“Ahh. There you are, my sleeping beauty,” the voice of the Rosie-thing crooned. It came from everywhere and nowhere; the syllables were slowly produced in order to sound like human speech. In the darkness, enveloped in a floating daze of pain and half-consciousness, Kyle realized that his understanding of the meaning was clear in his mind, but the sounds his ears were hearing were nothing like words, so much as wet mouth movements. As if someone were using flesh they were unfamiliar with. Manipulating the tongue, throat, and vocal cords to make sounds.
Silence.
You’re right. That is tiring and requires too much effort on my part.
The foreign thoughts suddenly appeared in his mind. They were not his! His ears heard only the dripping of the shower and the passing of cars on the wet asphalt outside the Motel room. Was it in his head?
Oh yes, you stinking pile of shit. Did you think I couldn’t get inside you? Did you think Rosie was a monster? [amusement] I can remake you as well. I can mold you into a king! Or I can destroy your every thought and leave you trapped in a speechless, motionless husk of a human body, trapped in an actively decaying, putrid corpse forever. [exhileration].
Silence.
Darkness, as Kyle absorbed this new state of affairs. Something had gotten inside Rosie, and now it was inside him. Had she given him some kind of brain sickness? A virus?
NO! YOU FUCKING IDIOT! I AM NOT A ZOMBIE VIRUS! A sudden pressure shot into his right eye, creating orange and yellow blotches in his vision, as if someone had quickly jabbed into it with something blunt and cold. Jesus FUCK! That hurt. But it was relatively quick, and while the sensation of heat and pressure lingered, it didn’t worsen. Kyle breathed deeply through his nose, trying not to move his injured shoulder until it gradually ebbed away.
Silence again for a minute or two. Then, the thoughts began to flow through him, trickling through his brain like raindrops. Whispering ideas and concepts that were completely foreign to him.
You are not in charge here. You believe that you are only a small person. You think you are one of the billions of people in the world and that you don’t matter. The only thing you can control is your body and what you do with it. The idea that other people have feelings and needs makes sense to you only in that it proves what you believe to be true about yourself. You think that…
As the thoughts continued to drone away at things like physical matter and consciousness, Kyle became distracted. He needed a fix, and the craving was becoming something that he could no longer ignore. The stash was under the bed. Where was he in relation to it? He started to try to remember which side of the bed he had shoved the bag under.
OH FUCK THE DRUGS KYLE!
The sudden rage that accompanied this thought was an old friend to Kyle and he wished it were his. Anger was strength. Maybe if he could get angry enough, he could push this loud mouthed…whatever-the-fuck, out of his head.
[holding back anger] Oh my. This IS unfortunate. I thought that you might be ready. I see that you are not. [exaspiration].
We must begin again.
This last thought was stated as a fact. He felt no emotion attached to it. But he also realized that he felt…nothing else either. No cravings. No pain. No sensation of heat, cold, or even the pull of gravity holding him to the bed. He didn’t even feel his chest rising and falling with his breath. Just nothing. He pictured himself floating in outer space with a giant bong for a moment. He must have gotten blissed out of his fucking mind! That was fine with him. It was better than the other - nagging and pain. But…no. That couldn’t be right. He was pretty sure he was on the bed.
[slight frustration] Your body is on the bed Kyle. You are not your body.
Silence.
Suddenly, he could see. He could see everything. He could see himself lying on the bed, and the view from above made him overwhelmingly nauseous. He was a fucking mess! He was covered in congealed and drying blood from wounds on his shoulder, and it looked like his face had been peeled away, although it was difficult to determine the extent of the damage because he was lying with his head at an odd angle in a large, and spreading puddle of blood. As quickly as it came, the vision disappeared and took nausea with it.
Kyle was obviously not a bright man. He had dropped out of high school when he was 15. But he had heard about near-death experiences where people left their bodies and floated around the room. He had thought it was bull-shit, religious crap that people made up to get attention.
What you are experiencing is freedom. Human bodies are limited in what they can understand. Try to focus, Kyle. YOU ARE MORE THAN YOUR BODY.
