The Girls He Adored: A Novel Read Online Free Page A

Call-me-Max. “I believe the entire building is nonsmoking.”
    The prisoner laughed easily. “Realistically speaking, what's the worst they can do if they catch us? Hell, we're risking a death sentence every time we light up.”
    “Good point.” Irene was intrigued—and encouraged. Whether he was faking the DID or not, the patient's— prisoner's —use of the first-person plural was a good sign, as was his evident warmth toward her. They seemed to be moving toward a rapport that usually took much longer to establish—she definitely wanted to encourage it.
    And frankly, a cigarette right about now didn't sound like the worst idea in the world. Irene rummaged around in her purse for her pack of Benson and Hedges and her lighter, then went through the desk drawers looking for an ashtray. Finding none, she took an empty Sprite can out of the wastebasket, placed it on the desk in front of the prisoner, placed two cigarettes between her lips, lit both, and handed him one, aware as she did so that it was an inappropriately intimate gesture.
    The prisoner inhaled deeply, squinting to keep the smoke out of his eyes. “I feel better already.”
    So did Irene; she leaned back in her chair and took a deep drag of her cigarette, drawing the smoke luxuriously through her nostrils. It felt deliciously sinful and retro to be smoking with a patient again. When she leaned forward to tap her ash into the Sprite can, she caught the prisoner looking her over appreciatively.
    Irene sat up, drawing the lapels of her suit jacket together over her chest and tugging her skirt down over her knees, though her legs were out of sight beneath the desk. It occurred to her that she was losing control of the interview.
    “All right, I trusted you,” she said. The voice-activated Dictaphone began to whir again on the table between them. “Now will you trust me?”
    “With what?” he replied, exhaling a thin blue stream of smoke along with the words.
    “With the truth.”
    “What do you want to know?”
    “To start with, do you ever feel as if you were more than one person?”
    “You say you want the truth?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    He ducked his head down to his hands to take the cigarette out of his mouth, then popped back up with a maniacal grin.“Well you caan't haandle the truth!” he declared in an exaggeratedly flat monotone, his eyebrows drawn up into devilish peaks.
    Irene let out a startled laugh. “So you worked in that Jack Nicholson imitation after all.”
    “Pretty good, huh? Want to see my—”
    “No!” She cut him off sternly; time to get back to business. “When I asked you your name earlier, you told me to call you Max. Is Max your name?”
    “That depends,” he said pleasantly.
    “Depends on what?”
    “I can't tell you.”
    “Why not?”
    “I can't tell you that, either.”
    Irene tried a different tack. “When you came into the room this morning, you told me your mood was appropriate to the circumstances. A young girl died horribly, apparently at your hands. How does that make you feel?”
    He had ducked down again; he came back up with the cigarette between his lips. His face was blue-tinged under the fluorescent lights.
    “Lost,” he said softly. Irene had the impression he'd switched personalities again, down where she couldn't see the eye roll. This was the third alter, the handsome, vulnerable young man. “Lost and frightened. And alone—at least until this morning.”
    “What happened this morning?”
    “I met you.”
    His cigarette had burned down almost to the filter. When Irene reached forward to take it out of his mouth for him, she felt his lipsbrush the back of her fingers as delicately as butterfly wings. So light and ephemeral was his touch that Irene wasn't entirely sure contact had even taken place, much less whether it had actually been a kiss.
    But in her heart she knew it had. She felt a pang of excitement, close to fear but so quick and sharp it was almost sexual—and decidedly