Possess

side of his neck, and his vest flapped open, completely unbuttoned.
    “Yeah,” she said, lying for the second time in as many minutes.
    They stood for a moment staring at each other. Then Matt’s eyes drifted to her bare, goosefleshy arms. His hands flew to his chest before he remembered that he wasn’t wearing a jacket.
    He took her hand and pulled her across the courtyard. “Come on.”
    Bridget was too tired to argue. She allowed him to tow her through the damp, frigid courtyard and out to the front of the school. There were three squad cars and a coroner’s van parked out front.
    “Hey, Officer Terry,” Matt said, flashing a smile.
    “Matt,” Office Terry said. “What are you—” His eyes drifted to Bridget. “The dance?”
    “Yeah. Hey, do you have an extra jacket in the squad car?”
    “Sure, man.” Officer Terry reached through the open passenger side window and pulled a heavy black jacket off the floor of the squad car. “Anything for a Quinn.”
    Matt smiled. “Thanks. I’ll have my dad bring it back tomorrow.”
    Officer Terry winked and strode back toward the crime scene. Bridget didn’t watch him go, trying hard to keep the image of Peter’s mangled body out of her mind.
    “Better?” Matt said, draping the coat around her shoulders. The thing practically reached her knees and it reeked of stale cigarettes, but it was warm.
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    “Bridget,” Matt started. She could tell by the sound of his voice—all deep and parental—that something weighed on his mind. “Bridget, what’s going on?”
    “How would I know?” Wow, who knew lying could be so easy once you got the hang of it?
    “I don’t . . . I mean.” He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. The long bits in the front hung vertical for a moment, then flopped over his forehead. “Look, I’m sorry about your friend and all, but how did you know? How did you know there’d be a murder?”
    Bridget dropped her eyes to the ground. How was she supposed to explain this?
    “I heard you with Detective Paulson. You didn’t tell her about the voices you heard.”
    Bridget tried to look like she had no idea what he was talking about.
    “Please, I saw you. In the gym, in the courtyard. You heard . . . something.”
    “Something” didn’t even begin to cover it.
    “And then you got hauled into Monsignor’s office with that other priest. Those were the ones you were with after school on Thursday, right?
    Bridget nodded. She was so tired of keeping secrets. She felt hopeless and powerless against the misery around her. Her dad was dead. Peter was dead. Bridget was the link between them, and Matt was slowly putting the pieces together. There was just no point in denying any of it.
    “Well?” he asked.
    “Well, what?”
    “Well, it’s . . . weird.”
    Bridget pulled the police jacket up over her ears. Weird was an understatement.
    Matt waited, no doubt hoping Bridget would chime in and save him from whatever bizarre ideas were running through his mind, but she just didn’t have the energy to do it. He reached out and found her fingertips with his own, grazing against them lightly before pulling his hand away.
    “I guess what I’m trying to say is that, well, I know you don’t like me very much, but if you want to talk or you need anything . . . anything at all.”
    Need anything? There was one thing she needed desperately.
    “Take me to Geyserville tomorrow,” she blurted out.
    “Huh?”
    “You said what do I need? I need to go to Geyserville.”
    Matt cocked his head. “Why?”
    She needed to say it, to trust someone, anyone with her secret. He might not have been her first choice, but at that moment Bridget needed to trust Matt Quinn.
    “I need you to take me to Sonoma State Hospital. To see Milton Undermeyer.”
    Matt’s eyes grew wide as he realized exactly what she was asking. It wasn’t just a quaint Sunday drive into the wine country; she was asking him to take her to see the man who had killed her dad.
    “Please,” she said softly.
    Matt looked her straight in the eye as if he were searching for some reason to say yes. He must have found it. “I’ll pick you up at ten.”

Twenty-Three
    M ATT IDLED THE TRUCK WHILE Bridget plodded up the stairs to her front door. Her legs felt like they were made of cement. The staircase was interminable—she might as well have been climbing Everest—and just when she thought she was going to sink down onto a step and crawl her way