The thought was fierce and loud in his mind. But the itch for the drugs was beginning to creep back in.
You are made of energy. That energy changes constantly over time. What you experience and do in your time here affects those changes…
But Kyle was gone again. All he could think about was the shit under the bed. Another thought floated by his consciousness like a wisp.
[sad resignation] I hope this is worth something this time. I have to get back…[worry]
Kyle awoke to the metallic smell of blood and a sticky wetness against his face. The pain in his shoulder was a living thing that pulsed in time to the blood-spattered alarm clock that had been bolted to the nightstand. It flashed 12:00 am in electric green numbers. The broken lamp on the floor still cast a dingy, muted glow, the bare bulb beginning to heat the fibers of the carpet on the far side of the room. The overhead light was dark - the bulb containing only the ashes of the element that had sizzled and popped during the storm. Half of the room remained in shadow.
Kyle didn’t move. He knew he was in trouble; he remembered the scene in the bathroom with vivid clarity, and he had been moved to the bed while he was unconscious. He wanted to look towards the bathroom but was afraid to move his head for fear of aggravating the pain in his shoulder. He didn’t want to pass out again. He needed to stay aware of what was happening. He needed to get the shit that was under the bed and get out. But he was stuck, for now, staring into the dark half of the room.
Where was Rosie? He waited for his eyes to adjust, the same way that he stared and waited as a child. Kyle stared into the infinite darkness of the shadows and remembered the terror of waiting for the sounds of his father to return, usually drunk and in a rage. He had survived the screaming and the beatings of an alcoholic father. He had survived when his mother abandoned him with his abusive father. He had survived being homeless and drug addicted. He was like a fucking cock roach, he thought. He could survive this, too. After a few minutes, the blackness grew grainy, and he could see the outlines of objects and the edge of the nook that counted as a dressing area. Jesus, the floor…were those reflections on blood? Was that all from him? No Rosie shape. Nothing moving as a lighter blob of darkness in the shadows. The part of the motel room that he could see at the moment was empty. Good.
Now, he needed to turn over to see the rest. It would be easier to see with the broken lamp still working. He gritted his teeth and flexed his right arm underneath him. The throbbing intensified on his left side, but it was bearable. From a fetal position on his right side, he slowly straightened his left leg. No problem. Maybe this would be easier than he thought. But when he moved his right arm again to push it out from under him, he jostled his head and pulled slightly on the left side of his neck, causing a screaming clash of cymbals and sparks of electric light shooting across his vision. He needed to slow down, his torn muscles and his broken collarbone wouldn’t allow any sudden movements. He froze immediately, taking panicked gulps of the stale, warm air.
Kyle began to cry again—a silent, self-pitying cry for his situation. Large, fat tears rolled from his eyes and soaked into the crappy orange-flowered bedspread, mixing with his solidifying blood. So much blood. He didn’t know how much he’d started with, but he was sure there couldn’t be much left. A wet sob escaped his mouth as he opened it wide. He didn’t want to die.
Focusing all his will, he forced himself to relax the taut muscles in his neck and tried again. This time, he pushed with his right arm and braced his lower body with his left leg. The pain came, sharp and savage, just as he expected. But this time, he was ready for it. Instead of holding his breath, he let himself scream—a throat-tearing, guttural sound of primal terror and anguish.
He flopped onto his back, grinding the jagged edges of his broken clavicle together. The scream that erupted from him was raw and animalistic, spilling out in waves as saliva clung in strings between his teeth. The jagged holes in his shoulder oozed fresh rivulets of blood, and as he shuddered violently with shock, the screams kept coming, unstoppable once they had begun.
Gripping the gore-encrusted coverlet with his right hand, Kyle let out everything he had held in for so long: the fear, the pain, the anger, and the hatred that had bubbled deep within him for as long as he could remember. Breathing deeply, he bellowed some more. He let loose his feelings of betrayal—betrayal by all women, and by hope itself. He screamed for the futility of his life and the bitterness of watching less deserving men rise from the filth of the gutter.
