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  The three of them were silent as the video continued. Mick and Mort kept their attention on the screen as those male hands did their work. Small knives were used first. Crystal’s mouth opened wide in silent screams as cuts were made on her arms, neck, and ears. The digital high definition caught her blood as it emerged and traced its way where gravity willed. The male hands were splattered now as he reached for a longer-bladed knife. The camera zoomed in to catch a small section of Crystal’s dress. Champagne lace and delicate sequins were held in tight focus as blood was absorbed across the fabric. Mort wondered if this was an attempt at making the barbaric artistic.

  Blood and knives dominated the screen, but they weren’t the focus. The star of the show was Crystal and her terror. Between shots of cuts and slices, the camera always returned to her face, contorted in panic. Her tears mixed with her own blood to form rivulets down her delicate cheeks. She grew weaker with each cut, but it was clear she was fighting. Mort wondered if she was struggling to hold on to consciousness, maintaining hope the torture would stop.

  The scene opened wide and again Mort hoped for one slip. One clue that might help identify the man behind the pain. But there was nothing. Hands pushed up Crystal’s now sodden dress. A larger knife emerged and the man poised its cutting edge on Crystal’s pale thigh. Mort recalled Doc Conner’s analysis that it was a slice to the femoral artery that had been the final blow. He inhaled deeply in preparation.

  One quick slice opened a crimson eruption. Blood pulsed three violent surges in rapid succession before slowing. The camera focused one last time on Crystal’s eyes, giving the viewer the sight of terror quietly disappearing into an empty stare.

  At that moment audio was added for the first time. The head-banging beat of heavy metal blasted through the speakers.

  “Here it comes,” Jimmy said. “Schuster didn’t know who Crystal was, but when he saw this he decided to share.”

  Mort watched the camera open the scene. The beautiful room was now a place of unspeakable carnage. Gory knives were strewn across the table and floor. Crystal’s body lay prone and blood-drenched. One arm dangling off the side of the table. The camera angle opened even wider. It still revealed nothing of the man who’d wreaked such torture, but a window was now in view. It was high, large, and curtainless, framing a lovely shimmer of stars.

  And there in the distance was Seattle’s Space Needle, outlined in lights. A glittering scepter against the dark summer sky.

  Chapter 13

  Lydia’s smile was genuine as she entered her reception area. “Delbe? Is that you?”

  Delbe Jensen stood and spun in a clumsy circle, allowing Lydia to see her transformation in its entirety. Gone were the wrinkled khakis, grease-stained shirt, and oily hair pulled back in a tattered scrunchie. Delbe wore a pale green cotton sundress, closely fitted at the bodice, then opening to fluttery folds that rustled as she turned. The dress’s color enhanced her amber eyes. Lydia realized this was the first time she’d seen Delbe’s hair fully free. It cascaded around her shoulders in freshly shampooed ginger waves. She wore a touch of coral lip gloss, just enough to bring a hint of summer to her freckled face. “Is this what you had in mind? Do I look like someone the world should treat well?”

  “Get in here.” Lydia stood aside and let Delbe lead the way into her office. She sensed the pride in her patient’s step. Delbe chose her customary spot on the sofa, but this time she made an attempt to settle herself gracefully, crossing one leg over the other before leaning back.

  “Nice shoes,” Lydia commented, regarding Delbe’s strappy wedged sandals.

  “Thanks. They’re cheaper than they look. I never get a chance to wear ’em slinging hash and busing tables.”

  “Well, if clothes make the woman, I’m wondering what you think about yourself right now.”

  Delbe smoothed a hand over her dress. “I’ll bet it’s been three years since I had this on. Surprised it still fits.”

  “You look marvelous,” Lydia assured her. “There’s no one in the world who would peg you for…let me see…what is it you call yourself…the poster child for fucked-up losers?”

  Delbe flinched. “I said that, didn’t I? Your memory ever get you in trouble?”

  Only every time I let it. Lydia shoved the thought aside and refocused on her patient.

