AMUTUALADDICTION

PREVIEW

MARYWIDDICKS

http://marywiddicks.com

INSOMNIA

Copyright2019

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,businesses,places,eventsandincidentsareeithertheproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,oractualeventsispurelycoincidental.Opinionsexpressedarethoseofthecharactersanddonotnecessarilyreflectthoseoftheauthor.

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PRAISEFORAMUTUALADDICTION

“Emotional, eerie, and delightfully demented, AMutual Addiction worms its way into your psycheand refuses to relent until the final breathtakingpage.”

—MEGHANO’FLYNN,BEST-SELLINGAUTHOROFTHEASHPARKSERIES.

“Atwistedtaleoflovelostandobsessiongained,AMutualAddictionwillappealtofansofMaryKubicaandKarinSlaughter.”

—WENDYHEARD,AUTHOROFHUNTINGANNABELLE

“Getreadytocheckyourmoralcompassatthedoorfora fewhours,and thenprepare tobe terrifiedofwhatyouseeinthiscompulsivelyreadablebook.”

—TRACIEMARTIN,AUTHOROFFOLLOWMEDOWN

AMUTUALADDICTIONPREVIEW

“WhatIwantistobeneeded.WhatIneedistobeindispensable to somebody. Who I need issomebodythatwilleatupallmyfreetime,myego,my attention.Somebody addicted tome.Amutualaddiction.”

—CHUCKPALAHNIUK,CHOKE

I

CHAPTER1

thadbeen3,684dayssincegroundskeepersloweredMax’sbodyintothegroundandasmanynightssinceCressida last dreamed. Ten years. Each time

Cressidagaspedherfirstbreathinthemorningitwaslikebeingpulled from thewater,her lungs fighting forair,herbody learning to live again. It was rebirth without thetransformation, without the novelty. The doctors called itAphantasia, but Cressida called it purgatory: slow,torturousemptiness.

The stiff leather of her wingback chair groaned asCressida leaned forward tostraightenamagazineon thecoffeetable infrontofher.Ontheotherside,Mr.Hamishdrummedhis thick fingersagainst thewoodenarmof thecouch.Therewasdirt groundunder his nails that lookedlike it hadbeen there for a decade.He could havebeenoneofthemenwhoburiedMaxthatday,except,likemostofherpatients,he’dlivedinSilversideallhislifeandMaxhaddiedthousandsofmilesaway.

The clock on the office wall read 6:52 a.m. CressidanoddedherheadintimewithHamish’sthumpingandsankinto the mahogany leather, her eyelids as heavy as herthoughts. Sunlight streamed through the bay windowsbehindthesofa.Dawnwastheonlytimeofdaywhenher

officewasalightwithcolor:theredwoodofthecouch,thegold lettering on the spines of her books, the auburn ofCressida’ssleek,shoulder-lengthbob.Cressidatippedherfaceintothewarmth.ThebeautifulviewwaveredandwasreplacedbyMr.Hamish’sopaquesilhouette rockingbackandforthagainstthesofa.

Hestoppedpoundingand raisedahand tohis sandybeard.“Whatd’yathinkitmeans,Dr.Dunhill?”

Cressida’s eyes flicked to his face. “Which part,exactly?”

“Thewhole damn thing. It don’tmake no sense.” Hisbrown eyes narrowed into his tanned face. “I fall off mypa’scrabbin’boatandatfirstI’mjustinm’skivvies,butthewaterain’tcold. I’mswimmin’ toshorewhensummitpullsmeunder.Itakeaswing,thinkin’itmustbeafuckingtiger—”

“Atiger?”“Shark.Andabig’untoo.”Cressidanodded.“Goon.”“SoI’mkickin’an’fightin’butIain’tfeltnothin’.Noteeth

ornothin’.SoIturn‘roundandallsIseeisthisfluffypinkcloud.”Hiseyeswerewideenoughtoseethepalescleraaround his irises, milky white and tinged with red. He’dbeen sleeping worse than usual lately. Usually the vividdreams were merely a nuisance to the no-nonsensefisherman, a force to be reckoned with and healed by adoctorlikeacancer,buttodaysomethingwasdifferent.Hishandsshookinhislap.

TheleatherchairwhimpereditsexcitementasCressidaselected a pen from theMason jar on the tall end tablebeside her, straightening the container ever so slightlywhen she was done. For once, it might be worth takingnotes.Thepenwasfadedblackmetal,andheavy,withasilverbandaroundthemiddleandasilverclipatthetop.It

was thesamepenshe’dadmiredher firstday in therapy,theoneMaxhadused todescribeCressida inhisnotes:angry,suicidal,alone.

Cressida wrapped her fingers around the pen. Thefamiliar contours of the instrument were comforting, atalismanofthepowerMaxhadpassedontoher.Heonceused thepen to labelCressida, to literallydefineher,butnowshewashereandhewasn’t.

Now the pen belonged to Cressida, and she wasn’tangryanymore.

Shescratchedthewornpenacrossthenotepadinherlap,thesoundlikewhitenoiseinherbrain.Comfortingandfocusing.“Soyou’rebeingpulledintothedepthsbyapinkcloud?”

Hamishreleasedhisbreathanditwhistledthroughthestragglyhairsabovehistoplip.“No.That’swhatI’mtryin’totellya.Itwasadress.Abigfluffyonelikemywifeworeatourweddin’.”

“Adress?”Cressida’seyebrowspeaked.Hamishdidn’tknowhow luckyhewas tohaveunfetteredaccess tohissubconsciousmind, toall thepiecesofhimself thatweretoo overwhelming to process during the bright, wakinghours.Alifewithoutdreamswaslikesnow-blindness.

“Yeah. Is it a bad sign, Doc?” Hamish wrung hiscallusedhandstogetherandbouncedhiskneeagainstthecoffee table. The smell of perspiration and Pacific seawaterfilledtheroomlikehe’dsqueezeditfromhispores.

Cressida rolled the pen along the seam of hernotebook.Afterweeksofbanal, stress-induced insomnia,Mr. Hamish had finally presented a proper puzzle.Cressida’s tired brain sputtered to life. “Dreams, Mr.Hamish,canmeana lotof things,and theyaren’talwaysthemostobviousinterpretationofevents.”

“Whatd’yamean?”

