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“Same with me,” he said.
“Ever get flashbacks?” she asked.
“I think so but I can’t be certain. Memory is a tricky thing.”
She frowned. “But you do remember details like the laundry cart.”
“Any cop will tell you eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable.”
She took her attention off the staircase and gave him a speculative look. “You think that whatever happened here on this staircase and at the Institute is connected to that night you lost in San Diego, don’t you?”
“The writer in me doesn’t like coincidences, but logic tells me I have to allow for the element of random chance.” He drank some coffee and lowered the cup. “I should also make room for the possibility that my family might be right. Maybe I’m having some version of a nervous breakdown.”
Her brows rose. “Pretty sure that term is no longer used to describe psychological disorders.”
“Semantics. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do, and even by your out-of-date terminology it’s safe to say your diagnosis is wrong.”
He looked at her. “What makes you so sure?”
“I think it’s clear that the common understanding of a so-called nervous breakdown is that when stress becomes so overwhelming an individual can no longer function well enough to deal with normal life. He can’t work. Can’t make plans. Can’t focus. He retreats from the world.”
“You just described my life. I’m late on a book and I haven’t written a page since before the sleep study. I’m in danger of single-handedly destroying my career. I’m avoiding my family and my agent and my editor. And, oh, yeah, my ex dumped me.”
“You have been forced to shift priorities,” Pallas said. “That is a very different matter. You are trying to research the mysteries in your own past and, oh, by the way, you need to solve a couple of murders to achieve that goal. To that end you have developed a strategy, i.e., drag theLost Night Filespodcast crew into the investigation. You conducted a test of the investigator who showed up at the scene of the crime and concluded she was for real. Said investigator, despite being pissed off, has agreed to assist you. We are now moving forward with a coherent strategy. I’d say you’ve definitely got your act together. You are not falling apart.”
He watched her for a long moment. “Hadn’t thought about it in that light.”
“Obviously. So here we are at the start of a new investigation forThe Lost Night Files.” Pallas cleared her throat. “You do realize we’re a bunch of amateurs, right? I mean, you’re not under the impressionthat my friends and I are trained journalists or licensed private investigators, are you?”
“Nope. I think I mentioned I used to be in the security business before I got the cool writing gig. I know how to run a basic background check. Frauds tend to leave a lot of red flags behind.”
“So why come to us instead of hiring professionals?”
“Two reasons. The first is that I doubt a professional would believe my story. The second is that I have a reputation to protect. I can’t afford to have my publisher and my agent conclude that I’m a whack job who believes in the paranormal.”
“How will you explain contactingThe Lost Night Files?”
Ambrose smiled. “That’s easy. I’m doing research for a Jake Crane book.”
Pallas narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll mentionThe Lost Night Filesin the acknowledgments.”
“Gee, thanks.” She turned her attention back to the staircase. “All right, you gave me an outline of what happened last night at dinner. Walk me through it again.”
“A couple of weeks ago I got a message from a guy named Emery Geddings telling me he had information about what happened during my sleep study at the Institute. He reminded me that he had been on duty as Dr.Fenner’s assistant that night. He promised to give me hard evidence of what was going on at the Institute. He wanted money. A lot of it. I agreed to pay him but I insisted on verifying the so-called evidence first. He set up the meeting here at the asylum.”
“Did he say anything about a death at the Institute?” Pallas asked.
“No, but he indicated he had information regarding something that had happened to me. That was enough to get my attention.”
“What time were you supposed to meet Geddings here?”
“He stipulated midmorning because there would probably be fog. Less chance of someone noticing my car. That was fine by me. I live in the Sonoma wine country. It’s about a three-hour drive to Carnelian. I got here at eight thirty. When I arrived there was no other vehicle parked in front of the asylum. I figured Geddings was late. I came inside to wait. He never showed up. I assumed he had changed his mind. But something felt off.”
“Such as?”
