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PSYCHOPATHIC BEHAVIOR AND OTHER EXTREME MENTAL
DISORDERS. He treated his patients at Seattle Psychiatric Hospital—SPH. A mental hospital. The words on the tiny screen blurred before Emma’s eyes. Had Thayer been admitted to a mental hospital? Is that why he had a tattoo of an eagle on his arm? And what did that say about the state he’d been in on the night of Sutton’s disappearance?
I thought again about how furious Thayer had been when he’d chased me down the trail. It was like something in him had truly snapped. Or maybe like he’d gone off his medication.
Emma picked up Sutton’s cell with shaking fingers and dialed the main number listed for the hospital. A ring sounded in her ear before a woman picked up and announced, “Seattle Psychiatric.”
“I’m calling to see if you’ve treated a patient there,” Emma said. “His name is—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s confidential. We can’t give out patients’ names.” An annoyed click sounded from the other end.
Duh. Of course they weren’t going to give out that kind of information. Emma ran a hand through her hair, wondering how she was going to find this out. A garbage truck rumbled past. The wind kicked up, bringing with it the mingled scents of rotting trash and flowers from the gardens. Emma peered at the gas station across the street again, searching for the phantom shadow. When she was certain no one was there, she cleared her throat and redialed the same number.
“Seattle Psychiatric.” This time it was a man’s voice.
“I’m calling to speak to Dr. Sheldon Rose,” Emma said, assuming a professional tone.
“Can I tell him who’s calling?” The voice sounded bored, as though he wanted to be anywhere in the world other than a reception desk.
“Dr. Carole Sweeney,” Emma said, pulling a doctor’s name out of thin air. It was the name of her favorite pediatrician—and she’d had at least a dozen of them.
During the ten months she’d lived with a foster family in northern Nevada, Dr. Sweeney treated Emma and the six other children in the foster home. Their foster mom couldn’t afford a babysitter, so every time one of the six got sick, she lugged them all to her office. Dr. Sweeney’s waiting room was full of rainbow-colored building blocks, tattered stuffed animals, and coloring books scattered across a red plastic table in the center. When Emma and her foster siblings used to chase each other around the table, making tons of noise, Dr. Sweeney never yelled at them.
“Please hold,” said the male voice.
Emma’s heart pounded. Piano music tinkled through the phone as she waited.
“Dr. Rose’s office,” a woman’s voice said.
“Is the doctor available?” Emma tried to sound rushed and important.
“No, he’s not in, can I take a message?”
“Who am I speaking with?” Emma asked.
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line.
“This is Penny, Dr. Rose’s nurse,” the voice finally said.
“This is Dr. Carole Sweeney from Tucson Medical,” Emma blurted. She kept her voice urgent, as though she was in the middle of a life-or-death situation. “I’ve just admitted a patient by the name of Thayer Vega. He’s in bad shape.”
“Bad shape? What do you mean?”
Emma felt a twinge of guilt. She hated lying like this.
But I was impressed. Was this the same girl who used to question the morality of the Lying Game and the pranks we pulled? And here she was impersonating a doctor—
which had to be ill egal—while trying to learn confidential medical information. My, my, how playing Sutton Mercer had changed her.
“He’s, um, unconscious,” Emma went on. “I just need to know the date he was released from your care.” The nurse let out an aggravated breath. “One moment.” Her fingers clicked across computer keys. “Aha. Thayer Vega was in and out of treatment and was released for good on September twenty-first of this year—against doctor’s orders. Now, what did you say your name was?
What hospital are you at?”
Emma quickly hit end. She was suddenly trembling so badly that the phone tumbled from her hands and into the foot well. Disbelief and fear mingled in her mind. It was true.
Thayer had been in a psychiatric hospital … and he’d been in and out of treatment, and then left against doctor’s orders. Uncured. On the loose. He might have been—he might be—a psychopath.
And I might have picked the wrong guy to mess with.
24
WHO DO YOU THINK YOU
ARE?
“Tonight is going to be awesome,” Charlotte said on Friday morning as she and Emma walked down the Holl ier science wing. The air smelled like charred chemicals and gas from Bunsen burners. “Cornelia is planning an awesome meal for us. We’ll meet at my place, eat and get ready, and then head over to set up for the secret party.
Sound good?”
“Sure,” Emma said cautiously, staring down at her bare knee poking through Sutton’s carefully distressed jeans. She’d never understood buying three-hundred-dollar jeans that were made to look old—why couldn’t you just go to Goodwil and get a genuinely worn-in pair?
Uh, because stuff from Goodwil isn’t cool? I didn’t care how savvy Emma was with making cheap stuff look stylish.
Brand names were always king in my world.
“See you later!” Charlotte trilled as they turned to the foreign language wing, peeling off for Spanish class while Emma entered the German room. Faded white chalk marking verb conjugations lingered on the blackboard, and someone had drawn a frowning stick figure with a dream bubble that read I’D RATHER BE ANYWHERE BUT HERE . The faint smell of glue wafted through the air. Emma spotted Ethan slumped in a seat in the corner of the classroom. He glanced up at her and quickly averted his eyes. Her stomach twisted.
