Wilder’s heart beat at lightning speed as he bolted from the office to the SUV. Beckett had finally arrived with Aurora and was hot on his heels. “Wilder, calm down.”
“Calm down?” How was he supposed to remain calm? The woman he loved had been abducted.
There it was. The words to his feelings. He loved her.
And he’d failed her.
She looked to him to keep her safe. To come for her. He had zero control right now. No clue who had her. Where they might be. What might be happening to her.
He should have immediately followed and not waited on Aurora. He’d forgotten she’d had a doctor’s appointment. Who had taken Cosette? Couldn’t be Jeffrey Levitts. He was dead. No doubt the dental records would confirm it.
Beckett jumped in the passenger seat and Wilder peeled out the drive and to the site where Jody waited. He wanted to beat the police to the scene. Jody’s vehicle was up ahead. Wilder slammed on the brakes and parked, then jumped from the SUV and raced to the detective’s car.
Cosette’s purse was on the floorboard. He took it and checked her phone. “It’s password protected.” What would she use? Her birthday. Boom. He was in. He scrolled through her texts. Nothing out of the ordinary. No further weird calls. Just several phone calls from her dad’s lawyer.
“Someone shot out the tire, then fired two more rounds into the back windshield. Not a bad shot. He clearly wasn’t aiming for Cosette,” Jody said.
Of course he wasn’t. He wanted her all to himself. The lipstick heart. The notes about missing her and loving her. Wilder’s stomach clenched. If this man laid one hand on her, so help him... Spots formed in front of him. He was literally seeing red.
“Wilder. I know that look. Relax.” Beckett held eye contact with him. “We’re going to find her. Levelheadedness will get us there. You showed me that.”
Fear coupled with fury broke out in sweat droplets on his forehead and spine. Sirens wailed in the distance.
It had been about an hour since Cosette left the house. Whoever had her was racing with time on their side. They’d vanished.
Wilder’s lungs squeezed. He couldn’t think straight. Images of what might be happening to Cosette consumed him until he shook uncontrollably. She was counting on him. They all were counting on him.
He blinked and realized he was in the passenger side of the SUV. Beckett was pulling into the circle drive at CCM. Had time slipped? He didn’t even remember talking with the police on the scene, but he must have. He was losing it. Fighting to muster control and strength, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.
God, where is she?
“Wilder.”
Wilder ignored Beckett and slunk up the porch steps and into the house, where he fell to his knees. All the pain, every weight he’d been carrying, every secret he’d pushed aside came crashing down on his heart at once, sucking oxygen from him and leaving him cold, weak.
Alone.
His mind kept screaming at him to get up. He was a soldier, a navy SEAL, a leader. A fighter. He was responsible for this team. His family. His clients. Cosette.
But no matter how much he told himself to stand at attention and pull it together, he couldn’t muster the strength to stand—to speak.
Cosette was gone.
Lost.
And it was all his fault. Tears burned the back of his eyes. A fresh cold sweat broke out.
“He can’t breathe,” someone said. The voices were muffled, as if he was miles away and locked in a cavernous prison. “Get a paper bag.”
“Dude, you’re scaring me.”
“Get him some water.”
“Wilder!”
“Should I slap his face?”
“Not if you want to live.”
With his hands on the floor to hold himself up, he gasped for air. His team was seeing this and yet he couldn’t stop it. What if Cosette died? He hadn’t even had the chance to tell her he loved her. So much.
But she didn’t love him. And she’d surely add weak to her list of flaws for him.
He was weak. He couldn’t even get off the floor.
His eyes burned and filled with moisture.
“Wilder, breathe into this. Deep.” Aurora. She was placing a lunch sack over his mouth. Someone rubbed his back. “Keep breathing. We’ll find her. It’s okay.”
Beckett prayed over him, then spoke. “Wilder, I know how you feel. You think it’s your fault. But it’s not.”
He shoved the paper bag away and stood. “Yes, it is. It’s all my fault. Allie. Meghan.”
Beckett’s eyes clouded. “How is Meghan your fault?”
He swallowed the lump in this throat and looked around at his team members. Members he was supposed to be protecting and leading. “I was there,” he whispered. “She was alive, Beck. Barely and for only seconds, but she was.”
Beckett’s face turned pale. “What?”
Wilder told him about that night as he wiped away tears of weakness, regret and grief over his sister. “I couldn’t save her.”