“Dreamsareoftenabackdoortoourconsciousness.Afilter through which we can deal with things that wouldotherwise be too scary. Like wearing special glasses tolookatthesunduringaneclipse.”Cressida’svoicetrailedoff. Interpreting dreams was a lot like piecing together apuzzleupsidedown.Shelovedthemomentshewasabletoflipitoverandrevealherhandiworktoherpatients.

Hamishshifted.“Soyou’resayin’ itmightnotreallybe‘boutmewearin’apoofydress?”

Asmilepulledat thecornersofCressida’smouth. “I’dsaythere’sagoodchancethat’sthecase,Mr.Hamish.”

His hands dropped to his lap and he wiped the soursweat onto his brown corduroys. “That’s good ‘causemywifean’mejustfoundoutlastweekthatouroldestboyisgay.That’saboutallthebadnewsIcanhandle.”

Cressida’slegssaggedbeneaththenotepad,upsettingthe pen and sending it skittering to the floor. Such asplendidly intricate dream reduced to a paltry show ofcasualhomophobia.Someveilswerethinnerthanothers.A cloud passed across the sun and the office dimmedagain.Almost into obscurity. The promise of another daywasgone.

“Then again,” Cressida said, “sometimes dreams areexactlywhattheyseem.”

Hisfaceblanched.“Whatdoyamean?”Cressidastaredat theblackpenthathadsettledonto

the sea of beige carpet. The exhaustion crept back overherliketheshadowsacrosstheoffice.Itwasallwrong,thepristinerugcontrastedagainsttheantiquatedpenandMr.Hamish’smuddyshoesbouncingbehindit.Itwasgoingtobe another day like all the rest. Cold, monotonous, andendless.Dreamsbelongedtothosewhofeltthewarmthofthe sun, to those who occupied the land of the living.Death was the opposite of dreaming. Cressida was

somethingelseentirely: toobroken todreamandyet toohumannottohopeformore.Itwasn’tfair.

Hamishcoughedintohissleeveandusedittowipehisnose.Alongwith the chill came the thoughts ofMax.Hemovedwith the shadows and thewind.Maxwould havehated Hamish the way Cressida hated the mud on thecarpet, both blemishes on their otherwise orderly worlds.She glared at the pen. Hamish might be simple, but atleasthewantedtochange.Theyhadthatincommon.

Cressidaraisedhereyesandpinchedahalfsmileintoplace. “Well, obviously you’re having some troubleaccepting your son’s sexuality and it’s seeping into yoursubconscious.Maybe next week we should spend sometime talking about why you feel that him being gay isdraggingyoudownintothewater.”

Hamish coughed and the sound rattled in his lungs.“Butitdon’tmeanI’mqueertoo,then?”

Cressida squeezed her hands tight in her lap. All herpatientswantedwasaconnection,justasmallmomentina sea of anonymity when they could feel known. It waswhytheycametoher.Theycouldn’tmakeherflinch.Thatwashergifttothem.

Cressidastood,andsteppedaroundthetableto layahand on his tense shoulder. “No, I think you’re probablysafethere.”Ithadtakenheryearstoappreciatethepowerofhumantouchtopullthedesperatebackfromtheedge.Maxnevertaughtherthat.

Asighofreliefwaftedpasttheedgesofthemagazinesfanned out on the table behind them. His cooled breathstankofstalebeerandcigarettes.Everyonehastheirvice.Hereyesdroppedtothepenlyingbyherfeet.Sheturnedher back to the mess, but even as she bid the burlyfishermangoodbyeshecouldfeelMaxbreathingdownherneck.

When she finally closed the door between them, shebent forward and pressed her forehead against thepolished wood, and her eyelids sagged. The restlessnights had taken their toll on her sleep. The emptinesswasn’t always so bad. There were times she felt almostnormal,butthepainandthelossseemedtoebbandwainlikethecyclesofthemoon.Latelyitwasallshecouldthinkabout. She squeezed her eyes shut. Exhaustion wasbleeding her dry and soon she would disappearcompletely.

Butnottoday.Cressidastalkedbacktotheplacewherethepenhad

fallentothecarpetandstoopedtopickitup.“No, Max, not today.” She laughed out loud at the

absurdityofherownvoicebouncingoffthebarrenwallsofan empty office, squatting beside an inanimate object,imagining it held a power her rational brain knew to beimpossible.Ridiculous.Ifshecouldn’trestsoon,shemighthave to consider sleeping pills again. The pen was coldagainst her skin, and a chill ran down her spine as sherecalledthefirsttimeshetouchedit.ThenightMaxdied.

The air in the car that night had been frigid and herbreathhadswirled fromheropenmouth likesmoke fromthejawsofadragon.Shehadn’tevenneededapenatthetime, but she had wanted it. And her heart had flutteredwhenshe’d taken it fromMax’spocket.Crouchednow inher office, her pulse quickened again. Every sensationleadinguptothemomentshestolehispenlingeredinhermind,crispandnew—andthennothing.Snow-blind.

Fast forward ten years and shewas still lost, floatingthrough life in a haze of sleep deprivation. And yetsomehow she had washed up on the shores beneath asand-blastedpsychiatricfacilitytheresidentsofSilverside,Oregon referred to as The Mermaid Asylum. Nestled

againstthebeach,theformerinpatientpsychiatrichospitalwas once home to a patient who believed she was amermaid, completewith a seashell bra. She had tried toswim home to the mermaid kingdom one night, and herbody had washed up on the beach behind the building,drowned.

ThelegendofTheMermaidAsylumhungoverthetownlikea fog,but tragedycalledpeople to thebuilding likeasiren.ItwasthekindofplaceCressidamighthaveendedupinanother life.If ithadn’tbeenforMax.Workingthereeverydaywasalmostlikelivinginherveryown,veryvividnightmare. And it was the main reason Cressida hadchosenSilverside to start over. To search for the cure toherAphantasia.Thewaybacktothelandoftheliving.

Cressidawalked thepenback to itsplaceon thesidetable beside her day planner. She wasn’t feeling veryhopefulthatmorning.Shewasstillalone,apartfromduringhersessions.Onlythendidshefeelthehealingpowerthather profession had bestowed upon her. She wasindispensabletoherpatients.Important.Thatwasgoingtohave to be enough. She could fix them even if she wasbeyondsaving.Besides,shecouldthinkofnobetterplaceto disappear than an old mental institution turnedpsychologyoffice.

