chest. She was pale, her eyes glassy and wet. All the light had drained from her. Lydia imagined that she could be picked up and tossed to the floor like a rag doll.
Lydia tried to reconcile the frail woman before them with the gruesome images in the crime scene photographs Ford had given them. She tried to imagine Julian’s tiny, delicate hands wielding a serrated knife and committing the carnage that had been wroughtin her Park Avenue duplex. It didn’t work for her. Physically it didn’t seem possible. But more than that, Lydia just couldn’t envision it, though she couldn’t say why. Lydia pulled up a metal chair beside Julian’s bed and tried to look into her eyes. But they were like the eyes of a cat, flat and without depth. It was as if her soul, the essence of who she was, had floated away, leaving only a breathing human shell.
Lydia was not uncomfortable with mentally ill people. She’d interviewed more than one in the past. In fact, she was more comfortable with them than she was with most “sane” people. There was often a logic to their thoughts that made a kind of sense if you listened carefully. There was no artifice to their personalities, nothing put on. It was crazy but it was
real
.
“Julian,” said the doctor as if she were talking to a child. “This is Lydia Strong and Jeffrey Mark. They are here to see you at your mother’s request.”
There was no sign that she had heard.
“Julian,” said Lydia, “we want to help you.”
She turned bright green eyes on Lydia. Lydia felt a little jolt of shock inside as she saw clearly the eyes from the portrait in Orlando DiMarco’s gallery. She wondered if, as in the painting, there was another side to the wispy woman before her, another side that only Tad Jenson and Richard Stratton had seen. Someone that she had hidden from others and maybe even from herself. In the hard fluorescent light of the room, Lydia could see that Julian’s pupils were dilated. Her long dark hair was highlighted with strands of red and was pulled back into a loose ponytail. Several strands had escaped and hung listlessly around her frail shoulders and in front of her eyes.
“You can’t help me,” she said softly, her voice thick and slow. “No one can.”
“Is she heavily medicated?” asked Lydia, looking at the doctor.
“Oh, yes,” answered the doctor. “She was hysterical, a danger to herself.”
“We
can
help you, Julian,” said Lydia softly, leaning in slightly. “If you can tell us what you remember.”
The doctor sighed, agitated suddenly behind Lydia. “I don’t think you’re going to have much luck, Ms. Strong. She’s not going to be able to remember anything at this point.”
Jeffrey held up his hand. “Just give her a minute.”
Julian held Lydia’s eyes. “My children,” she said, her tone not quite a question, more a musing.
“They’re fine,” answered Lydia. “They’re with your mother.”
Julian gave a little laugh and rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, well then … they’ll be fine,” she said, her voice suddenly tight with sarcasm and anger. “Look how well I turned out.”
She scribbled something in the air with an invisible pen and looked at Lydia with a wink, as if she thought Lydia were in on some private joke. “My mother, the queen. The queen of the damned. Evil bitch.”
“She’s ranting,” said the doctor.
“I can see that,” said Lydia, turning to look at her with annoyance.
“Why are you so angry at your mother?” asked Lydia. Julian didn’t answer. She just kept writing in the air furiously.
The room was so silent, Lydia could hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights above their heads and Julian’s quick and shallow breathing. A moth fluttered above them, knocking itself into the light with a succession of soft taps.
“Julian, do you know where you are?”
“Do you know where
you
are?” Julian answered with a childish giggle. “Does anyone?”
“Some of us have a pretty good
Lydia tried to reconcile the frail woman before them with the gruesome images in the crime scene photographs Ford had given them. She tried to imagine Julian’s tiny, delicate hands wielding a serrated knife and committing the carnage that had been wroughtin her Park Avenue duplex. It didn’t work for her. Physically it didn’t seem possible. But more than that, Lydia just couldn’t envision it, though she couldn’t say why. Lydia pulled up a metal chair beside Julian’s bed and tried to look into her eyes. But they were like the eyes of a cat, flat and without depth. It was as if her soul, the essence of who she was, had floated away, leaving only a breathing human shell.
Lydia was not uncomfortable with mentally ill people. She’d interviewed more than one in the past. In fact, she was more comfortable with them than she was with most “sane” people. There was often a logic to their thoughts that made a kind of sense if you listened carefully. There was no artifice to their personalities, nothing put on. It was crazy but it was
real
.
“Julian,” said the doctor as if she were talking to a child. “This is Lydia Strong and Jeffrey Mark. They are here to see you at your mother’s request.”
There was no sign that she had heard.
“Julian,” said Lydia, “we want to help you.”
She turned bright green eyes on Lydia. Lydia felt a little jolt of shock inside as she saw clearly the eyes from the portrait in Orlando DiMarco’s gallery. She wondered if, as in the painting, there was another side to the wispy woman before her, another side that only Tad Jenson and Richard Stratton had seen. Someone that she had hidden from others and maybe even from herself. In the hard fluorescent light of the room, Lydia could see that Julian’s pupils were dilated. Her long dark hair was highlighted with strands of red and was pulled back into a loose ponytail. Several strands had escaped and hung listlessly around her frail shoulders and in front of her eyes.
“You can’t help me,” she said softly, her voice thick and slow. “No one can.”
“Is she heavily medicated?” asked Lydia, looking at the doctor.
“Oh, yes,” answered the doctor. “She was hysterical, a danger to herself.”
“We
can
help you, Julian,” said Lydia softly, leaning in slightly. “If you can tell us what you remember.”
The doctor sighed, agitated suddenly behind Lydia. “I don’t think you’re going to have much luck, Ms. Strong. She’s not going to be able to remember anything at this point.”
Jeffrey held up his hand. “Just give her a minute.”
Julian held Lydia’s eyes. “My children,” she said, her tone not quite a question, more a musing.
“They’re fine,” answered Lydia. “They’re with your mother.”
Julian gave a little laugh and rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, well then … they’ll be fine,” she said, her voice suddenly tight with sarcasm and anger. “Look how well I turned out.”
She scribbled something in the air with an invisible pen and looked at Lydia with a wink, as if she thought Lydia were in on some private joke. “My mother, the queen. The queen of the damned. Evil bitch.”
“She’s ranting,” said the doctor.
“I can see that,” said Lydia, turning to look at her with annoyance.
“Why are you so angry at your mother?” asked Lydia. Julian didn’t answer. She just kept writing in the air furiously.
The room was so silent, Lydia could hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights above their heads and Julian’s quick and shallow breathing. A moth fluttered above them, knocking itself into the light with a succession of soft taps.
“Julian, do you know where you are?”
“Do you know where
you
are?” Julian answered with a childish giggle. “Does anyone?”
“Some of us have a pretty good
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