Coughing up thick phlegm, he felt a fiery pulse shoot from his shoulder directly into his throat, and it came out as yet another agonizing wail. He screamed out every piece of his pain, every ounce of his despair, until his throat swelled and threatened to close off his air.
He lay there in the half-darkness, his mind still screaming even as his body heaved sporadic, hitching gasps. The light in his vision began to fade, and the fear of passing out gripped him. Forcing himself to slow his breathing, he focused his thoughts on his task. The drugs were directly beneath him.
While he lay prone on the bed, Ava watched him from the door, where she crouched inside Rosie. He would need a little more time.
Faith stood on the edge of Ava’s garden, her sneakers half-buried in the damp earth, staring at the impossible. The blue roses were even more striking up close, their petals shimmering faintly as though catching light from an unseen source. She bent forward, inhaling deeply. The scent was intoxicating—a mix of old-world perfume and something sharper, more primal. It wasn’t a smell roses should have, and that fact pinged somewhere in the back of Faith’s mind, but she was too caught up in their beauty to care.
“Wow,” Faith murmured, straightening up and glancing over her shoulder. “These are… something else. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Ava had followed her from the front porch without a word, her long shadow stretching over Faith as she stood, silent and composed. She didn’t say anything now, either. She simply tilted her head, a faint smile curling her lips, as if the scene unfolding before her was a painting she’d finished long ago.
Faith took another deep breath, the scent of the roses swirling in her head like an idea she couldn’t quite grasp. Then she turned fully to Ava, her expression bright. “You know,” she began, her voice tinged with cautious enthusiasm, “this place could really be something. A few coats of paint on the house, clearing out the rest of the yard—it could be beautiful.”
Ava’s smile widened by the smallest fraction, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She didn’t respond immediately, and Faith mistook the pause for hesitation instead of what it really was: satisfaction.
“I mean it,” Faith pressed on, gesturing toward the overgrown bushes and tangled weeds still dominating most of the property. “With these roses as the centerpiece? This could be… I don’t know, like a magazine cover or something. And I could help. You know, with the yard and everything. I’m good at that kind of thing.”
The words tumbled out before she could stop them, surprising even herself. Faith had promised she’d keep her distance from Ava and her strange house, but now, standing here, surrounded by the faint hum of bees and the unnerving calm of the garden, it felt like she needed to be here. Like the place was calling her, in its own quiet, insistent way.
Ava’s head tilted further, her eyes narrowing slightly, as though she were considering the offer. In truth, she wasn’t considering anything. This was exactly what she had wanted. Faith, standing here, eager to dig her hands into the dirt, to transform this house into something more than it was.
But Ava couldn’t appear too eager herself. That wouldn’t do. So, she let out a soft hum, the kind that danced along the line between agreement and dismissal. “You think so?” she said finally, her voice soft but sharp enough to slice through Faith’s enthusiasm. “It seems like a lot of work.”
Faith waved the objection away, her energy undampened. “Sure, but it’s worth it! You’ve got great bones here. And these roses?” She gestured again to the miraculous blooms, her face lighting up. “They’re already the star of the show. We just need to bring the rest of the garden up to their level.”
Ava’s gaze drifted over the roses, her expression as inscrutable as ever. “They are… special, aren’t they?”
Faith nodded vigorously. “Exactly! So, what do you say? Let me help. We can start with clearing out the rest of the debris and figure it out from there.”
Ava allowed another pause to stretch between them, letting Faith squirm just a little. Then, with a carefully measured sigh, she inclined her head. “If you’re sure you want to.”
“I’m sure,” Faith said firmly, her excitement bubbling over. “It’ll be great, you’ll see.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Ava’s lips curled into what might have been a smile—or might have been something else entirely. “Yes,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of certainty. “I suppose I will.”
Faith, already imagining the transformed garden and painted house, didn’t notice the way Ava’s gaze lingered on her. She didn’t notice the faint shimmer in the air around the roses, or the way the wind seemed to shift just slightly in Ava’s direction. She only saw the potential—the beauty waiting to be uncovered.
Ava saw everything else.
