– by Erin Dunn
The old harbor docks creaked in the summer wind. A steadfast centerpiece of activity, ripe with people and boats, seagulls and silver fish. Hulls knocked against wooden planks and ropes slapped against decks. A vibrant hum of life sounded from amidst the waves. The symphony beckoned to passersby, a moonlit sonata on the waterfront.
The marina claimed many victims this way.
Holes along the main dock ate at feet and the wooden support posts rotted away under unsuspecting hands. The harbor did her best work masked under a picturesque moon.
She spat her victims out proudly, washing them ashore on the neighboring beach. The police knew to avoid the boatyard after dark. Any calls from the docks went unanswered past nightfall, their hope fading with the setting sun.
Their bodies were found in the morning.
Yet the marina thrived in the daytime. Any gaps or crumbling boards seemed to repair themselves in the light of the sun. The workers skipped from yacht to yacht with ease, setting the people off with a bottle of a champagne and a warning to return before nightfall.
The townspeople hosted weddings in the boathouse, an offering of sorts to the kinder side of the marina. They offered her joy in exchange for their safety, to appease the nasty half of the docks.
A twisted Jekyll hidden beneath a pleasant Hyde.
It was deep into night, but Carlton Finch was five drinks past caring when he wandered onto the back deck of the Surfside bar, staggering into the doors with all the grace of a drunken twenty-two-year-old. He careened towards the railing, knocking into the shoulder of a returning man.
Muttering slurred apologies, Carlton began fumbling with his belt. By the time he managed to undo the notches the back door had slammed shut. He had to piss so bad his gut hurt, and he swore with vigor at his clumsy fingers.
He clutched a hand to his stomach, the pain intensifying.
A hot sharp spike, another one, another one.
Somewhere through the haze he noticed the red. The gushing of red down his front, spilling over his fingers and blending with the black leather of his belt.
A drop hit the deck.
Splattered.
It thickened. The leaking of his stomach turned the collection of spatters into an ever-widening pool.
Blood. It was bloody.
The sticky warmth gushing over his hand was flowing blood. It wouldn’t stop no matter how hard he pressed.
There were other hands now. Pinching, pressing, squeezing.
They were hurting him. Digging into his insides, twisting them. The blood was pouring faster now.
It occurred to him to move. To fight. He stumbled back, blindly shoving against the weight around his middle. A knife clattered to the deck. A grunt came from his assailant.
His shoe planted in the center of the puddle, the pool of his own blood, and it slipped. As quickly as it registered, he fell, his skull cracking against the ground.
The pool enveloped him.
***
Officer Anthony Porto was on probation. His second year with the department and already a fuck-up. He wasn’t bad at his job; it was punishment for his public denunciation of the politics that prevented him from doing his job properly.
Of all places politics should have no impact, should it not be policing?
Now a lieutenant or chief came to all his calls. They lurked in the background, observing. Porto could feel them eyeing the back of his vest, assessing him, forcing him to hand out court summons and write tickets when he normally would have given just a verbal warning.
So when Porto screeched to a halt at the docks, Chief Greenman’s car was a close second. They shot out of their cars – neither acknowledging the chief had been tailing him – and sprinted towards the beach together.
A young dockworker made the 9-1-1 call, her hysterics clouding the details, but the body on the surf’s edge was a clear target.
Throwing himself to his knees, Porto scrambled to turn the body over.
“Jesus,” the chief hissed.
Sometimes the docks spit out live victims. They crawled from the waves, clawing their way back to the living.
This guy was far from alive.
The skin around his mouth had dried and cracked, flesh splitting from the corners of his lips. His clothes were sliced. The ocean sucked off loose scraps of fabric with each wave.
The chief grabbed his phone, the investigative detective unit already on speed dial. “Surfside docks now, I’ve got a deceased male. Need backup for investigation and perimeter. Potential homicide.”
“Potential?” Porto muttered.
The waves crashed in agreement. The man’s stomach was torn to bits. Wounds peppered his chest like fatal freckles. The dried blood caked on so thick the sea couldn’t wash it away.
“That doesn’t happen by accident. This was no harbor death.”
***
Dr. Rogler smiled softly when Kelsey plopped on her couch. Kelsey was slightly convinced their standing appointment – 8 o’clock every Monday morning – actually worsened her depression. Who sets appointments at that time? But she kept coming.