  “You’re dodging my question. What do you think about yourself right now?”

  Delbe’s face clouded. Her voice lost its earlier playfulness and fell back into the well-worn tone of self-loathing. “I took a shower and shaved my legs. It was my homework. Let’s not get carried away.”

  “You had three assignments, as I recall. Obviously you’ve nailed this one; what about the other two?”

  “You mean have I been staying away from the teenagers I work with?” Delbe’s defensiveness rang in every word. “Yes, Dr. Corriger. I’ve somehow managed to steer clear of them for two entire days. I haven’t purchased any beer, I haven’t toked up with them. So if you’re thinking about calling Protective Services on me, you can hold off.”

  “Ouch. That was sharper than I deserved. You wanna try that again?”

  Delbe sighed. “I’m sorry. But who has to be told that? What twenty-four-year-old has to have her psychologist tell her not to hang with high schoolers? God, I’m such a loser.”

  “Is that what you’re doing, Delbe? Trying hard to prove your parents right?”

  “Well, they have me pegged.” Delbe’s volume had risen. Lydia was pleased to hear her lower it without being prompted, when she added, “I’m sure I’m not living the dream they had for me.”

  “I don’t care about their dream. This is your life, Delbe. Which brings us to the third piece of homework. Did you do that?”

  Delbe showed a hint of her earlier humor. “What? Two out of three’s not good enough?” She reached into her straw purse and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Here it is. An itemized list of what my life would be like if I was living my best life ever. By the way, did you steal that from Oprah or did she cop it from you?”

  Lydia pointed toward Delbe’s list. “Come on. I’m dying to hear it.”

  Delbe made a show of unfolding the paper and pressing it flat. She cleared her throat and adopted a television announcer’s throaty alto as she read from her list. “I’d be married to Ryan Gosling and having a torrid side affair with Justin Timberlake.”

  “Stop it, Delbe. Remember when I said I’d work hard, but never harder than you? Show me how hard I need to work today.”

  Delbe grimaced. “Geez. Lighten up, why don’t you?” She turned her list around. “See? It’s not really on here.”

  “I’m glad. Now tell me what is.”

  Delbe read from her paper again, this time in the sheepish voice of a young woman asking for something she knows she’ll never have. “I’d have time to do my music. I’d sing my songs and people would like them.” She looked up apologetically at Lydia. “That’s egotistical, sorry.”

  Lydia shook her head. “It’s your life. I want to hear what it will take to make it the best.”

  “I’d have my high school diploma.” Again she looked up. “I was a good student. Academically, I mean. I was stupid in how I was living, but I always was on the honor roll. My guidance counselor—another woman who tried to talk me out of dropping out—said I had the highest GPA of anyone who’d ever quit school.”

  “I believe you. What’s next?”

  Delbe returned to her list. “I’d study music.” She looked up again to explain. “But I don’t mean in college. I want one-on-one with someone, you know? A really good teacher who could help me with my guitar and my lyrics. Maybe even a voice coach. Not all the theory and background bullshit. No offense intended to someone who must have spent like fifty years in college, right? I just wanna grow my music. That make any sense at all?”

  Lydia nodded. “College was my dream. And it wasn’t exactly fifty years.” She wondered if Delbe realized she was less than fifteen years older than her
. “Although sometimes, I admit it felt like it. Studying with a master musician makes a lot of sense. Tell me more about your best life ever.”

  Delbe went back to the paper. “I’d have an apartment. Maybe a roommate. Somebody cool, you know? Maybe she’s a musician, too. We’d share expenses so we wouldn’t have to work so hard. Free up time for our music. We’d come home and we’d just get out our guitars and start playing. We’d write songs about what happened during our day. People we met. Things we saw.”

  Lydia wondered if Delbe noticed she’d set her paper on her lap. The dreams now were coming straight from her, fully formed.

  “I’d do the cooking…I’m pretty good. She could do the cleaning up. I don’t like that at all. We’d tell each other our problems and fears. We’d listen, really listen to each other. We wouldn’t even own a television.”