Beckett stood there stunned. Aurora put her arm around him to bring comfort. The one woman who could comfort Wilder was gone.
“Wilder...” Beckett finally spoke. “I need to process this, but what I do know right now is that you can’t blame yourself for not saving her any more than I can. God controls everything. I don’t have answers to why, but I don’t have to have them to know He’s got everything in the palm of His hand.”
Wilder could barely hold his head up. He’d revealed how pitifully weak he was. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed you.” With that he jumped up, hurried to his office and stared at the whiteboard. Cosette could be anywhere.
His entire team followed him, Jody at the helm. “Wilder, you’re our leader,” she said. “Our boss, not our God. We don’t expect you to always know the answers. To always get it right. We’re a family. We stand united. We fall united. Do you understand that?”
He scanned each face and found no judgment.
Had he been playing God? When he couldn’t save Allie or Meghan, he hadn’t questioned God or even been mad at Him. Wilder had questioned and been mad at himself for not controlling the situation and rescuing them. Maybe he’d expected more of himself than he did God. He shook his head, stunned at what his heart conveyed.
“You’re not weak, Wilder, you’re human,” Evan said softly.
But he didn’t see himself that way. Never had. Not since he was three years old and his father laid the responsibility on him for protecting Meghan and then Caley.
“Let’s rally and find our headshrinker,” Shepherd stated.
Wilder couldn’t find words to say and right now it didn’t matter. He had to pull it together. “I should have covered every base. But I trusted Cosette—I do trust her. She said it was Jeffrey and I believe her, but he’s dead and someone took her. Who? Why?” He and Cosette had both made mistakes and it was costing him time and possibly her life.
“It could have been Levitts stalking her, but maybe he needed help from someone. Someone he could manipulate and deceive. Maybe this person found out what he was really up to and killed him.” Jody perched on the edge of Wilder’s desk. “The part that remains unclear is where Malcolm Hayes and Kariss Elroy fit in.”
“I think our initial speculation, that Levitts used Kariss as a pawn with the muffins and the car, is our best option. And he probably did get Malcolm to burn down the stable. Killing them to cover his tracks makes sense. But somehow he was betrayed by another person and was killed, too.” Wilder raked his hands through his hair. Hair he wanted Cosette to touch again. Only she’d made her feelings clear. But that kiss...that was more than heightened emotion. Or was he just feeling what he wished was there?
Jody splayed her hands in front of her. “Whoever it is would have to be equally or more cunning than Levitts. Someone who could fake being pliable to Jeffrey’s whims and plans.”
“It’d have to be someone who would know which patients could be used. Because he had access to them and to Cosette,” Beckett offered.
Wilder gripped the desk. “A colleague. Wheezer, check and see if Levitts had any kind of connection to any of the other doctors or staff at the clinic. Make sure to do a thorough check on Dr. McMillian and Roger Renfrow. Dig deeper than our initial search.” When Cosette had come clean, Wilder had had Wheezer do a background check on the staff and doctors at the clinic. Nothing had raised a red flag. Now it was time to look under rugs and in the back of closets. They should have done this earlier, anyway.
Wheezer grunted. “This will take more than a minute, Wilder.”
A minute more than they had.
“Wilder,” Jody said. “If Cosette had to ask for time off from you, then she’d have to ask her boss at the clinic, too. She works some Fridays and occasionally Saturdays when she’s not here.”
Dr. Irwin McMillian.
Wilder wasn’t waiting on data.
“Wheezer, get his home number and address. Call it.”
Wheezer went to work, then made the call. No answer. “I’ll try the office. What do you want me to do if he answers?”
“Hang up.”
A few seconds later, Wheezer hung up and nodded. “He’s there.” He then called Renfrow’s home. No answer. He might be at the clinic, as well.
Cosette might be, too.
“Evan, Wheezer, stay here and keep looking at financials and possible online connections. If you can find a way to get files from the clinic’s mainframe, do it. Do whatever you have to. I don’t care about legalities.” Only finding Cosette. “Beck and I will go to the clinic. Jody, Shepherd, try Roger’s home. He may not be answering for a reason.”
Twenty minutes later, Wilder and Beckett busted into the clinic. “Offices are down this hall.” They strode to Dr. McMillian’s office. Wilder didn’t bother knocking.
The doctor startled. He was a tall man with a receding hairline and friendly face. If he had Cosette, he’d hidden her somewhere.
“Can I help you?”