Delia pulled the comforter up to her chin, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as the radiator clicked and hummed softly in the corner of the room. Outside, the wind pressed against the house, colder than it had any right to be in this part of the country. The temperature had been hovering around forty degrees all week, unseasonably frigid, and Delia still wasn’t used to it.
Markus climbed into bed beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He let out a long sigh, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Town’s been weird lately, hasn’t it?” he said, breaking the quiet.
Delia turned her head to look at him, her brow furrowing. “You’ve noticed it too?”
“Hard not to,” Markus replied. “First, Maggie Draper wandering around the grocery store looking like she forgot how doors work, and then there’s the clock in the square. Still stopped, huh?”
Delia nodded. “Stopped at 12:03. Nobody’s even trying to fix it, which is strange enough on its own.”
“And the light,” Markus added, his tone light but with a trace of unease. “You see it today? Still stuck on red.”
“Sam keeps talking about it,” Delia said, her voice quieter now. “Said it’s ‘afraid.’ What does that even mean? A traffic light can’t be afraid.”
Markus chuckled softly, but it lacked real humor. “Sam’s got a knack for saying things that don’t make sense until they do. Give him time.”
Delia’s fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket, her thoughts turning over like a restless tide. “And the birds. Did you hear about that?”
Markus nodded, his expression darkening slightly. “Trying to break through the grocery store windows? Yeah, I heard. Creepy as hell.”
“It’s more than creepy,” Delia murmured. “It feels… wrong. And it’s been cloudy for over a week now. When was the last time we saw the sun? Even in winter, it’s not like this.”
Markus reached over and rested a hand on hers, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “Weather gets weird sometimes. Remember when it rained ten days straight, and the basement flooded? We got through that. We’ll get through this, too.”
Delia shook her head, pulling her hand away to rub at her temples. “It’s not just the weather, Markus. It’s everything. Edna and Ethel came in today, holding on to each other like they were scared of fallin’ up and floatin’ away. And my dough’s been acting strange.”
Markus raised an eyebrow. “Your dough?”
“Yeah,” Delia said, sitting up slightly. “It’s been rising too fast, or not at all. And when it does rise, it collapses like it’s given up. I’ve never seen it behave like this. It’s like… like it knows something.”
Markus laughed outright at that, though his tone was still gentle. “Dough doesn’t know anything, Dee. It’s just flour and water.”
Delia frowned but didn’t argue. She leaned back against the pillows, but her mind was spinning. “It’s not just the dough,” she said softly. “It’s Faith.”
Markus tilted his head. “What about Faith?”
“She’s been acting… different,” Delia admitted, her voice low. “She hasn’t been sketching—at all. And you know how she is with her doodles. She’s been showing up late to work, and she barely even talks when she’s there. It’s like she’s… lost something.”
Markus’s face softened with concern. “Lost what?”
“I don’t know,” Delia said, shaking her head. “Her spark? Her sense of humor? She even seemed mad at me the other day—for no reason! She snapped at me about a batch of cookies and then said she had a headache and left early.”
Markus reached for her hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Dee, she’s probably just tired. People go through phases. Maybe she’s got a lot on her mind.”
“Maybe,” Delia replied, though her voice was strained. “But what if it’s more than that? What if it’s something to do with all this weirdness? The clock, the light, the blackbirds—it’s like the whole town’s off balance. And Faith’s right in the middle of it.”
Markus sighed, pulling her closer and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Dee, I think you’ve been letting your imagination run away with you. Off-kilter birds, traffic lights, and cloudy skies—it’s a weird week, sure it is, but it doesn’t mean anything. And if it does, we’ll handle it. Together. Okay?”
Delia didn’t respond immediately. Markus smiled gently and continued. “Faith’s got an angel watching over her, same as we do. We’ll pray for her. That’s all we can do. Don’t let evil plant fear in your heart.”
Delia gave him a small, reluctant smile. “Okay.”
Markus smiled back, satisfied. “Weirdness comes and goes. It’s what makes this place what it is. You’ll see—it’ll pass.”
He reached over and turned out the light, the room plunging into darkness. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, soft and steady as he drifted off to sleep.
