Devil Smoke by C. J. Lyons Read Free Book Online Page A

mistake of looking at the form hanging high over the altar, his face glaring right down at her, telling her bad girls went straight to H-E-double hockey sticks.
    And she was a very bad girl.
    Nellie scampered backward, her sneakers slipping on the marble floor. She hated Jesus-nailed-to-the-cross. The pretty, stained glass Jesus-walking-on-water and Jesus-healing-the-sick she liked. Jesus-nailed-to-the-cross she was angry with. He was supposed to be the shepherd of souls, but he hadn’t shepherded her mom back home. She had prayed to him every night to find Mommy, wherever she was lost, but he never answered her.
    Jesus-nailed-to-the-cross made her wonder if anyone got to heaven. She shuddered; she didn’t want to think about that. Mommy wasn’t in heaven, singing with the angels—even though some of the kids said so. Her dad would have told her that if it was true. Her dad sometimes messed things up, like this morning, but he never lied.
    Jesus wasn’t supposed to lie either, but Nellie didn’t really know or trust Jesus. She trusted her dad.
    She stood still, scowling up at the bleeding Jesus so high up in the rafters that she had to crane her neck back to meet his angry, pain-filled gaze.
    You’d better find my mommy soon and bring her back home, she shouted in her mind, not daring to give voice to her rage. You’d just better!
     
     
     

     
     

Chapter 8
     
     
    LUCY WATCHED AS Tommy returned inside the house to retrieve Sarah’s apartment keys. She checked the time on her phone: nine fifty. Nick should be between patients. Usually she tried not to call him at work, but she needed his advice.
    “What do you know about global amnesia and psychogenic fugues?” she asked when he picked up.
    “Hey honey, how’s your day going?” he chided, but there was laughter in his tone. Nick was well accustomed to Lucy’s over-involvement in her cases. “Does this explain the messages on my machine from Oshiro and Don Burroughs?”
    “Same case. Not a police matter, so they came to us.” She filled him in on Sarah’s predicament. “We’re digging into her past—credit check, searching her apartment, all the usual. I thought starting with a cognitive, sensory-based interview might help. But I don’t want to make things worse.”
    “No, I think you’re on the right track. With a TBI,” traumatic brain injury, Lucy translated, “she might not be able to focus for long. Watch for headaches, vertigo, nausea. She might be confused, emotionally labile.”
    “She’s pretty upbeat. Tommy said it was a defense mechanism.”
    “ La belle indifférence .” Nick said it in a fake French accent, which made it sound sexy. Of course, Nick could make anything sound sexy—to Lucy.
    She forced herself to focus on the case. “Any other tips for the interview?”
    “Patients with retrograde amnesia tend to follow Ribot’s Law: they lose more recent memories, the ones closest to the traumatic event, but may retain some sense of their remote past.”
    “So we should start with trying to access memories from her childhood, then work forward in time?”
    “Exactly. And don’t pressure her too much. Overwhelming her or adding any stress inhibits recollection. Let her set the pace.”
    “If we can’t get anywhere, what would you recommend? Is it too soon to try hypnosis?”
    “When did she hit her head?”
    “Two days ago.”
    He thought about it. “I’d make sure the other symptoms of the concussion clear first. Unless there’s an urgent need to intervene.”
    “Nothing urgent. Just trying to get her life back.”
    “Good luck. Call me if there’s anything I can do to help.”
    When Lucy returned inside she was surprised when Missy directed her to Valencia’s private wing. Valencia met her in the hallway outside the sturdy oak door leading to the kitchen. As always, she was dressed as if she were on her way to have tea with the First Lady. She wore a burgundy silk sheath, and her gray hair was swept up into a