“Do you know where Cosette is?” Wilder asked and reached for his sidearm. “I’d think real hard before you lie to me.”
McMillian raised his hands and slowly stood. “Let’s all just calm down,” he said, in a tone he would obviously use on a panicked patient. Well, Wilder was panicked, and at this point he’d do whatever necessary to get Cosette back. Every minute they were losing time. “Cosette canceled her client appointments due to a personal issue. Which you know. I recognize you, Mr. Flynn.”
“Has she told you the personal issue?” Beckett asked.
McMillian remained stoic. “No, but I’m not her personal therapist or a confidant.”
“Short story. Someone is stalking her and she was abducted over an hour ago.”
The doc’s eyes widened. “What can I do to help?”
Wilder wasn’t sold on his innocence just yet. “You’re the only one who would know about her visiting New Orleans each Mother’s Day. Whoever took her has to know this, too.” Now that he thought about it, the dog being here and the letter were mighty convenient. “Who was working on the eighth?” Someone had to have access to her office in order to get the letter inside.
McMillian fired up his computer. “Everyone was.”
Roger. He had the puppy. He was the first to arrive. He knew Cosette took off work every Mother’s Day weekend. Right now, Wilder couldn’t connect him to Levitts or his death, but Wilder hadn’t liked him from the start and it wasn’t just because he wore a bow tie. “Renfrow. He here today at all?”
“Roger? No, actually. He called in sick for the rest of the week.”
That was way too convenient for Wilder’s liking. He called Jody. “ETA on Renfrow’s house now.”
“We’re stuck on the interstate. Car accident.”
Wilder growled and hung up, then called Wheezer. “Alternate route to Renfrow’s from the clinic. Now.”
Wheezer clacked keys and rattled off directions. Wilder hung up and addressed Dr. McMillian. “If I find out you’re lying to me about anything, I will come back. What I do will be slow. Painful. And you will regret it for eternity.”
“You don’t have to use violent threats, Mr. Flynn. I’m not involved, and I want to help. But I don’t believe Roger has abducted Cosette. You should consider diplomacy with him.”
Wilder didn’t bother with a reply and stormed out with Beck behind him.
“You were kidding about torturing him to death, right?” Beck asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think I hope he’s not lying.” Beckett put his hand on Wilder’s shoulder. “I think I should drive and you should empty your magazine and chamber.”
Wilder huffed and climbed in the passenger seat. Roger Renfrow. He had access to Kariss Elroy and Malcolm Hayes. He knew their mental states. Cosette and he were friends, so he would know personal things about her. Like nut allergies. Her past, if not in detail, at least enough. But why say he missed her? That part didn’t compute. Unless he was crazy, and crazy never computed. He made more sense than Jeffrey enlisting a patient to do his dirty work, but Wilder wasn’t going to rule anything out just yet.
“What did you think about McMillian?” Beckett asked.
“I don’t know.” Wilder was frustrated, and everyone was suspect. He needed clarity. “Let’s go in with the assumption that Renfrow has Cosette and this is a rescue mission. Night will cover us. Keep neighbors from getting nosy.”
“Do you think he’d have her at his house? I mean, he killed a detective and surely he knows we’d eventually figure it out,” Beckett said.
Wilder didn’t have the answer to that, either. Didn’t need to at the moment. “We’ll proceed with caution. That’s all we can do.” He hoped wherever Cosette was, she had a level head and could use her expertise to keep herself safe and alive.
They entered an older neighborhood. The lawns were manicured and the streets quiet. Beckett parked a ways down from the house.
“Let’s do a little recon. If we spook him, he might hurt her or worse,” Beckett said. “And call Shep and Jody. Get an ETA.”
Wilder called and they were ten minutes out. He drew his weapon. He never enjoyed using it, but in times like this—times of war—there was no choice.
They quietly slipped through the shadows into Roger’s yard. Blinds were closed. No movement.
“House has a basement.”
“Good place to hold a hostage,” Wilder whispered. They crept to the other side of the property. Sounds of a TV came from a window. Bedroom, probably. “Let’s bust up in there.”
“And if he’s innocent, he’ll (1) have a heart attack and (2) sue us and have us arrested for home invasion.” Beckett drilled him with a glare. “What happened to proceed with caution?”
“We did. I also said this was a rescue mission. What if it was Aurora?”
Beckett sighed. “Okay. Let’s knock down a door.”