Keysjangledontheothersideofherofficedoor.Mustbe the therapist across the hall. Dr. Roger Banks hadhousedhismentalhealthpracticeinthatsamebuildingforthelastthirtyyears,almostaslongasCressidahadbeenalive,andhad lived in theapartmentabove foralmostaslong. Cressida had never been upstairs, but the peelingwalls and creaking floors of the ground level were areminder of the institution’s checkered history. Roger’sliving arrangements seemed an unhealthy lack ofboundariesbetweenthepersonalandprofessional,buthe

appearedlargelyunaffected.Aknockfromtheofficedoorbrokethesilence,making

herjump.“Justaminute,please.”Cressida quickly leafed through the moleskin

appointmentbook.Her7:00a.m.wasearly.Anewpatient.Sparse notes in themargins gave almost no informationaboutwhowasabouttowalkthroughthedoor:29yearoldViolaMarquis,paranoid?ThehandwritingwasCressida’s,but she couldn’t remember speaking with the patient; itmusthavebeenanotherreferralfromRoger.

Cressida gripped the brass handle hard and swungopenthedoor.“Sorryforthewait.Comeonin.”

Her limited notes had described the girl on the othersideofthedoorasbeingtwenty-nine,threeyearsyoungerthan Cressida, but this girl was dressed like a teenager.Hertie-dyedtanktopandfloor-lengthskirtbillowedasshewhisked into the room, giving the impression she hadjeweled wings on her shoes. Cressida shut the doorbehindherandleanedherbackagainstitasshewatchedthegirlfloattowardthesofa.

Thegirl’sskinwasbronzed,andhereyeswerehaloedbythesubtlesthintsofcreases,likeshe’dspenthershortlifetime squinting out to sea. She plopped onto the palesofawithaflutteringofemeraldandrubyfabric.Therewasglitter all over her.On her eyes, in her short, blond hair,andspillingdown the frontofher low-cut top.Shewasn’twearingabra.ThisgirlwasnotCressida’stypicalclienteleofroughtowniesanddisenfranchisedyouths.Shewasrawand exposed like the fresh, pink skin that emerges afteryoupickanoldscab.

Cressidaconcentratedon the feelofher longsleevesagainstherarmsandtuggedtheconcealingfabricoverherwrists. She could hear Max’s voice in her head. Youshouldn’tpickscabs.It’showscarsareformed.

“AmIearly?”Thegirl’svoicewasbreathylikeshe’drunupaflightofstairseventhoughtheywereonthefirstfloor.Hercheekswereflushed.

“No.You’rerightontime.”Cressidatookherseatintheleatherchairoppositethegirlandstaredatthefloor.Thereweretinyshardsofglitterworkingtheirwayintothecarpetfibers, grinding down so deep that no vacuum couldrecover them. This was worse than the mud. Her heartthumped against her chest in a way that was distantlyfamiliar and yet beyond her conscious recollection. Likehearing a lullaby from childhood. Max would not haveapproved.

Cressidareachedforthetablewithouttakinghereyesfromthegirlandretrievedherpen.Shewasincontrolnow.“DoyoupreferMs.MarquisorViola?”

“JustVee.”“Ok, Vee. Would you like to tell me a little bit about

yourself?”Thegirlpursedher lips toonesideandshruggedher

shoulderslikeachild.“There’snotmuchtotell.Iwasbornand raised here in Silverside. Just your average, boring,small-towngirl.”

“I’msurethatisn’ttrue.”Cressidafollowedtheflickeringglitterhoveringaroundthegirl likeacrown.“Whatdoyoudoforaliving,Vee?”

“I teachpart timeat the localpreschooland I’vebeenhelping out onmy father’s fishing boatmostmornings toearnsomeextracash.”

“Commercial fishing? That sounds like a very uniquevocation.”

Veescratchedhernosewithalongfingernailthatmusthavemade it very difficult to haul fishing nets out of theocean.Raisedonthewildsea,thegirlwaslikeagoddesscursedtowalktheeartheventhoughshehadnoideahow

toblendin.Practicalitywasnotapriorityforthisgirl.“Notaroundhereitisn’t.”

“Okay.Thenwhydon’twestartwithwhyyou’rehere?”Thelightfromtherisingsuncastarainbowofshadows

acrossthegirl’sface.Cressida’ssmallofficewasadrearyocean of sand and dirt, perpetually bland until thiswaternymphofagirlsplashedsomuchcolor intoeverycornerthatitwasalmostblinding.Shewasthedawnontwolegs.

Vee tuckedher feetunderheron thesofa,hershoesscrapingagainsttheroughfabric.“Well, likeIsaidwhenIcalled theotherdoctor,myboyfriend thinks I’mparanoid,and I finally decided to call his bluff.” She giggled, andCressida’searspricked.Shewaslying.Orhewasanidiot.Someone who was paranoid would want to hide theiremotions for fear that others might misinterpret them, orthey might mask their fears with what they deemed the“correct”response.Thisgirlwasdoingneither.

“Paranoidisaprettystrongword.Whatdoyouthink?”“I think he’s a liar and a fucking cheater.” Bingo. A

flutter of excitement gripped Cressida’s stomach. Sheexhaled with as much control as she could muster. Shecountedthesecondsbetweenbreaths.One.Two.Three.

Finally,Cressidainhaledagain.“Thenwhycomehere?Whynotjustbreakupwithhim?”

Vee tipped her head as if that were a satisfactoryresponsetothequestion.Clearly,thegirlwantedCressidato wonder about her, to yearn for more. Around here,peoplemust have thought shematerialized from anotherplanet.

Cressida grippedMax’s pen hard, and she could feelhim itching to darken the clean, white page of hernotebook with thoughts about this girl: a diagnosis, atreatment, a judgment. Max was always logical. Alwaysthinking. Cressida’s mind was no longer sticky and

sluggish. The promise of the dawn had finally delivered.Thisgirlwasn’t soeasy todecrypt asHamishhadbeen.Vee was something new, and her dreams had yet todisclosehersecrets.Cressidaheldhertongueandwaitedfor Vee to tell her more, to reach out for that universalconnection. Even the darkest mysteries eventuallyrevealedthemselves,themostwillfuleventuallybeggedtosubmit.