  “Any room for romance on that list of yours?”

  Delbe shook her head. “You told me to write down what I wanted now. Let me tell you, watching my parents’ marriage up close and personal has cured me of ever wanting anything like what they have. I want something real. Friendship seems about all I want right now. I don’t mean the phony types my mom and dad play bridge with. I’d like real friends.”

  “How many?”

  Delbe shrugged into a light moment. “Well, I’d have my rockin’ guitar-playin’, dish-washin’ roomie. So, maybe one other.”

  Lydia took the time to let Delbe’s dream float in silence. “What else is on that list of yours?”

  Delbe looked perplexed. “Isn’t this enough?”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me to live your best life ever you’d have your GED, be singing and writing while you studied with a music teacher, share an apartment with a roommate, and have a friend.” She paused. “What would you say to someone who asked why you feel that’s so out of reach?”

  Delbe looked away. It took a while for her to gather herself. When she spoke, her voice was choked with emotion. “You the one askin’?”

  “Yes. What’s getting in the way of you achieving those very simple things?”

  Delbe bit her lower lip. She picked up her dream list and refolded it, pressing each seam tight before putting it back in her purse. “You remember me askin’ you how long a person was expected to pay for their mistakes?”

  “I do. You told me your parents look at you each day in that ‘told you so’ way.”

  Delbe nodded. “Oh, they do. There’s no doubt I’m payin’ every day for that major disappointment I handed them when I ditched school. But they don’t charge me a dime for rent and, like you said, there’s always a fridge full of food waitin’ for me when I get home. The only thing they ask is that I pay my own bills.” Delbe looked at Lydia and her voice dropped to a whisper. “And that’s why this list can never be more than dreams.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I wanted to head out to L.A., get someone to hear my music and make me a big star. Remember that?”

  “I do. That’s why you were the dropout with the highest GPA.”

  “Well, there wasn’t a thing my parents could do to stop me. I mean, I was of age to make the decision. But they weren’t about to support me in it. No, sir. If I was headed to California against their wishes, I had to bankroll it myself. So I got a job.”

  “Where?”

  “Lots of places. You’d be surprised how many folks’ll hire high school dropouts if they’re willing to work for less than minimum wage and take cash under the table. I stocked shelves in a couple of retail stores, roasted coffee on the overnight shift, even did some babysitting. I took every penny I earned and put it in my sock drawer. When I thought I had enough, I headed south.” She shook her head slowly. “But it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near. I couldn’t get my songs heard, couldn’t land a steady job…turns out they’ve got high school dropouts in California, too. That and illegals who’ll work for even less. I picked up work here and there, enough to keep me in a fleabag by-the-week hotel, but I was starving.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was so certain stardom was just around the corner. This was just gonna be some colorful story about how I paid my dues. I let my dreams take my mind off my growling stomach.” Delbe shook her head in self-disgust. “One day I’m standing on a street corner, singin’ for handouts. This guy saunters up and stuffs ten bucks in my paper cup. Tells me I’m great and I should keep at it. He shows up the next day. And the day after that. I got so I was lookin’ for him. Smilin’ when I see him and wonderin’ if he’s got a special song he’d like to hear. He gives me his card. Says he’s an agent and wants to shop my demo around.” She looked up at Lydia and shrugged. “I didn’t have a demo. I didn’t have jack squat. He said he knew record execs who would be very interested in what he called my ‘fresh sound,’ but I needed that demo disk. Said he’d cut me a favor and produce one for me on the cheap. That’s how much he believed in me. All I had to do was sign with him and get him three thousand bucks.”

  Delbe spoke so softly Lydia needed to lean in to hear her. “So I signed the papers he gave me and had myself an agent. And I went looking for money. I needed that demo, so I borrowed the three thousand and started writing songs like crazy. That took time away from pickup jobs and singin’ on the street corner, so I borrowed a little more, just to get me by. I thought I’d be landing a record deal any day now and pay everything back. I’d heard my dad talk about it all the time growing up. ‘Leverage your credit.’ ‘Secure your cash flow.’ Hell, they borrowed. I figured why not me?”