Rustling sounded and a low whistle. It was Shep and Jody. They’d made it. Jogging up, Shep asked, “What’s the plan?”
“Going through the front door,” Beckett said.
Jody opened her mouth, but Shepherd spoke. “If he’s guilty, he’ll run. If he’s innocent, you’ll scare him. And he’ll run. We’ll be at the back. Waiting on Red Rover to send the headshrinker right over.”
Wilder looked at Beckett as they stood on the porch. “If he’s...done anything to her, I can’t promise I won’t kill him.” His voice cracked as his throat clogged with emotion. “Do you understand?”
Beckett nodded. “You’re my best friend. My brother. I won’t let you slip away. I’ve got your six in every way. Now break this door down and get your woman.”
My woman.
Cosette would hate that phrase with a passion. But Wilder wanted her to be his. Not a possession. A partner.
But he’d failed her. She’d trusted him. Trusted his word. He’d told her it would be okay. To go with Detective Chase.
“Ready?”
Beckett secured his gun. “Go.”
Wilder rammed his shoulder into the door with all his might; the wood splintered, cracked and burst open, revealing a tidy home, the smells of lemon and vapor rub. Was Jody in here already? She kept that stuff on her nose constantly to block out overwhelming scents due to her medical condition.
He raced through the living room toward the room with the TV.
Roger Renfrow bustled into the hallway shirtless, baseball bat in hand.
“That won’t save you,” Wilder growled. “Drop it.”
Roger instantly complied. “What’s going on?”
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
Wilder wound his hand around Roger’s neck, smelled the vapor rub, pinned him against the wall. “Don’t play with me.”
“I don’t know what is going on,” the man said breathlessly.
Shepherd and Jody entered the hallway. “The house is clear, Wilder. She’s not here. I don’t even smell her,” Jody said. If anyone could smell Cosette it would be Jody—a human bloodhound.
“Why weren’t you at work today?” Wilder asked.
“I have bronchitis!”
“Nothing’s here to make me think he’s stalking Cosette,” Shepherd said.
Renfrow’s eyes bulged. “Stalking Cosette? Are you kidding me? I’m calling the police right now!”
Wilder laughed. “If you can get past me, feel free. I have questions and you’re going to answer them. Truthfully. Have you been sending Cosette gifts and messages?”
“No. But I had a feeling something strange was going on. Can you please release your grip before you crush my windpipe?”
Wilder released him, his hope sinking.
“At first, I thought you were abusive to her. She seemed to show signs,” Roger stated.
“I would never lay a hand on her!” He had an urge to throttle the guy for even suggesting it.
“Yes, I can tell you’re quite meek,” he deadpanned. “I realized that wasn’t the case and that you were protecting her from something. Someone. If someone has her, please let me help.”
If this man was lying, he deserved an Oscar. And if he wasn’t, who had Cosette?
* * *
Cosette’s head felt like someone had stabbed it with a dagger. She opened her eyes and squinted through the sunlight pouring into the room. Dizzy and disoriented, she worked to put pieces together; it was fuzzy. The air-conditioning kicked on and she shivered and glanced upward. A vent blew cold air down on her. She blinked and tried to jump-start her muddled brain.
Detective Chase believed she’d killed Beau, Jeffrey and her patients. She’d been on her way to the police station when the officer’s car had crashed.
No. He’d been shot and the car ran into a tree. She’d lost consciousness.
Her tongue was thick and seemed to be taking up her entire dry mouth. The room was too bright and blurry.
Someone had drugged her after she’d blacked out. The effects she was feeling had to be from a strong sedative.
Where was she?
Pale pink walls with white trim... A pink Victorian dollhouse sat on a small white table in the corner. Dolls had been arranged at a dining room table. The furniture was white, with antique scrolls, like someone had painted the wood finish, making it trendy for a little girl.
Grabbing her head, Cosette tried to sit up, but collapsed. She was in a four-poster twin bed that matched the snowy white furniture. On pink sheets with pale lavender hearts. A frilly comforter.
Why was she in a little girl’s bedroom? Whose room?
She struggled to shake off the dizzy sensation. Nausea swept into her throat and her mouth watered. How long had she been out? After working herself into a sitting position, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and held still while her head swam. Her bare feet sunk into the plush carpet. Light blared through pink-and-white chevron curtains. She was upstairs. Somewhere.
A window meant escape.