Vee’s eyes wandered the room as freely as her skirthad flowed when she’d entered the office. She wascompletelywithout restraintandyet totally in control.Hereyes danced from Cressida’s face to the floor-to-ceilingbookshelvesandfinallylandedonarowoftatteredbooksalong the top shelf. Her eyebrows lifted. All the classicswere there: Homer, Sophocles, Virgil. Shakespeare andChaucer. The ancient volumes were the only literatureamong the shelves of crisp, new textbooks, diagnosticmanuals, and academic journals: worn islands among aseaoftheunsullied.

Thegirlstoodfromthecouchandapproachedthewideshelves that spanned the wall of the office. Cressida’sspine stiffened as Vee browsed the shelves, running herfingersalongthetidyrowsofjournalsandtextbooks.Mostpatients barely glanced at Cressida’s shelves, as if theircontentsweremerelyabackdropbeforewhichtoplayouttheirfantasyofwhattherapywassupposedtobelike.Thebooks provided façadeof safety and control that allowedher patients to see Cressida as she wanted to beperceived.Shewasahealer.

ButVee’s fingers—searching, intimate,andviolating—probedtheillusionlikenoonehadbotheredbefore.Itwasas if Vee hadwalked her hands over each ofCressida’svertebra aswell.Cressidawanted to stop her,wanted toshoutathertositbackdown,butthatwouldn’thavebeen

professional. It wouldn’t have been allowed. TheexcitementinCressida’sstomachsouredandtheairintheroomtastedstale.Thegirltouchedeverything,leavingheroil,herskin,andherfuckingglitterinherwake.

“You don’t have any photos around.” The girl spokemoretoherselfthantoCressida.Veetippedabookawayfromtheshelfandfrownedatthecover.Notenoughcolor,perhaps.Twenty-nineyearsold.Thisgirlwasmore likeachild.

Cressida spoke softly through gritted teeth. “This is aplaceofbusiness.”Shefoldedherarms,sweatticklingthebackofherneck,andhuggedhershirttoherchest.“Iliketokeepitthatway.”

Cressidawasnotprepared,not incontrol.Shewasatthemercyofthisimpulsivegirl,helplesslywatchingasVeetrapesed across her borders and dragged long hiddenfeelingsalongwithher.Cressida’s skinprickledwith coldsweat. The Emptiness from earlier that morning mighthavebeenpreferabletothis.

Vee stretched onto her toes, pulled down a blueleather-boundcopyofTheAeneidandflippedthroughthepages. Dust sprang from the thin paper as her fingerstracedthewords.Cressidasuckedcleanairintoherlungsandheldherbreath.Ithadbeenyearssinceshe’dtouchedthoseparticularbooks.Noteventoclean.

Unable to part with the books completely, she’d laidthem to rest on her highest shelves. Reminders of herpast.LikeMax’spen.Souvenirsweretheclosestthingshehad to dreams, but now their filth invaded the room,trickling down from the ceiling like black snow. Cressidascratcheddeeptremblingmarksacrossthepagewith thetipofMax’spen.Boundaries.

“Iwouldn’thavepeggedyoufora fanof theclassics.”Veeclosedthebookandcurledarounditonthesofaasif

she was lounging in her own living room. Her dirty feetrestedon the sofa cushion, real sandmeeting the sandyhueofthefabric.

Cressida’s skin crawled. Cressida had neverencounteredapatient likeVeebefore,neverbeen testedsomercilessly.Was thishowMaxhad felt abouther thatfirstday inhisoffice.Angry.MaybeCressidahadshakenMaxthewaythisgirlhadunsettledher.Vee.Whatkindofnamewasthat,anyway?

Cressidatookadeepbreathandfocusedonthetaskathand. She tapped the back of the pen to the paper andwith each thump she repeated two words. No past. Nopresent. No future. Just this. Just Vee, the puzzle nowscatteredacross the sofa.Calmshimmeredover her liketheglitterthatemanatedfromthegirl.Shehadcomehereforareason,foraconnection.Justlikeeveryoneelse.ShewasnothingmorethanHamishwrappedinglitterypaper.

Cressidaneededawayintohermind.Justafoothold.“Whatdoyouthinkthebooksimply?”

Vee ranher fingersalong thegoldembellishmentsonthefrontcoverofthebook.Herlongnailsscrapedacrossthewornleatherwithasofthiss.Cressidaheldherbreathand the tension between them hung in the air like apoisonous fog. Vee finally met Cressida’s gaze withsavageeyes.

“Thatyou’reafraud.”

B

CHAPTER2

lood rushed to Cressida face, hot andunwelcome.Her fistclenchedaroundMax’spen,the silver clip gouging into her palm. Words

rasped in Cressida’s throat like they weren’t hers. “WhywouldyousayIwasafraud?”

“Because…”Vee’ssapphireeyesmet thecoolgreyofCressida’sandshewrinkledhernose,asifwhatshewasabouttosaydisgustedher.“Bookslikethesearemeanttobeloved,notpackedawayonashelfoutofreach.Andnotsurroundedbyhard linesandsterilewhites.Booksaren’tjust things you own, they own you. Unless you’re justcompletelyfullofshitandonlydisplaythemtotrickpeopleintobelievingyou’remoresophisticatedthanyouare.”

Cressidaclenchedher jawhard tokeepherquiveringchin from giving her away. Patients weren’t supposed toseeherflinch.Herbreathcameinshallowdrags.Shewasoverreacting. Surely, this girl was just another patientlashingoutattheirtherapistinsteadofconfrontingherownproblems. She couldn’t know that Cressida’s blood waspoundinginherears,thatherskinwasonfire,orhowhardsheworked tohideherdisdain for thosebooks. Ithad tobeall inCressida’smind.Maxwouldhavetoldher togetaholdofherself.

Cressidaunclenchedherfistsandturnedherpalmstotheceiling.Sherestedthebacksofherhandsonher lapand willed calm through her body. Patients came toCressidaforhertoreflectbackatthemlikeamirror:one-wayand impenetrable.Theydidn’twant toknowher,andshewashappytooblige.Therelationshiptheycravedwasaboutrelinquishingcontrolandthethrillofnotcaringaboutanything or anyone but themselves. Just for a moment.Thisgirlwasnodifferent.“Youobviouslyfeelverystronglyabout the books. Talk to me about how they make youfeel.”