  Lydia imagined the type of lender who would be willing to deal with an underemployed high school dropout. “But it snowballed?”

  Delbe huffed in disgust. “More like avalanched. Interest on interest on interest. Late fees. More and more and more money.” She shook her head. “That’s one job I never should have taken. And I guess I don’t need to tell you I never got in to any record execs. Never saw the inside of a studio. There was no demo. He was a con man. Took my money, hung around long enough to see if I could get more, and when I started asking questions he didn’t want to answer, he laughed in my face, told me to go back to whatever hay wagon I fell off. By then I was so in debt there was no way I could make it. So I called my folks, begged them for a ticket home, and back I came.”

  “But the debt followed you?”

  Delbe’s eyes, already brushed with tears, filled with fear. “These folks follow you to the grave, Dr. C. There’s no getting away from it.”

  “Have you thought about bankruptcy? Have you spoken to an attorney? Maybe your parents can help you line up—”

  “My parents can never know,” Delbe interrupted. “I’m already a Class A fuckup in their eyes. And there’s no bankrupting these bills. This is mine to deal with. I dug this hole. That’s why I work so many hours. That’s why I practically dance a jig for extra tips.” She hung her head again. “And that’s why I keep the change when the high schoolers send me on a beer run. My dreams might sound simple to you, Dr. C. But they may as well be on the moon.”

  Lydia watched her patient reach for a tissue, dab her eyes, and blow her nose. She imagined the helplessness Delbe felt, the hopelessness her growing debt must represent to her. It had taken her six sessions to feel comfortable enough to share her shame with Lydia. She wanted to lighten the burden, if only in this moment.

  “It occurs to me now,” Lydia said, “I’ve never heard you sing. I’d like to remedy that.”

  Delbe signaled her confusion through puffy eyes. “What? You mean, like, now? You want me to sing for you now?”

  “I don’t want you leaving here feeling stuck in this hole. Singers sing. Let’s hear one.”

  Delbe’s confusion continued. “What song? What if I don’t know it?”

  “Sing me one you do know. Sing the song you know better than any other.”

  “You mean, like, my favorite?”

  “I’d love to hear your favorite song.”

  Delbe took a
nother tissue and wiped her face. She sat up straighter on the sofa. She looked down, then up, drew in a deep breath, and began. Lydia expected to hear an original creation. Instead, she heard one familiar to her; one of her own favorite songs. Delbe delivered it with a throaty, raspy alto as though she was born to sing the blues.

  “I can’t make you love me if you don’t.

  You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.”

  Lydia was stunned by the magnitude of her patient’s talent. She wanted to hear more, but Delbe had lowered her head. Her sobs were full now, as though the evidence of her own gift rubbed her nose in what she had lost to teenaged impatience.

  “Take a deep breath, Delbe.” Lydia leaned back. “We’re going to find a way to fix this.”

  Chapter 14

  “It’s a snuff film.” Schuster leaned his six-foot-four self against the jamb of Mort’s office. He had the kind of body suggesting every hour not spent heading up Seattle’s Vice Unit had him involved in some sort of outdoor sport. Skin close to the bone and weathered from time spent in the wind and rain. Brown hair longer than most in the department, shot through with too much gray for a man who hadn’t yet celebrated his fortieth birthday. Mort figured that made sense in his line of work. “We come across them a few times a year. Mostly imports out of Southeast Asia. It’s rare to find one made here in the U.S. This is the first I’ve come across filmed in Seattle.”

  “Thanks for the intro.” Jimmy DeVilla looked like a man who needed some sleep. “But we get out from time to time.”

  Mort balked at his friend’s hostility. Schuster was a good man who’d risen quickly through the ranks and was known throughout the department as an even-tempered, smart cop who didn’t let the ugliness of his job jade his general respect for people.