But Delia lay awake, her eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling. The unease in her gut wouldn’t fade, no matter how tightly Markus held her. Faith’s strange behavior, people bickering at each other, the ravens battering at the Silverleaf’s front window—it all felt connected somehow. The whispers outside, carried on the wind, felt like they were speaking directly to her, but the words were too faint to grasp.
She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, but sleep wouldn’t come. Deep down, in the quietest parts of herself, she knew Markus was wrong. This wasn’t just small-town weirdness. This was something else. Something bigger. Something waiting. And it wasn’t going to pass—it was going to break.
The interview room was sterile—steel table bolted to the floor, two chairs, walls painted in the kind of beige that made you hate beige. It smelled faintly of bleach and despair. It was sort of place you only entered if you were being paid to, or you had no choice.
Detective Lou Alvarez leaned forward in his chair, arms resting on the table. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing tanned forearms crisscrossed with scars he never talked about. Across from him, Rosie sat slumped, her long dark hair falling like a curtain over her face. She hadn’t moved in twenty minutes, not so much as a twitch. Her hands rested limply in her lap, as though they belonged to someone else.
Dr. Evelyn Strauss stood against the far wall, her clipboard hugged to her chest, her expression blank in that way doctors had when they were trying to mask nervous energy. She wasn’t fooling Lou. He could feel the tension in the room crackling like static electricity.
He tried again.
“Rosie, we just want to know what happened in the motel room. That’s all. No one’s looking to hurt you. Just talk to me.”
Nothing.
“Where’s Kyle? You were seen with him that night. He hasn’t been seen since. His family is—”
He stopped. Talking about Kyle’s family wouldn’t work. Whoever trashed that room wasn’t interested in sympathy.
Lou sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small chain, letting it dangle from his fingers. The silver medallion at the end spun slightly before settling, depicting St. Lazarus, patron saint of healing and miracles. The necklace glinted in the overhead light as Lou set it on the table between them.
“You left this behind,” he said, his voice softer now. He didn’t push the necklace toward her. He didn’t need to.
Her head didn’t move, but her eyes flicked toward it, quick as a snake’s tongue. Lou caught the movement.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” he asked, switching to Spanish. His voice dropped into the kind of cadence you’d use for a skittish animal, gentle but firm. “San Lázaro. Ayuda a los que sufren. The saint who heals the broken.”
For the first time, Rosie moved. Her fingers curled into fists, the knuckles whitening.
Lou pressed on. “Your family practices Santería, right? The orishas, the offerings, the prayers. This necklace is yours. You left it behind when you ran. Tell me why.”
The air in the room thickened. Lou could feel it, pressing against his skin, buzzing faintly in his ears. Something wasn’t right.
Suddenly, Rosie moved. Her body unfolded like a puppet being jerked upright, graceless and unnatural. She stood on her chair in one fluid motion, her head snapping up to lock eyes with Lou.
And those eyes—God, those eyes. They weren’t human. Not anymore. They burned, hot and cold at the same time, like staring into the heart of a storm. Dark Green and seeming to glow with hatred.
“Rosie?” Lou said, his voice sharp.
Rosie didn’t answer.
Dr. Strauss reached for the door, her hand trembling as she twisted the handle.
Before she could call for help, Rosie stepped onto the table.
“What the hell—” Lou started, but his voice caught in his throat.
Rosie’s hands went to the waistband of her pants.
“Rosie, don’t—” Dr. Strauss’s voice was shrill now, panicked.
Rosie lowered her pants and squatted over the table.
And then she pissed.
A hot, golden stream that splashed over the medallion, pooling on the cold metal surface. The faint scent of ammonia hit the air. Lou recoiled, his chair scraping back against the floor. Dr. Strauss froze in the doorway, her mouth open in shock.
Rosie’s face twisted into a grin, sharp and humorless. When she spoke, it wasn’t her voice. It was deeper, older, and laced with venom.
“San Lázaro can’t help you. No one can.”
Her laughter filled the room, low and guttural, echoing in Lou’s ears long after the orderlies stormed in to drag her away.
Lou pushed the doctor into her own office and released her elbow. He could get in serious trouble, man handling a doctor. But what he just saw had scared the shit out of him, and Lou didn’t scare easily.