Tottering to it, she glanced outside and shielded her eyes. She was in a subdivision. She couldn’t see houses to the left or right, but there was a backyard with swings and a water play table. Beyond the wooden privacy fence, several houses on small lots dotted the area.
Her vision slowly cleared, but she was still woozy. Turning, she spied her ballerina jewelry box on the dresser. Her heart skipped a beat. Cosette caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Her lipstick was smeared like the Joker’s in Batman. Her eye makeup had long worn off. And her wavy hair was knotted. She was a horror show all by herself.
She stumbled to the door and tried to open it.
Locked from the outside.
To the left was a small bathroom that matched the bedroom. All done in pink and lavender. She ran cool water and splashed her face. She needed all her faculties to be clear. She’d never get out of here in this fuzzy state. Using the lavender hand towel with a unicorn on it, she washed the lipstick away.
If she could get someone’s attention behind the fence, she might be able to get out of here. Wherever here was.
She unlocked the window and raised it. Humidity smacked her freshly cooled face. Lifting the screen, Cosette stuck her head outside. It was quiet. Kids must be in school, adults at work. Below her lay two little-girl bikes.
“Help!” she croaked. It felt as if she hadn’t used her voice in days. Could she have been knocked out that long?
She studied the room again. Something about it felt oddly familiar.
The jewelry box. It was hers, but it also belonged to... It was there on the tip of her tongue. She’d seen it. Here.
“Think, Cosette!” She racked her brain. A backpack hung from a hook by the door. She unzipped it and dug around inside. Pulling out a folder, she studied and found a name. “Daysia Carson.” Didn’t ring a bell. A library book was shoved in the bottom. She grabbed it and read the label. Her blood turned to ice. She wasn’t even in Atlanta. She was in New Orleans.
Why would she be back here? She hadn’t lived or worked here since her midtwenties. Had she been in this room before? Seemed like she had.
The jewelry box.
A bathroom. She remembered a bathroom.
Nothing more would come, but the fear that raised gooseflesh on her arms said it didn’t matter. She’d find out soon enough.
She went back to the window and had opened her mouth to scream when the lock on the door clicked. Cosette hurriedly closed the window, then raced back to the bed and crawled inside. Her pulse pounded.
The door slowly opened.
Cosette gasped and her blood turned cold.
* * *
Wilder hadn’t slept in the forty-eight hours Cosette had been missing. The gun that killed Detective Chase was a .45 caliber, but no match with ballistics. The police had no leads but were staying on it like white on rice since one of their own had been murdered. That gave him some small comfort, but his team wasn’t any closer to figuring out who had her than they’d been the day they charged the clinic and busted down Roger Renfrow’s front door. This was unacceptable. She couldn’t have vanished from the face of the earth!
He bounced his knee as he sat next to Wheezer and Evan, both frantically typing on laptops in the control room of CCM.
They’d worked around the clock, digging up old clients and classmates, and going through all her past colleagues again, scrutinizing anyone who might have had a vendetta or attachment to Cosette. But nothing was tracking.
Any horrible thing could have happened to her by now. Wilder envisioned Cosette crying out for him and begging for her life, shaking with fear and hopelessness. Balling a fist, he stood and paced the floor. He was failing her every single second.
If she was even alive.
Terror struck with such force he nearly buckled to the floor. He couldn’t think like that. She was alive, using her professional skills to stay that way. She had to be. “Please, tell me you have a lead. Anything?”
Their faces said it all. Nothing.
Jody entered with more coffee. They’d been living off the stuff. No one had gone home; no one had slept. Every last one of them looked like death warmed over. Bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair... Wilder rubbed his chin. A full-on beard. Who had time to shave?
“Y’all. Roger Renfrow is here,” Caley said. Wilder’s baby sister had been here with Shepherd, taking care of him—of them all.
“Bring him in.”
Roger, still recovering from bronchitis, entered the cramped control room. No bow tie. “I was hoping I could be of more assistance.”
Two days ago, after they’d bombarded his home and nearly sent him into cardiac arrest, he’d helped with case files and tagged patients who might have become obsessed with Cosette. But none of those had panned out. As she’d said, no one fit the bill.
“We appreciate that,” Wilder said. “But I don’t know how.”
Roger eyed the whiteboard and looked at all the dots they couldn’t seem to connect. “What we know is someone is obsessed with Cosette and has been strategically planning her abduction. However, this person went off script. How would anyone know the police were coming for her? I think they were watching, saw the police take her away, and it scared them. Foiled the perfect plan, and they went off the rails. Shot the detective and snatched her. They didn’t realize or logically think out that the police would suspect Cosette.”
