Phantom Instinct (9780698157132) by Meg Gardiner Page A

door.
    Harper stood to follow.
    â€œWait,” Sorenstam said. “You need to give him some space.”
    â€œThat was cold.”
    â€œI mean a lot of space. As in, put some distance between you.”
    Harper’s pulse thumped in her ears. “Are you deliberately trying to sound cruel? The man has a traumatic brain injury. And he just drove sixty miles to offer you evidence in an unsolved murder.”
    Sorenstam got to her feet. “Ms. Flynn, I know that you were close to Drew Westerman. I understand your confusion and your wish that there was something more we could do in this case. But going down the rabbit hole hand in hand with Aiden Garrison is a bad idea.”
    â€œThere’s no rabbit hole. I didn’t plant the idea that he saw the tattoo. He told you about it a year ago.”
    â€œYes. While he was hospitalized, he told us he’d seen a partial tattoo. He was severely injured and heavily drugged. He told us all kinds of things.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œYou need to trust me on this. I’ve known Detective Garrison for four years. You’ve known him for four hours.”
    â€œI know he’s trying to do the right thing,” Harper said.
    â€œDo you know that he’s paranoid?”
    â€œSo am I. I bet you are, too.”
    â€œI’m not joking,” Sorenstam said. “And you’d do well to pay attention to people who have superior information. Or are you an inveterate kitten-rescuer?”
    Harper’s vision pulsed. She clenched her hands at her sides to keep from taking a swing at the woman. “Aiden told me about the Fregoli syndrome. That’s not paranoia, it’s a temporal lobe injury.”
    â€œMore precisely, it’s a diffuse lesion of the fusiform gyrus—the portion of the right temporal lobe that deals with facial recognition. And it’s not the only consequence of his TBI.”
    A cold finger seemed to scrape down Harper’s back. She remembered what Aiden had said earlier.
Sometimes it manifests as changes in personality. Issues with anger and impulsivity.
    â€œYou’re telling me he has other serious issues?” she said.
    â€œI’m telling you who Aiden is.” Sorenstam lowered her voice. “He perceives threats everywhere he turns. Maybe because he spent the last decade doing jobs where distrusting other people kept him alive. Add a catastrophic head injury, and everything that was burning beneath the surface erupted.”
    Harper shook her head. “No. That . . .”
    â€œHe got hurt. It unlocked a cage.” Sorenstam picked up the pencil again, seemingly to orient herself. “You need to see something.”
    From her desk drawer, she took a thumb drive. Tersely, she loaded it into her computer and brought up a video.
    And Harper understood.

10

    S orenstam queued up the video and turned her screen so Harper could watch.
    It was soundless, a black-and-white video that showed a corner of the detectives’ pen and Sorenstam’s desk. Harper looked up. The camera was tucked near the ceiling.
    The date and time ran at the bottom of the video. Eight months ago. A man sat at the desk beside Sorenstam’s, white shirt, dark tie, holster on his belt. Nearby, another detective, heavyset, with a mustache, was on the phone, taking notes.
    On-screen, Sorenstam walked past the camera, wearing a slim skirt and heels, talking casually to somebody. A second later, Aiden walked into view.
    Even with the middling-quality video, his recovery clearly wasn’t very far along. He looked thinner. His face was drawn. He held his left arm carefully, close to his side, and walked slowly, eyes on his path. He touched the back of a chair to preserve his balance. Serial tasks, not multitasking. Not like he was now.
    She wondered if she should go and find him.
    Sorenstam said, “He was scheduled to come back to work part-time, ride a desk while he got his strength back. This