“They make me feel like I shouldn’t be here.” Vee’seyesflashedbutshemadenomovetoleave.

“Whyisthat?”Veeshruggedandcrossedherfeetontopofthecoffee

table,thecovetedVirgilforgotteninherlap.There was gum stuck to the bottom of her battered

sandal. Cressida’s eyes locked on several red hairs- herhairs- protruding from the smudge of flattened gum.Hairand glitter. Vee must have tracked it from across thecarpet.AndnowshewassittingtherewaitingforCressidato say something, to reclaim the power she seemed tohave lost whenVee touched her books. Yet all Cressidacouldthinkaboutwerethosehairsonhercarpet.

Cressida shook her head. “Tell me about yourboyfriend.Yousaidhethinksyou’reparanoid?”

“I’mnotreallyinthemoodtotalkaboutitanymore.”Something had changed, as if Cressida had failed

some unspoken test. Cressida leaned back against herleather chair. Her instincts were off with this girl. ShescratchedhertemplewiththebackofMax’spen.Perhapsthelackofsleephadfinallydulledherwits.“Well,that’supto you, but you must have come here looking for somekindofanswers.”

“Maybe I was just curious about this place.” Veenodded her head toward the sea, sensing its presencewithoutseeing,as ifeven indoorsshecould feel itcallingtoher.

Disappointment bloomed in Cressida’s gut like arelentlessweed.Somepeoplecouldn’tresistthespectacleof the asylum. Like children to the pied piper, they weredrawntoitssorrow,toitsgrotesquegreyspiresjuttingoutfromamongthecheeryseasidetownlikethehornsoftheKraken. They’dmake any excuse to get inside. Vee hadseemed different, genuine, but maybe she was justanother thrill seeker looking to crossanurban legendoffherbucket list.Cressidasighedandplaced thenotebookon theside tableon topof themoleskinplannerand laidMax’spenoverboth.Dissapointed twice inonemorning.Whataday.

VeewatchedquietlyasCressidaslid thependown tothecenterof thenotebookuntil theanglebetween itandthe top edge was precisely ninety degrees. Cressidacoughed and sent a piece of glitter sparkling into the airbetween her and the girl, catching themorning light andthen falling to the carpet beside the coffee table. Veegiggled.

Thatwasenough.Max wouldn’t have allowed such behavior. Cressida

had other patients who needed her time, who needed arealconnection.Patientswhoneededher.Cressidastood,nearly toppling the leather chair behindher.Thegirlwasmocking her, stealing her time, and violating her things.ShesteppedaroundthetabletowhereVeewassittingandwithout a word, held out her palm for Vee to return thebook.Herfingerstrembledintheairbetweenthem.

Vee smiled before handing it over, unfazed byCressida’s unprofessional reaction.Maybe even pleased.

Therewasasmallgapbetweenherfrontteeth.Itwasthekindofthinganorthodontistshouldhavefixed,makingherflawless. But on this girl it didn’t seem like a flaw. Ormaybeitwasherflawsthatmadehersoinfuriating,andsofascinating.

Thesmellofdust, salt,andsomethingsweet—maybestrawberries—filled thespacearound them,andCressidaturned away to keep from sneezing.Shewalked back totheshelfandstretchedontohertoes.Thegirlhadseemedsodelicateasshedriftedintotheoffice,butshemusthavebeen tallbecauseCressidacouldbarely reach thespaceleft by the bookwithout climbing onto the lowest shelf tohoistthevolumebackintoitsrightfulplace.Veehadmadeitseemsoeffortless.

Cressida’ssleevebrushedtheundisturbedsurfaceandthe white silk came away coated with dust as thick anddarkasash.Shewasoverwhelmedwithanurgetowashherhands.Her skin itchedandCressidawondered if thedust and glitter had invaded her pores. She jammed herhandsintoherpocketsandturnedbacktothegirl.

“Sowherewerewe?”Veewassitting furtherdown thesofa fromwhereshe

hadbeenamomentbefore,herlong,turquoisefingernailstappingagainstthewoodenarm,exactlythewayHamish’shadanhourearlier.Yetthetwopatientscouldn’tbemoredifferent.Hamish’sconstantanddependablepresencehadbeenreplacedbyVee’sfidgetinghandsanddartingeyes.Where he had yearned for Cressida to define him, toground him in reality, Vee refused to conform. She wasmesmerizing to watch like a traffic accident waiting tohappen.

Cressidacockedherheadtothesideandregardedthegirlwithcoolsuspicion.Withoutbreakingeyecontact,Veepickedapieceofglitter fromthesofacushionandheld it

onthepadofherfinger,examiningitforamomentbeforesheblewitintotheairandintooblivion.

“Onsecondthought,Idon’treallyfeelliketalkingatalltoday.”Vee’sbareskinscrapedagainst thebottomof thecushion,asifshehadn’tshavedherlegsinseveraldays.Something inherdemeanorhadshifted likethewindandsuddenly she couldn’t get away from the office fastenough.Herskirtbillowedassheglidedacrosstheroom,running her hand along the soft leather of Cressida’sempty chair on her way toward the door, moving it justenough to throw off the careful angles. A smile creptacrossthegirl’sfaceasCressida’snarrowedeyestrackedheracrosstheroom.

TheprotectivewallofprofessionalismandrestraintthatCressidahadpainstakinglyassembledhadturnedtodust.Shecouldhaveaskedthegirltoleave,butthatwouldhavemeantadmittingdefeat,thatthisgirlwassomehowbeyondher help. Every day since the accident, Cressida hadbattledtoregaincontrol,bothofherprofessionaldaysandher empty nights. The senselessness of it all made herheadspin.ButsurelyVeewasn’theretotoywithher.Shewasjustanormalgirlwithanassholeforaboyfriendandapenchantforwearingtoomuchbodyglitter.Notexactlythestuffofnightmares.

Cressida crossed the room to where the girl stoodwaiting by the door, as if she was asking permission toleave. Daring Cressida to take charge of the interaction.Perhapssheneededa reason tostay. “Your session juststarted.You’rewelcometoleave,butI’mgoingtohavetobillyouforthefullhour.”

Veeshruggedandscrapedherlongnailsalongthedryskinonthebackofherhands.“I’ll justtellmyboyfrienditwas his fault. Maybe he’ll stop making wild accusationsaboutmymentalhealthifheseesthecost.”