“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was?” Lou had raised his voice while the doctor smoothly and quietly snicked the lock on the door after closing it. “It sure as shit wasn’t the girl we saw last week.”
“I warned you that she had been uncooperative thus far,” Dr. Strauss calmly stated as she sat in the chair behind her desk.
Lou’s mouth dropped open and his meaty hands went to his head to grab handfulls of hair.
“Un-COOR-OP-erative?” He repeated in disbelief.
“Please try to be calm, Detective Alvarez,” stated Dr. Strauss as he paced to the door and back to the chair in front of the desk. His huge bulk fell into the seat and his elbows landed on his knees. He looked at the Doctor carefully.
She gazed calmly back at him, waiting for him to compose himself.
“OK,” he said eventually, his flaring nostrils indicating that he was feeling neither calm nor cooperative at the moment. “Please, doctor. Explain, if you can, what happened in there,” he flashed a toothy fake grin, while inside his world was spinning.
Dr. Strauss calmly opened a file on her desk and flipped a few pages. “Mrs. Perez has been diagnosed with a dissociative identity disorder,” Dr. Strauss said, her voice crisp and clinical as she scanned the notes. “Or at least, that was the original diagnosis. It’s why we admitted her after the hold for observation.”
Lou leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You think that was a personality split? Are you serious? Because I’ve dealt with a lot of people with disorders, Doc, and not one of them climbed onto a table to piss on a saint’s medallion.”
Dr. Strauss raised an eyebrow, unbothered by his tone. “You asked me for an explanation. I’m giving you the clinical facts as they stand. Dissociative identity disorder often results in the emergence of distinct personalities, each with its own behaviors and motivations. Mrs. Perez—Rosie—has exhibited significant resistance to treatment and engagement since her arrival. This…” She gestured vaguely toward the locked door behind Lou. “…is one more example.”
Lou shook his head, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “Come on, Doc. That wasn’t a ‘distinct personality.’ That was something else entirely. Did you see her face? Her eyes?”
Dr. Strauss steepled her fingers, her calm demeanor unwavering. “Yes, Detective. I saw her eyes. And while I’m sure it was unsettling for you—”
“Unsettling?” Lou barked out a laugh, though it held no humor. “That wasn’t unsettling. That was—hell, I don’t even know what that was. But it wasn’t human.”
Dr. Strauss leaned back in her chair, her expression cooling slightly. “Detective Alvarez, I understand this experience was difficult for you, but my responsibility is to treat this patient, not entertain theories of—”
“Don’t.” Lou pointed a thick finger at her, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t patronize me, Doc. You’re telling me that a scared, withdrawn girl suddenly morphs into some…thing that spits venom at a saint’s medallion, and you’re going to sit there and call it ‘dissociative identity disorder’? You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
For the first time, Dr. Strauss hesitated. It was slight—a flicker of doubt across her carefully composed face—but Lou caught it.
“You saw what I saw,” he pressed, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And it scared you too. Didn’t it?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she closed the file in front of her with deliberate precision and folded her hands on top of it. “What I saw,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, “was a patient in acute distress. Whatever the cause, it is my duty to ensure her safety and the safety of those around her.”
“That’s a nice deflection,” Lou said, his eyes narrowing. “But you didn’t answer the question.”
Dr. Strauss met his gaze, her own carefully neutral. “What exactly are you suggesting, Detective?”
Lou leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. He ran a hand down his face, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ve seen a lot of bad things in my time. People doing things you wouldn’t believe—hell, things I barely believe sometimes. But that? That wasn’t Rosie. Not the real Rosie.”
Dr. Strauss tilted her head, studying him. “If it wasn’t Rosie,” she asked, her voice as calm as ever, “then who—or what—do you think it was?”
Lou didn’t answer right away. He stared at her, his jaw working as he tried to put words to what he felt deep in his gut. Finally, he said, “I think there’s something inside her. Something that doesn’t belong. And I think you know it too.”