Normally Kelsey could admit she was a less-than-ideal patient, talking with her was not un-like pulling teeth. But no one ends up in therapy because they’re a delightful person.
This Monday was different.
“Hello Kelsey, how are you today?” Classic introduction.
“The TV in the waiting room, is that news live?”
Rogler cocked her head. “I believe so. To be frank, I’m not sure what channel the television is turned to.”
Kelsey fiddled with the hem of her sweater.
“Did you see something on the news that upset you, Kelsey?”
“Carlton Finch is dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you know Carlton well?”
“No but-” Kelsey broke off.
The clock on the doctor’s desk was audible. God, audible clocks. With their incessant ticking.
The silence stretched.
Tick. Tock.
“I just knew of him. I mean, like, I went to school with him. But…I dunno just…they’re investigating it maybe not being an accident?”
Dr. Rogler glanced up sharply. “An investigation?”
Kelsey nodded.
“That is understandably upsetting, Kelsey. I didn’t know that and I’m very sorry for that poor boy.”
“I saw him die. I watched him get stabbed.”
Rogler was staring, her eyes narrowed. Kelsey picked at a loose thread on her sweater hem, staring at the floor, doing anything but looking at the doctor’s face.
Tick. Tock.
“What do you mean you ‘saw him die’.”
Shouldn’t she be crying? There was an ache in her head, a pounding behind her eyes, but Kelsey couldn’t feel any tears. It was a crying moment, wasn’t it?
“My dream. That dream I had…where that kid was murdered?”
Dr. Rogler leaned back, her pen stabbing an inkblot into her notepad. “Ah, yes. You dreamt of Carlton Finch’s death last week?”
Tick. Tock
Kelsey gave an affirmative jerk of her chin. The ink in Rogler’s pen was red, a deep crimson mark on the paper. “Do you remember the details of this dream, Kelsey? I recall you saying, “someone got stabbed” in your dream, but not much else.”
Had she said it so casually? It had meant nothing at the time, just a weird dream after a long day. But Carlton was dead.
“I remember him being stabbed. From behind…I think. Like literally stabbed in the back. And he wasn’t expecting it. I remember feeling like he never saw it coming.”
Dr. Rogler scribbled. “Were you a bystander in this dream, Kelsey? Or were you Carlton? You say you watched it happen, but you knew what he felt in the moment.”
Kelsey frowned. She had watched it distantly, a fly on the wall. “I was me. I was removed but, like, I could still tell what was going on with him.”
“I see.”
Tick. Tock.
“Have you heard of confirmation bias, Kelsey?” Rogler asked. After a pause she continued, “It’s when our brains interpret information in a certain way to make that information agree with our beliefs.”
God. Kelsey made a face.
“Is it possible, Kelsey, that Carlton might not have been in your dream? That your brain may now believe it was him because he has since passed away?”
The session ended shortly after that.
***
Despite the body having been washed up on its shores that morning, the line at Surfside stretched to the parking lot by 9 o’clock. Morbid affairs made the townspeople want to drink.
Kelsey nursed a tequila sour, savoring the tartness that puckered her lips. Gossip ran amok from table to table; contending whispers that Carlton had jumped in willingly or had simply taken a wrong step and fell through the docks warred between groups.
The harbor’s reputation was long deserved and so the townspeople were no stranger to death, but Kelsey could not erase the image of Carlton’s agonized face. It twisted her stomach like a glass of spoiled milk.
She floated throughout the room, trying to avoid the clumps of tables chatting away until- ah! There he was.
Daniel Greenman returned his ID to his pocket as he stepped past the bouncer. The last conversation Kelsey had with Daniel Greenman was at a graduation afterparty five years ago – he had poured her a shot and sent her on her way. But Daniel’s father was Chief Greenman. A case like this would go through him.
Kelsey needed a few answers to settle her stomach.
Daniel sat at a high top, two of his buddies emerged from the crowd to claim spots at his side. Thank God Daniel still ran with the same crowd. The tall one – Jack Haluch – had taken Kelsey to their senior prom. Easier to talk to him than a stranger. Kelsey took a steadying breath and sidled up to him; a light touch on his shoulder turned into a slow smile, and then she had a spot at the table.
Jack leaned down to her ear. “Did you hear the news?”
“About Carlton?” Kelsey asked.
Daniel cut in before Jack could respond. “It’s way more gruesome than the news is reporting.”