Moneywasn’tVee’sweakness,buteveryonehadone.CressidaneededmoretimetofindVee’s.Therehadtobeaway tonailherdown. “Well, if thatdoesn’twork,you’realwayswelcometomakeanotherappointment.”

“Imightdo that.”Shereachedfor thedoorhandlebutpausedbeforeturningthebrassknob.“Onemorething.Allyourdegreesandtheplaqueonyourdoor listyournameasDr.C.Dunhill.”

Cressidaraisedhereyebrowsbeneaththefringeofherstraightbangs.“That’scorrect.”

“What’syourfirstname?”“Cressida.” She’d stopped advertising her first name

becausepatientswerespendingthefirstfifteenminutesoftheir sessionsquestioningherabout itsoriginor trying toimpressherwiththeirknowledgeofGreekmythology.

Veesmiledandnoddedherpixiehead.“Igetitnow.”There itwasagain, the feeling that thisgirl could see

right through her. It was dangerous and exhilarating, likegettingcaughtnakedintheshower.“Whatdoyouget?”

“They’re your parents’ books.” Vee pointed at thebookshelf overCressida’s shoulder.To that shelf. “That’swhy theydon’t belong.”Shebeamedand thesunglintedoff her dangling earrings. Red, orange and yellow beadscascaded down her neck like lava from a volcano. Theylooked homemade. The kind of project doctors assignpatientsinmentalinstitutionstokeeptheirmindsbusy.

“Thebooksweremymother’s.”Cressidabrushedherhairbehindherear,wonderingwhather lobeswould looklikepierced.Hermotherwouldneverhavestoodforsuchathing.

“I knew it! Cressida, from Troilus and Cressida.” Shesighed.“IwishIhadastorybehindmyname,butIdon’t.”

“Viola.Youweren’tnamed for thecharacter inTwelfthNight?”

“Oh God, no. The closest my parents ever got toShakespearewasaMelGibsonmovie. I thinkmaybemymom liked listening to string quartets or something, buttheynevertoldme.ShediedwhenIwasakid.”

“Well,maybeit’sbetterthatyoudon’tknow.Mymotherwasallaboutsubtext,andsometimes it’sbetter thatstuffstaysburied.”Cressida’svoicesoundedfaraway,likeshewasspeakingtoVeefromanotherplane.Ormaybefromadream.Theexhaustionpulledatherlimbsandsheleanedagainstthewallforstability.

“That must make for interesting Thanksgivingconversation.”

“She’sdead.”Cressidabitdownonhercheek.Shewasrevealing too much, becoming a window rather than amirror.Completelyoutofcontrol.Shereachedaroundthegirlandopenedthedoortothehallway.

Veedidn’tbudge.“That’stoobad.”“Not really.” A bead of sweat tickled the back of

Cressida’sknee.Thesunhadrisenhigher in theskyandwas now blaring through the baywindows and casting amolten glare throughout the office. Only Vee’s slenderbodywas spared byCressida’s shadow looming into thefoyer. “If you like Shakespearean names so much, whydon’tyougobyViola?WhyVee?”

“Itjustfeelsmore…likeme.”Veebobbedhershouldersagainanddisappeared into thehallway,herskirt flappingbehindher.

Cressidashookherhead. Itwaspossible thisgirlwasallforshow.Brightswirlsofcolormaskingablankcanvas.Beyond even Cressida’s power to save. Yet her mindracedwithpossibilities.Evennowshehopedthegirlwouldreturnandproveherwrong.Thenervousenergydrainedfrom the room and trailed behind Vee toward the frontdoor, sweptup inher skirt. It didn’tmakeanysense,but

Cressida’s office felt emptier than usual now that the girlwasgone.Emaciated.Hungry.

Cressidaclosedtheofficedoorandsurveyedtheroom.Everything Vee had touched was askew, as if a tinyearthquake had shaken the room upon her arrival.Cressida’s appointment book lay open on the side table,turned to thepage fornextweek.Shewassureshehadnotleftitopen.Shewalkedaroundthebackoftheleatherchair and turned the book around so she could read thewordsetchedontothepage.

Itwasn’tCressida’shandwriting. Itwas larger, floweryand impractical, like the girl herself. Therewere loops intheVofVeeanditwaswrittenacrosstheentireentryfornext Friday. There was no room left for otherappointments.Noorder. In amatter ofminutes,VeehadlefthermarkoneverythinginCressida’scleanlife.Reasonwouldhavehercancelthegirl’snextappointment,butherstomach lurched at the thought. Therewas no reason tosee Vee again. Nothing to be gained. She hadn’t askedCressida for help, only taken what she wanted. YetCressidayearned foronemoresession. Itwasn’t logical.She’dallowedthegirlandtheglittergetunderherskin.

Cressidarippedthepagefromthebookandcrumpledit to the floor. She paced the perimeter of the room,studyingeveryobjectbetweenthesofaandtheofficedoor.TheMason jarbeside theplannerwasoffcenterand thewingback chair was crooked, punching new holes in theBerber carpet.Cressida dropped to her knees in front ofthe heavy chair and repositioned it onto its usual dents.Thenshe fished the tornappointmentpage frombeneaththechair,andflatteditagainstherhand.There.Everythingwasbacktoasitshouldbe.

Stillonherknees,sheloweredherheadtothecrackedleatherofherchairandbreatheddeepandlow—asclose

assheevergot topraying.Oxygen filledher lungs,deepandcool,andshefeltherbloodpressurereturntonormal.Abreak.Sheneededabreak.

Asoftknockonthedoorinterruptedherrespite.Itwasonly 7:30 a.m. Too early for her next appointment. Theknocking intensified until it echoed across the room. Herheartstillthumpedinherchestandtheirritationflowedlikefire in her veins. She didn’t like surprises. Cressidadragged herself to her feet and opened the door to findRoger’s red facesmilingbackatherwithhishorse teethand wooly bear caterpillar eyebrows. He was wearing aLycra topstretchedacrosshiswidechestandshorts thatrevealed the smooth muscles of his thighs. In one handwasabikehelmetand in theotherahalf-emptybottleofyellowGatorade.Dr.RogerBanksbelievedcyclingtotowneverydaywouldmakehimliveforever.Heprobablyshouldhaveknownbetter.

