Page 57 of The Wedding Party

But there is no denying the fact that it squeezes my window to question Carrie, as well as her parents, before choosing to charge or not to charge.

Before I can ask a few more questions, Danielle exits the room.

The good doctor—or not so good; I’m undecided—is quick to get lost, while Danielle joins me. “I assume Dr. Mendez explained the situation,” she says.

I don’t confirm or deny anything. “You explain it.”

“All right,” she replies. “Carrie’s suffering post-traumatic distress, as would be expected. From what she’s said to me, I believe she was attacked and ran for her life. We believe the right doctor, one who specializes in such things, can help get to the core of that trauma. Perhaps that doctor can even help her remember what happened last night. Of course, that’s what we all want.”

“Is it?” I ask.

“The unknown is no better for me than it is for you,” she argues. “Knowledge solves this case, the knowledge locked in Carrie’s mind. This is a win-win for both of us, and we both know you don’t want to charge an innocent woman.”

“What I want,” I say, “is to charge and convict the person who brutally stabbed Oliver Phoenix over and over and over again in a fit of passion. And mark my word, I will.”

“It’s not her.”

“We’ll see,” I say.

“Charge her and destroy her life, and we’ll sue you personally.”

“You’re forgetting that I’m a Castle. I don’t intimidate easily. And as a plus, I’m not my father. No one has seduced me into anything.”

Her cheeks heat. “I didn’t seduce him. Quite the opposite.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing, either. I’ll be here at eight.” I turn and head for the exit.

I’ve just entered the lobby when I notice a middle-aged couple fretfully talking to the nurse. “We need to see our daughter. Immediately,” the woman demands.

It’s rather obvious these two people are Carrie’s parents, and Danielle’s claim that they will arrive later tonight was a bunch of baloney.

I approach them and say, “Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds?”

They turn toward me, both of them in casual wear, jeans, and T-shirts, both of them a bit disheveled. The petite woman’s round face angles toward me, piercing blue eyes meeting mine. “And you are?”

The man, who towers over her, his eyes deeply lined, settles a hand on her shoulder. “Yes. And you are?”

I reach into my bag and offer them both cards. “Special Agent Castle. I’m investigating the murder of Oliver Phoenix.”

“What about the attack on our daughter?” Mrs. Reynolds demands. “What about that?”

“I’m investigating the case in its entirety,” I reply.

“We’re not talking to you without our attorney present,” Mr. Reynolds declares.

“All right,” I say easily, quite used to these kinds of roadblocks. “But please know that I have to decide whether to charge Carrie within the next forty-eight hours. I’ll be pressured to charge. Everything you can do to help me, and give me a reason not to do so, is in Carrie’s best interest.”

“She didn’t do this,” Mrs. Reynolds maintains, her voice cracking in the aftermath of her sharp tone. “And she was cut. She was hiding. Carrie was naked and hiding.”

“I’m the one who found her,” I explain. “I’ll be happy to explain the details if we can just sit down and talk. I’m not her enemy right now.”

“Right now,” Mr. Reynolds states. “But you might become her enemy.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I respond. “Even if she did this, there could be more to the story than I can see now.”

“She’s not insane,” Mrs. Reynolds interjects. “She’s not insane, and I hope like hell no one is saying that to her.”

It’s an interesting thing to hope for. “Why?” I ask. “Would that suggestion upset her?”