“Your dad told you?” asked AJ, the other friend.
“Obviously.” Daniel dropped his voice to a whisper. “It’s a homicide investigation because apparently Finch got stabbed seventeen times.” Kelsey blinked. Harbor deaths were usually drownings. But Carlton had been stabbed in her dream too. The news hadn’t released that detail.
“No way.”
“Seventeen? That’s nuts.”
“So someone murdered him?” Kelsey shuddered. Jack slid an arm around her back and softly rubbed her shoulders. She jumped slightly at the foreign touch.
“Yeah. My dad thinks they just used the harbor to dump the body. They’re usually never cut up like Finch was.”
Jack frowned. “But who would want to kill Finch?”
***
Moonlight glared down on boat bows and rigging ropes. Never did Kelsey expect to find herself drunk on the back of a yacht with Jack Haluch, finishing his bottle of Clase Azul, and getting suspiciously cozy on some rich family’s cushions. Jack tipped the last drops of tequila into Kelsey’s glass. God, when was the last time she had hung out with a…friend? With anyone? Anyone that wasn’t her mom or her therapist?
Jack placed the empty bottle on the bow. Kelsey curled far into the pillows, so Jack towered over her, his arm resting lightly on the side of the boat.
What was she supposed to do with her arms? She was too aware of their bulk. Did he think she looked stiff?
But Jack smiled down at her, leaning closer. He whispered something.
“What?” She giggled. Oh no. She was drunk.
Jack leaned farther down; his arm stretched above Kelsey’s head. She stayed frozen, letting him inch closer, that smile widening. Her fingers explored downwards, brushing against something hard. It poked into her.
Wrapping her fingers around it, Kelsey closed the distance, gently kissing him.
Her hands plunged into his hair, his back.
He coughed. A thick choked sound.
His face flushed purple.
Kelsey stabbed again. She opened her eyes as Jack fell into her chest. Her fingers lost their hold, the handle of the knife slipping away.
His mouth gushed warm blood onto Kelsey’s lap. She tried to pull the knife out, but his body spasmed. Once. Twice.
A flailing fist socked Kelsey in the jaw. Her head reeled backwards, colliding with the tequila bottle. It flew off the seat’s edge, shattering, splintering, fracturing. The shards sliced at Kelsey’s bare feet as she tried to shove him away.
She had no voice to scream. To call for help. Jack’s weight was crushing down on her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. His blood kept spilling, filling her mouth, soaking her hair. It didn’t stop, it never stopped.
Jack’s body toppled to the floor. A thick silver knife protruded from his back. The last effort of his spasming limbs dragged Kelsey down with him.
The sharp handle of her knife rose to meet her skull.
***
Kelsey’s breath in tight gasps, forcing her awake. Her lungs had finally found a normal rhythm by the time she reached Dr. Rogler’s office building. The wooden lip of the waiting room chair bit into the back of her thighs. She shifted from one leg to another, trying to avoid the sharp sensation.
Her mind raced in the silence. Her fingers still itched with phantom blood; the soles of her feet ached with the ghost of sharp shards. The expression on Jack’s dead face had chased her awake that morning.
And Dr. Rogler was taking her sweet ass time.
She finally emerged from her office, motioning Kelsey inside with a distracted flick of her hand. “Why don’t you tell me why you wanted to see me today, Kelsey,” she replied.
Kelsey sat in her chair. “I had another dream last night.”
“Is that so?” Dr. Rogler grabbed a cloth, started wiping down her letter opener.
“It was so…eerie. It started exactly like my one with Carlton, just normal and at Surfside, and then I was on a boat and Jack got stabbed. And then he died, and his body fell on me, and I was suffocating – I couldn’t breathe.”
Rogler frowned. “That must have been very troubling. Tell me, who is Jack? Do you know him well?”
“I guess? His name is Jack Haluch. He was my prom date.” Dr. Rogler nodded along, dropping the letter opener in a drawer. She began collecting the papers scattered around her desk. “But that’s what’s creepy. I haven’t spoken to him since senior year and then last night I talked to him at the bar and the next thing I know he’s showing up dead in my dream!” Kelsey exhaled the words with a sharp breath.
Rogler held up a hand. “Describe your dream to me, from the beginning.”