“That lines up with everything we’ve already established. Someone has been watching her. The idea of flipping the script makes sense. What we need is a name. Something that will lead us down the right path to finding her.”
Roger agreed. “We keep running down clients who might be romantically obsessed, but what if that’s not the motive at all?”
Wilder stopped pacing. The man had his attention. “Go on.”
“The letters, the gifts. Even the lipstick heart on the mirror. All seemed like romantic gestures, but it didn’t necessarily say it was romantic, did it? Things like ‘Soon.’ ‘I miss you.’ ‘Can’t wait to be with you again.’ ‘I’ll always love you.’ Those are endearments and words that anticipate a person seeing a loved one again, but it doesn’t have to be romantically.”
That gave Wilder some semblance of hope. If this person didn’t want Cosette romantically, then maybe he hadn’t touched her...hurt her. His stomach curdled.
Roger stared at the board, studying theories and possible connections the team had scribbled. He rubbed his chin, then tapped it with his index finger. “Cosette had been a social worker while finishing up her doctorate in New Orleans, mainly with children, right?”
“Yes. That’s why we focused on Washington, DC, patients. They were mostly adults and young adults. Why?”
“What if we can’t find the culprit because we’re not looking at the children? Children who would be young adults today.”
“Why would a child from a decade or more ago want to kidnap Cosette? Or kill her?” Wilder asked.
“Maybe at first they didn’t. At first, it was a fixated fantasy, but it didn’t go like the vivid dream in their mind. Many times, it’s very common for a young patient to transfer maternal feelings onto their therapist. These can be good feelings or bad. If Cosette worked with a child that had been abused or neglected, and was caring and kind to this child, then he or she could have wished for a mom like her...therefore, Cosette became their mom.”
“You mean they wanted her to be their mom, but knew she wasn’t, right?”
“At first. It’s possible. But if this child fixated, dreamed...became delusional due to a break in reality, then it’s very possible that they believe Cosette is indeed their mother.”
“You said good feelings or bad. How do we know what’s what? What do you mean?” Wilder wasn’t sure where this was going, but he’d follow any rabbit trail that showed itself.
Roger exhaled. “If the child hated the mother, then those bad feelings would surface and it would be difficult for Cosette to have had any success in her sessions. She might have even been threatened. But because she was given gifts and positive notes at the beginning of this, I believe at the time of their therapy, it was a good maternal transference—if this theory proves to be right.”
They didn’t have any other theories. They’d work this one and see if it led anywhere. Wilder rubbed the back of his neck. “You think a patient of hers from her past might have had this maternal transference and came back now to do what?”
Roger perched on the edge of the desk as if he were teaching a psychology class. “Could be to reconnect. But like I said, it didn’t go as the fantasy played out in their head and it turned aggressive.”
“So we have a psycho on the loose.” Great.
“Psychosis is a symptom of something. Not an actual diagnosis. The abductor may indeed be psychotic—had a break from reality. But my guess is that symptom is surfacing from someone who suffers from antisocial disorder. A former patient who’s dreamed about their mom for a very long time.”
Scrubbing his face, Wilder sighed. “How does one get this disorder?”
Roger cocked his head. “You can be born with it. Or develop it from experiencing neglect and abuse at a young age. Or it can be a mix of both. People with this disorder will have no remorse. As children, they’d exhibit disruptive behaviors, no impulse control, and as they grew it would develop into sociopathy. They would be masters of deception and manipulation.”
That tracked with their suspicions about her patients being manipulated and deceived into trying to harm Cosette. “What happens if she tries to explain she’s not Mommy Dearest?”
“For her safety, she’s smart enough to go along with the break in reality. You can’t reason with someone like that. Someone delusional.” Roger scanned the room. “This person is highly calculating. No empathy. Unable to rationalize, as they’ve reverted back to the age of their trauma, and yet, incredibly, they can function in society as adults. It’s complex, intriguing.”
Roger seemed entirely too thrilled. This wasn’t a research project.
“So what do we do, Renfrow?”
“Let’s narrow the patient search to children with abusive and neglectful mothers. Prepubescent. New Orleans cases.”
Wilder balled his fist. He didn’t care if he was dealing with an adult with a warped child brain. He didn’t even fully understand it. Whoever had Cosette was off their rocker and could kill her with a change in the wind.