selection of drugs one after the other, hoping to find one that would get me talking again. I saw various counselors, psychologists, and psychiatrists almost daily.”

“Why?” Alasdair asked with surprise. “Doesn’t counseling usually need the patient to talk? How does that work with someone suffering traumatic mutism?”

“It doesn’t,” Sophie told him with a hint of a smile curving her lips. Shrugging, she added, “Mostly they did all the talking at first, reassuring me that I was safe, and would be taken care of and stuff. Then they started having me draw and paint during my sessions.” Pausing, she looked at him, and with a wry smile curving her lips, she said, “They called that art therapy.”

“Of course they did,” he agreed, smiling in return.

Seeming suddenly exhausted, Sophie leaned into his side to rest her head against his arm. Alasdair immediately shifted that arm and curved it around her, drawing her against his chest instead.

She settled there, one hand and her cheek on his chest, and said, “It took three months for me to start talking again, and another three months before they decided I was recovered and could return to the world.” Lifting her head so that she could look up at him, Sophie added, “I think they only waited that long after I started talking because they were cowards.”

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