“Goodmorning,DoctorBanks.”“MissDunhill. For the hundredth time, please callme

Roger.” He sighed and scuffed his shoe across thethreshold of Cressida’s office. “I just wanted to check inand see how everything went with Miss Marquis thismorning.”

Cressidasteppedback intoheroffice.“Yes, thankyoufor referringher tome.Sheseems likeahandful,but I’mhopefulIcangetthroughtoher.”

A satisfied smirk oozed across Roger’s face.“Wonderful.Ithoughtshe’dbeagoodfitforyou.”

“Oh?Whydoyousaythat?”Rogergrinned.“Becauseofherdreams.”“Dreams?”“Yeah,whenshecalledreceptionlastweekitwasasif

you were tailor-made for each other, given your unusualinterest in dream analysis.” His thin hair circled the bald

spotonthetopofhisheadlikeawhirlpool,Charybdisonhisscalp,waitingtoswallowher.

The thought of theGreekmyth remindedCressida ofVee’s observations about her books and her chesttightened.“Oh.Right.”

Rogertappedhisskullwithafingerandlaughed.The muscles in Cressida’s cheeks hardened. Vee

hadn’tmentionedanythingaboutdreamsduringtheirshortsession.Perhaps therewasmore to thecolorful creaturethan just glitter and pretense. Perhaps Vee wanted helpafterall.Perhapsshe’dbeback.

“Yes, she and I will have a lot to talk about at herappointmentnextweek.Thankyouagain.”

Roger’s fingers lingered on thewooden frame besidehis head, stopping Cressida from shutting the door andretreating back into her office. “Speaking of dreams, Isaved an article for you the other day. From ScientificAmerican.”

She had a subscription to the same journal. Rogerknew that because he picked up themail eachmorning.Cressidafrowned.“Whichone?”

“About the role of dreams in forming memories.Seemedrightupyouralley.”Hewinked.

Shehadreadstudyafterstudyaboutheadtraumaandmemory loss, but not one of themcould explainwhy theaccident had affected her ability to dream. Cressidadraggedher handacrossher tiredeyes, their lidsasdryand thin as paper. There had to be a solution out theresomewhere.“Thatsoundsgreat.Thankyou.”

“Great. I’vegot it inmyofficesomewhere.”He turnedsidewaysandheldahandouttowardthehallway.“Caretojoinme?”

Thefamiliarappealofherwornsofabeckonedher,butcuriosity and desperation urged her forward as it always

did. She couldn’t end up lost in the oblivion of herdreamlesssleep forever, trappedand terrified,waiting forsomeonetofindhercurledupinthebackofacave.Shenodded as she stepped into the hallway and closed herofficedoorbehindher.

D

CHAPTER3

r. Roger Banks’s office was a mirror image ofCressida’s. Their identical closets met at theback,andtherewerematchingbookshelvesand

baywindowsframingtheroom.Backwhentheasylumhadhoused anywhere from twenty to fifty patients, these tworoomshadservedasdormitories.Itwasdifficulttoimaginerows of cots lined up along the walls that were nowstackedwithbooks,butRogerhadframedblackandwhitepicturesintheentryway:poster-sizedimagesofscatteredsouls wandering the rooms in white robes and slipperedfeet.

Though structurally the rooms were twins, Roger’sdusty shelves were filled with awkwardly piled books,groupedtogetherwithoutthoughtorform.Piecesofhislifewerescatteredaroundhisoffice likebreadcrumbs.Therewere crooked photos of his him and his wife on thesummitsofmountainsandoneofhiswife inherweddinggown, all luridly displayed for everyone to see. StephenKing novels lay sideways on top of past issues ofPsychology Today magazines. There were food-stainedcookbooks splayed on top of the upright diagnosticmanuals and medical references. His journals weren’teveninchronologicalorder.

Itwaspandemonium.Roger’s grand oak desk was littered with papers and

the remnants of yesterday’s lunch. He gestured forCressida to sit in the chair across the desk and thenbrushedpastheronhiswaytohisownseat.Thebackofhishandgrazedhershoulderandshecouldfeelthedampheat from his body through her shirt. Deflecting Roger’simpotent advanceswas the last thingCressida felt doingafterthemorningshe’dhad.

Shesatdownhard in thechairandcrossedher legs.Thehalfsmileshe’dplasteredonherfaceassoonassheopenedthedoorwaveredslightly,butRogerwasn’tpayingattention.Withoutaword,hesweptsomeofthesheetstothefloorandsquintedattheothers.

“Ah,hereitis.”Rogerflippedoverasmallstackclippedtogetherwithapinkpaperclip,andslid itacross thedesktoward Cressida. His eyes followed her hands as shereachedouttoexaminethearticle.

Thepaperwasfromtwoyearsago,andonlymarginallyrelated to her research. It was about memory retrievalthrough dreaming and had very little to say about theactual mechanism of dreams. As usual. Her heart sank.“Thanks—”

Rogercoughedand leaned forwardover thedesk, socloseshecouldsmellcoffeeonhisbreath.“Listen,Iknowyou value your autonomy, but we really should schedulethat progress meeting we’ve been skirting around. I amsupposedtobesupervisingyou,afterall.”

Cressida forced a laugh from the depths of her gut.This was the real reason for his visit. So depressinglypredictable.Brownandgreyandblandliketherestofherlife.Was this thebest shecouldhope forher life?She’dsuccessfully avoided Roger’s attention for months, eversinceheofferedtodriveherhomeafterhoursonenight.

“I’m doing fine, really.” She hovered over her chair,readytoleave.

“Well, you’ve beenworking here for a while now andwe’ve never really had a discussion about how you feelyou’refittinginatthepractice.”Heraisedhiseyebrowsatthechair,andwaitedforCressidatoreturntoherseat.

Cressidabittheinsideofherlipandsatbackdown.“Ithink it’s going well. The patients are engaging and I’mabletokeeptheearlyhoursIprefer.”

“Yes, the great thing about living in a fishing town isthereareplentyofpeopleupbeforethesun.”

“Iagree.”“I’ve heard only the best reports about your

competenceasatherapist.”Rogerloomedoverthedesk,appearingmuchlargerthanusual.Hispupilsweredilatedmaking his already dark eyes appear black. “But asidefromthepatients,howareyoufindingSilverside?”

