M Sellars - Miranda

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She looked over at me. “Getting ready to turn in.”

“Something wrong with your room?”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s just fine.”

“I take it you’ve decided that you’re spending the night in here with me.” My words were more a statement than a question.

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

“Can you promise me you aren’t going to have another episode of some sort during the night?”

“Yes. I promise.”

She parked herself in the chair and settled in. “Like I said, Rowan. You’re just about the worst liar on the planet.”

“I’ll be fine,” I objected.

She pulled the blanket over herself and said, “Goodnight, Rowan.”

Sunday, April 23

9:17 A.M.

FMC Carswell / Carswell NAS JRB

Fort Worth, Texas

“I spoke to the assigned officer personally,” Doctor Jante told me then shook her head to underscore the statement that followed. “Unfortunately, she said that Devereaux was sleeping during the period of time in question.”

As was the case the day before, Constance and I had been hastily escorted onto the grounds of the Naval Air Station where FMC Carswell was located. I had felt a bit self-conscious as we were brought forward and checked through ahead of the other visitors who were obligated to wait en masse. However, the feeling was quickly overshadowed by everything else that was weighing on me.

I finished shoving my belongings into a personal effects locker once again, and then as I rechecked my pockets I asked, “So the guard is certain she was asleep?”

“As certain as she can be under the circumstances,” she replied. “So I’m afraid there’s really no way to answer your original query.”

“Actually, I think you just did. If she was sleeping then she was Annalise…or what’s left of her, anyway.”

“I’m not sure I follow your logic. Would you care to enlighten me?”

“By your definition of what’s going on with her, I can see where you might not,” I explained. “But, if you’re willing to accept the fact that you aren’t dealing with a fractured personality here and that you’re actually up against a parasitic spirit that’s using Annalise’s body, then it should make perfect sense.”

“How so?”

“Simple deduction. Miranda doesn’t need sleep. Annalise does.”

“Actually, Mister Gant, a similar argument could still be made in the case of dissociative identity disorder. The manifestation of a given personality can easily trigger the release of stress hormones, which can in turn inhibit the ability to sleep. And to be honest, whenever the Annalise personality is in control, she always displays far more agitation, which would effectively counter your theory. Therefore, what you are saying doesn’t prove your claim that this is a spirit possession at all, nor does it accurately indicate which personality was truly in control at the time.”

I held up my hands in mock surrender. “No problem, Doc. I’m not here to argue the point. Feel free to rationalize it any way you want, that’s fine by me. But whether you agree or not, as far as I’m concerned if she was sleeping, then Annalise Devereaux was the one in the cell, not Miranda.”

“Aren’t you making a rather large assumption?”

“I prefer to call it a necessary leap when science fails,” I said, parroting back to her the words she’d used earlier to describe why the FBI was taking such a vested interest in me of late. I purposely refrained from making a point of that fact since Constance was standing nearby; I didn’t want to cause her any undue trouble by possibly bringing to light that I’d told her everything I was supposed to have kept secret. Fortunately, it was apparent from the doctor’s expression that no explanation was necessary and that the verbal jab had landed directly where it was aimed.

Jante raised an eyebrow and gave me a stern look. “An interesting choice of words. Still, even if you are correct, what does this prove? Why is it so important?”

“It tells me that Miranda wasn’t here. And if I’m right, that means she was using someone else’s body to commit another murder.”

“A murder? Where?”

“My best guess, Saint Louis.”

“Best guess?” She cocked her head to the side. “So this is just part of your theory then? You don’t actually know that a murder has been committed, correct?”

“I can’t point you to a body if that’s what you mean, but my gut feeling is that she’s killed again.”

Constance piped up, “I already contacted Detective Storm with the Saint Louis city homicide division, and he alerted the Major Case Squad. They don’t have anything yet, but I’ve worked with Rowan before. If he says…”

Doctor Jante held up a hand to stop her. “I’m familiar with Mister Gant’s track record.” She sighed then pursed her lips and studied the floor for a moment before looking back up to my face.

“Hypothetically, if I were to believe this whole story of yours, what makes you think Miranda murdered someone in Saint Louis?”

“In her own way, she told me she did.”

She furrowed her brow. “Are you basing that on something she said during yesterday’s interview?”

“Actually, no. She chose a somewhat more perverse route to get my attention.”

“What is that?”

“Believe it or not, she caused me to bleed all over my lunch.”

“Mister Gant, now you’re making even less sense than before.”

“I know that’s how it seems, but you’re just going to have to take my word for it,” I said. “Intuition, remember?”

“Yes, I do. But I also remember that you promised me a coherent explanation, and I’ve yet to hear one.”

“That’s true, I did. But, I’m afraid this is about as coherent as talking to dead people gets. Honestly, it all comes down to a matter of connecting some unrelated dots.”

She cast another skewed glare at me and sighed once more. “Again, assuming I accept your story as even remotely possible, whose body did she use? Obviously not your wife’s, as you seem to fear will happen, or I suspect you wouldn’t be this calm.”

“No,” I replied while shaking my head vigorously. “She didn’t use Felicity, although I can guarantee you that’s her end game with all of this.”

“So you’ve said. Who then?” Jante pressed.

“Only Annalise and Miranda know that answer.”

“And you think you can convince one of them to tell you?”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“Then what exactly is your intention here?”

“I’m just looking for some more dots to connect, Doctor Jante. Related, unrelated, I don’t care. I just want to stop her.”

“She’s behind bars, Mister Gant.”

“No, she isn’t. You took a body off the streets, that’s all,” I replied. “That’s not going to stop Miranda, and she’s on a mission to prove that.”

She regarded me in silence. I waited several heartbeats then let out a heavy sigh and rubbed my forehead for a moment. I was about to speak when a sharp trill sounded nearby. I glanced over to see Constance pulling her cell phone out and thumbing it on. As she stepped away from us, I heard her say, “This is Mandalay.”

I turned back to Doctor Jante and found that she was still frowning at me. Rather than continue the stare down and wait to see which one of us was going to flinch first, I simply gave in and said, “Look, I was under the impression you were all for me going back in there with her.”

“I was,” she replied.

“By ‘was,’ do you mean you aren’t any longer?”

“What I mean is that since our discussion yesterday, there have been some concerns raised about your effectiveness in this situation.”