Dr. Strauss’s fingers twitched slightly, the first crack in her composed exterior. “Detective Alvarez,” she began, her voice firmer now, “this institution operates on evidence-based practices, not conjecture or—”
“Or what? Gut feelings?” Lou interrupted. “Well, my gut’s kept me alive this long, Doc. And right now, it’s telling me that girl needs more than therapy. She needs help. Real help.”
“If you would let me finish. Please?” the doctor intoned stonily.
Lou bit his tongue and waited, staring into Dr. Sttrauss’s eyes.
“I’ve run every test on her that I can. Blood tests for diseases that may explain her behavior. Genetic tests for Heterochromic Iridocyclitis to try to explain her change of iris color. I’ve called specialists in voice alterations - laryngologists and speech-language pathologists. But it is more than that, detective,” Dr. Strauss was beginning to show some emotion. “Rose Parez hasn’t eaten since she arrived, not more than a few bites. She should be weak. She should have lost a significant amount of weight. But she continues to challenge even our strongest aides and orderlies. We’ve had to schedule staff members specifically and solely to watch over her. I am continuing to council her every day, and I am digging into the literature to try to find something, anything, to explain what you just witnessed, and I believe, in my heart, no, I know…” she paused, rising from her chair, “that there is a logical, medically conceivable explanation.” She punctuated her words with a finger pointing down at the file.
Dr. Strauss took a deep breath and placed both hands flat on the desk, as though steadying herself against her own frustration. Her voice softened but carried an edge of urgency.
“Detective, I need you to understand something. Rosie Perez is not invincible. She’s not some superhuman anomaly, no matter how it looks. The human body isn’t designed to endure what she’s putting it through—prolonged starvation, the physical exertion, the psychological strain. Eventually, her body will quit on her. And when that happens, it will be catastrophic.”
Lou folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully. His face betrayed no emotion, but she could tell he was weighing her words.
“I’m listening, Doc,” he said, his tone steady but skeptical.
Dr. Strauss straightened, her voice regaining its clinical precision, though the cracks of genuine concern were still visible around the edges. “Rosie hasn’t consumed enough to sustain her. A person in her condition should be severely malnourished, weak, unable to stand, let alone resist the strongest aides on staff. Yet somehow, she defies all of that.”
She tapped the file on her desk, as if willing the data inside to yield answers. “This isn’t sustainable, Detective. Her body will break down. It’s only a matter of time. What you witnessed in that interview room—her strength, her defiance—it’s not endless. And when the crash comes, it will be devastating.”
Lou exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. “So what’s your plan, Doc? You keep her locked up here, watching her twenty-four-seven, hoping she doesn’t keel over? What happens when she finally does?”
Dr. Strauss’s gaze sharpened. “My plan is to provide her with the care and stability she needs to survive. That means round-the-clock monitoring, a consistent environment, and absolutely no more interruptions. No interviews, no visits, no external stressors. Not until we can stabilize her physically and mentally.”
“And what if you can’t?” Lou shot back, his voice rising slightly.
Dr. Strauss didn’t flinch. “I will. I have to. But I need time. And I need you—and everyone else—to trust me. She’s fragile, Detective. Far more fragile than she seems. And I believe, with every shred of my training and experience, that I can help her. But only if you let me do my job.”
Lou leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his sharp eyes locked on hers. “You think she’s fragile? After what I just saw? Doc, I don’t know if Rosie Perez is still in there, but whatever’s running the show now—”
“She’s still in there,” Dr. Strauss interrupted her voice firm. “I’ve seen it. Glimpses, yes, but it’s her. And if we push too hard, too fast, we’ll lose her entirely. She needs calm. She needs stability. And most of all, she needs time.”
Lou held her gaze for a long moment, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, he stood, his chair scraping against the floor.
“Fine,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll back off. For now. But if you’re wrong—if something happens to her while we’re sitting on our hands…”
“I won’t let that happen,” Dr. Strauss said, cutting him off again. Her tone left no room for argument.
Lou nodded once, curtly, then turned and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, glancing back over his shoulder.
“For her sake, Doc, I hope you’re right.”
Dr. Strauss watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. She sank back into her chair, staring at the closed file on her desk.