“Istayprettybusyatwork.”“I’venoticed thatyouarespendinga lotof time in the

office. I’mworried youmight be fixating on your job in awaythatisn’thealthy.”

Cressida inclined her head, but didn’t respond. Herheadthrobbed.

RogerwalkedaroundthebulkydeskandstoodbesideCressida’s chair, blocking her quickest route to the door.His thick, coarse arm hair was visible through his whiteshirt.“Everyoneneedsafriend.Eventherapists.”

“I’m fine. Really.” Cressida’s throat tightened aroundthewords.

Roger curled his tongue over his teeth as he smiled.“MissDunhill,thisisn’tatest.Thisisaboutreachingout.”

“Ihavefriends.”Cressidapulledthepaperclipfromthearticle in front of her and straightened themetal, runningherfingertipoverthesharpend.Maxwouldhavetoldher

torun.Roger’shandfellagainst thebackofherchair, inches

fromherear.“Youknow,ifyoueverneedanythingyoucanalwaysask.”

Shewastrapped.IfRogertouchedher,wouldshehavethe strength to jam the paper clip into his arm? He wastaller than her, solidmuscle deceptively hidden behind alayer of fat, but she was tough. And she had nothing tolose.“Idon’tthinkIneedhelp.”

Roger threwuphishandsand laughedgreat chortlesthat reverberated in his chest. “No. I don’t suppose youdo.” He retreated to the edge of his desk, his red faceimpassive.

Theblooddrained fromCressida’s faceandherbodyfeltlimpasthoughshe’dsprungaleak.“Iappreciateyourconcern,butI’mdoingjustfine.”

“Just make sure you have something outside thisplace.”

Outsidewasexactlywhereshewantedtobe.Sherosefromthechairandbidhimgoodbye.

“DoctorDunhill?”Rogercalledfrombehindher.“Ifyouever need anything, I’m right next door.” He brought hisfingers tohis foreheadand tippedan invisiblehat towardher.

“Iknow,”shesaid.“Thankyou.”Cressida fledback into thehallway, her limbsas cold

and numb as if they were made of gelatin. When shefinally closed her office door between them, she bentforward and pressed her forehead against the polishedwood, and her eyelids sagged. The restless nights hadtakentheirtollonhersleep.Heranxietywasoutofcontrol.Rogerwasn’tdangerous.Shewas reading toomuch intohis intentions. She squeezed her eyes shut. Exhaustionwas bleeding her dry and soon she would disappear

completely.Butnottoday.Nottoday,Max.Instinctively she crossed the room and collapsed into

her leather chair. She reached her arm toward the sidetable,searchingforMax’spen.Herfingersanticipatedthecool touch of themetal, but found only rough paper andsmooth glass.Where was it? She sat up straight in herchair,themusclesinherbackhardenedtostone.ThepenwasallshehadleftofMax.Ithadtobethere.Itcouldn’tbelost. Her stomach flipped. She’d already lost everything.Shecouldn’tloseMaxtoo.

Shecouldn’tbeleftallalone.Inthedreamlessdark.The chair creaked as she hovered over the table

casting an ominous shadow across the glass top. Hernotepadwasthere,opentotheemptypagedecoratedwithCressida’s scribbling and the words Viola Marquisscrawled across the top. The day planner was tuckedbesideit,thecrumpledpagecontainingVee’sappointmentjutting haphazardly out the side. But no pen. Cressidachecked between the pages of the notebook, under herlegsinthechair,andbetweencushionandthearms.

On all fours she scoured beneath the chair and thecoffee table finding heaps of glitter but nothing larger.Cressida’s heart rate spedagainst her chest, hammeringbloodthroughherveinsuntilshecouldhearnothingelse.She toreat theglitterstuck to thecarpetas ifMax’spencould be hidden somewhere beneath. Max’s pen wasgone,justlikehewas.Drysobsrackedherchestandsheslumpedtothefloor.Hercheek itchedagainst thefibrouscarpet,Hamish’smud,andVee’sglitter.Itwasallshehadleft.

Outside, rain beat against the bay windows behind

Cressida, pulsing with the tidal winds, as if she washearingthecollectiveheartbeatofthesmallseasidetown.The door rattled behind her andCressida jumped to herfeet. Her hands shook as she brushed glitter from herknees.Theknockingwashurried,panicked,andshecouldseeshadowspacingunderthedoor.Someonewasintentonseeingher.

CressidapulledopenthedoortofindRogerrubbinghisknucklesandhuffingfromtheexertion.Hisfacewaspaleagainandhiseyesnolongeropaque.

Notagain.Cressidamadenoeffort toshieldhimfromherfrustration.“What?”

“I’msorrytobotheryouagain,butIjustreceivedacallfromSt.Luke’s.”Thecreasesbesidehiseyesdeepened.“They need a consult on a young girl who’s refusing tocooperate with police. I don’t know the details, but Irecognizedthename.SamWolfe.She’sapatientofyours,isn’tshe?”

TheheatdrainedfromCressida’sfaceandcoldsweattingled at her scalp. Samwas in the hospital refusing totalktothecops.Thatbastardfinallyputherinthehospital.“Ihavetogo.Now.”

Rogernodded.“I’lldriveyou.”

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ABOUTMARYWIDDICKS

Formercognitivepsychologist turnedsuspensewriter,Mary isafirmbelieverinstrong,twistedfemalecharactersandunhappyendings.Herinternetsearchhistoryisnotforthefaintofheart.

Asafreelancewriterandhumorist,Mary’sessayshavebeenfeaturedonTheWashington Post, Brain, Child Magazine, and Scary Mommy. She hasalso appeared on a Wisconsin Public Radio morning show discussing thepsychologyofparenting.Marydoesnotperformwellat5:30am.

RaisednearPortland,Oregon,MarynowlivesincentralIllinoiswherethetallest thing formiles is corn.Shesharesaperpetually shrinkinghousewithher three kids, two dogs, and two cats…and can usually be found writingunderatleastoneofthematalltimes.

CheckoutMary’sWEBSITEorpickupyourcopyofherdebutnovelAMUTUALADDICTIONatanyofyourfavoritesellers.

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Title PageCopyrightPraise for A Mutual AddictionBack CoverA Mutual Addiction previewChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3About Mary Widdicks