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The next time I saw my wife she was dead.
Chapter Fifteen
Melanie
The next time I see Vanessa, her chest is bandaged, and her eyes are vacant. We’re seated in a small room with a clear glass wall separating us. A man in a white coat stands to my right. He explains that it’s his lab assistant I see sitting with Vanessa. I watch the two of them until Vanessa’s eyes meet mine. I don’t know what I was expecting—a smile maybe, the finger, I don’t know. But definitely something more along the lines of our first encounter. What I got was indifference. So not even close.
“Is she all right?”
He assures me Vanessa is fine.
The first lesson in The Good Book—that is literally what it is called—is: Seek mastery in all areas. The man in the lab coat opens to it, and points. “That’s our ethos,” he says. “Mastery.”
I watch as his assistant places wires on Vanessa’s arms.
“That’s the lesson we are focusing on today.”
“What’s the difference between The Good Book and the agreement?”
He cocks his head. “You don’t know?”
I could lie. But I’m hungry, and it feels like too much effort. “I want to make sure.”
“The agreement is a part of The Good Book. It’s an admission saying you adhere to it.”
“Right.”
“Any other questions before we get started?”
“Can she hear you in there?”
“Same as you can.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m Dr. Mueller.”
I don’t introduce myself. I take it he knows who I am. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Instead, I stare at the switchboard in front of me. I count thirty buttons.
“Shock therapy,” he tells me.
“Seriously?” I could be in a movie. I could be in a book. I could be anywhere. All my life, I wanted it to be interesting, and now it is.
“That there,” he motions, “is a shock generator. Each switch,” he points to them one by one, “renders anywhere from 10 to 50 milliamps.”
I lean forward and touch one of the switches lightly. “Does it hurt?”
“On the low end, not so much. On the high end…well, it’s no picnic.”
I glance at Vanessa. She doesn’t look at me.
“We’re going to work on mastering our emotions this morning.”
I decide right now might not be the best time to tell him I don’t have emotions.
“I understand Mrs. Bolton stole from you.”
I shrug.
“Well,” he says. “Did she or did she not?” Dr. Mueller gives me the once-over, as though he’s accessing my intelligence. “It’s a very simple question, Mrs. Anderson. We only make things complicated with our answers.”
“She did.”
