world—the sort of altered reality he associated with Joe or his father. If it wasn’t the pressure, could it be some sort of mental illness? Charlie was knowledgeable enough about his brother’s disease to know that symptoms manifested themselves in the late teens, midtwenties on the outside, but almost never in someone as old as he was. But was it possible?
Jerking the steering wheel hard right, Charlie swerved the BMW in front of a fast-traveling Toyota 4Runner. The driver reciprocated with a customary Bostonian salute of his middle finger. Hitting the exit ramp at forty mph, the wheels of the BMW hugged the road with the advertised precision and control. Charlie shot over the overpass, got into the left lane, downshifted into second, then turned onto the entrance ramp heading in the opposite direction on Route 128, back toward Waltham.
If he could medically disprove the possibility of work pressures or some late-blooming brain disease as the cause, it would go a long way toward reestablishing trust within SoluCent’s leadership team. That would give Charlie access to the necessary corporate resources to find the real culprits.
“Please dial Mother,” Charlie said aloud.
“Dialing Mother,” responded InVision.
The phone rang six times before someone finally answered.
“Hello.” The voice on the other end was heavy, as though the person to whom it belonged had been roused from a deep slumber.
“Joe.”
“Charlie? That you?”
“I need a favor. I need you to look up a number for me.”
Joe said nothing for a moment. “You need a number?”
It seemed to Charlie an exceptionally long time to process information, only to repeat the request. “Yes. That’s what I said,” he said.
“What number do you want, Charlie?”
“Rachel Evans,” Charlie said.
Charlie could hear the surprise in Joe’s voice. “What? Why do you want to talk with Dr. Evans?”
“Why do you care?” Charlie said.
“She’s my psychologist, Charlie. There’s a reason to care.”
“It’s research, Joe. Nothing more.”
Charlie had heard Rachel’s name mentioned dozens of times over the years. Joe was besotted with her. He praised her with a sense of wonderment typically reserved for the divine. And admittedly, since joining her experimental cognitive therapy program, Joe had made remarkable progress.
All Charlie wanted was an expert ear. Hers was the only name he had.
Joe gave him the number and Charlie thanked him.
“Are you going to come visit Mom?” Joe asked. “I’m sure she would appreciate it.”
“I can’t today, Joe,” Charlie said, hanging up without another word.
Research,
Charlie thought.
Yeah. That’s what it is. Research.
He shifted the car over into the fast lane and dialed Rachel’s number. The receptionist patched him through.
“Dr. Evans,” a friendly voice said.
“Dr. Evans, this is Charlie Giles, Joe’s brother. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Chapter 8
T he redbrick edifice of Walderman Mental Health rose from its perch atop a grassy knoll and cast an eerie, elongated shadow as the late-day sun settled in the west. Charlie drove his black BMW up the winding driveway. He noticed xenon headlights automatically turned on, as onboard sensors determined dusk was approaching. Charlie downshifted into first and glided his car to a gentle stop in the farthest corner space in a parking lot void of other vehicles.
He had been to this place only once before. It had been a few months after moving back east; Charlie had asked his mother if he could attend a group therapy session at Walderman Hospital. This had brought a look of surprise to her face, since she’d been asking him to participate in Joe’s therapy for years. In her mind, for Charlie to spring this on her out of the blue had been nothing short of a miracle. He had never admitted that the request was more selfish than selfless. He had found it embarrassing to live so close to Joe and still have the same
Jerking the steering wheel hard right, Charlie swerved the BMW in front of a fast-traveling Toyota 4Runner. The driver reciprocated with a customary Bostonian salute of his middle finger. Hitting the exit ramp at forty mph, the wheels of the BMW hugged the road with the advertised precision and control. Charlie shot over the overpass, got into the left lane, downshifted into second, then turned onto the entrance ramp heading in the opposite direction on Route 128, back toward Waltham.
If he could medically disprove the possibility of work pressures or some late-blooming brain disease as the cause, it would go a long way toward reestablishing trust within SoluCent’s leadership team. That would give Charlie access to the necessary corporate resources to find the real culprits.
“Please dial Mother,” Charlie said aloud.
“Dialing Mother,” responded InVision.
The phone rang six times before someone finally answered.
“Hello.” The voice on the other end was heavy, as though the person to whom it belonged had been roused from a deep slumber.
“Joe.”
“Charlie? That you?”
“I need a favor. I need you to look up a number for me.”
Joe said nothing for a moment. “You need a number?”
It seemed to Charlie an exceptionally long time to process information, only to repeat the request. “Yes. That’s what I said,” he said.
“What number do you want, Charlie?”
“Rachel Evans,” Charlie said.
Charlie could hear the surprise in Joe’s voice. “What? Why do you want to talk with Dr. Evans?”
“Why do you care?” Charlie said.
“She’s my psychologist, Charlie. There’s a reason to care.”
“It’s research, Joe. Nothing more.”
Charlie had heard Rachel’s name mentioned dozens of times over the years. Joe was besotted with her. He praised her with a sense of wonderment typically reserved for the divine. And admittedly, since joining her experimental cognitive therapy program, Joe had made remarkable progress.
All Charlie wanted was an expert ear. Hers was the only name he had.
Joe gave him the number and Charlie thanked him.
“Are you going to come visit Mom?” Joe asked. “I’m sure she would appreciate it.”
“I can’t today, Joe,” Charlie said, hanging up without another word.
Research,
Charlie thought.
Yeah. That’s what it is. Research.
He shifted the car over into the fast lane and dialed Rachel’s number. The receptionist patched him through.
“Dr. Evans,” a friendly voice said.
“Dr. Evans, this is Charlie Giles, Joe’s brother. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Chapter 8
T he redbrick edifice of Walderman Mental Health rose from its perch atop a grassy knoll and cast an eerie, elongated shadow as the late-day sun settled in the west. Charlie drove his black BMW up the winding driveway. He noticed xenon headlights automatically turned on, as onboard sensors determined dusk was approaching. Charlie downshifted into first and glided his car to a gentle stop in the farthest corner space in a parking lot void of other vehicles.
He had been to this place only once before. It had been a few months after moving back east; Charlie had asked his mother if he could attend a group therapy session at Walderman Hospital. This had brought a look of surprise to her face, since she’d been asking him to participate in Joe’s therapy for years. In her mind, for Charlie to spring this on her out of the blue had been nothing short of a miracle. He had never admitted that the request was more selfish than selfless. He had found it embarrassing to live so close to Joe and still have the same
Similar Books