So, Kelsey started. She told the doctor about talking to Jack and Daniel at the bar, and how her dream started by breaking onto a yacht in the docks. Kelsey rushed through the intimate bits, skipping to Jack’s falling body, and the intense crush of her lungs. Dr. Rogler continued tidying as she spoke, sliding the stack of papers into a folder.
“Hm. Do you know what dreams are?”
“Uh…no?”
Dr. Rogler nodded again. “We actually don’t know what causes dreams, but a common theory is that dreams are our brains way of processing the events of the day. So, when you dreamt of Jack, it most likely was because y-”
“I had just seen Jack,” Kelsey interrupted. But she had stabbed him. There was no way she had actually…?
“Precisely.”
Kelsey bit her lip. “I mean…I know it’s not possible it’s just – okay well, it kind of felt like I predicted Carlton’s death. And I dunno, I just really don’t want that to happen to Jack.”
Dr. Rogler huffed a laugh. “There’s no need to worry Kelsey. You are certainly not predicting anyone’s death. Such a thing does not exist.”
***
Fuck what she said. Kelsey floored it across town, reaching speed limits that would have had her mother clutching the dashboard. No matter what Dr. Rogler said, she couldn’t shake the image of Jack’s dying face. The sight of blood oozing from his lips. It set her bones itching, flashing across her mind every time she closed her eyes. She would be fine once she knew he was okay.
She punched the call button on her phone. It rang. Once, twice, three times. Nothing. Voicemail again. That was the thirteenth time today. And it was only ten in the morning. It was Carlton all over again.
She took a turn so tight her brakes gave a protesting screech.
Kelsey squealed to a stop by the docks. Or tried to. A slice of yellow caution tape split the road. Half a dozen cop cars littered the parking lot; their blue and red lights flashing garishly in the weak morning sunlight.
An officer slammed the hood of her car and gestured back the way she came. But Kelsey watched, horrified, as EMTs in bleached white uniforms rolled a stretcher up the docks.
There wasn’t even a sheet.
The body jostled over each bumpy plank.
A bloodied hand reached the edge of the gurney, then toppled over.
“Ma’am, get back in your car. This is an active crime scene,” the officer said the moment Kelsey emerged from her car.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” The officer stared at her. Blankly. Not a shred of emotion or sympathy in his gaze. “Jack. He’s dead.”
Just beyond the fence, cops carried bags of evidence up to the lot. One held swabs of blood samples. Another, the remains of a shattered tequila bottle. Kelsey gaped at the blue and white porcelain. The red stains were visible from the parking lot. Even the silver bell of the Clase Azul bottle had a pink tinge.
“The tequila bottle…” she whispered. Jack’s demented face leered at her from behind the empty bottle. “Oh my god”. They had drunk that tequila. She had been sipping it in her dream when Jack had been stabbed. When she had stabbed Jack.
And now it was here.
That shouldn’t have been possible.
“Officer, was he stabbed?”
The officer grabbed Kelsey’s arm. He turned her towards him. “Ma’am, I know this is very upsetting so let’s get you out of here.”
“No!” She shrugged out of his grasp. “Please, you have to tell me how he died. Tell me it’s not the same.” She was gasping for air. “Please, please, please.”
“I can’t disclose any information. Ma’am, try to take a breath for me.”
“I saw it. I watched it. That bottle…no, no, no. It actually happened?”
“You watched it?” His brows furrowed. His head swung back and forth, eyeing her face and the boats, like he’s watching a tennis match.
“We had just drank it. And he put it down. He fell and then – that bottle…it sliced my feet.” She grabbed her head, wrenching her eyes to stopper the tears forming. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.”
Her legs buckled, sobs wracking her chest. She dropped; the officer reached for her.
She had killed him.
Jack was dead and she had killed him.
Dead. Dead.
Dead.
“I’ve got a hysterical woman down by the docks, I’m bringing her in for psych eval.”
***
The clicking of high heels echoed down the barren hospital hallway. The girl was admitted into a closet-sized room in a side corridor of the main floor, removed from prying eyes and running mouths. More like shunned.
Chief Greenman escorted the high-heeled woman to where Porto stood outside the girl’s door.
“Porto, this is Dr. Rogler.”
The woman shoved out a hand. “I’m the on-call psychiatrist. You said Kelsey seemed to be experiencing a breakdown?” She whipped out a pen and notebook, nodding along as he described the girl’s panicking. She tsked every so often, a stern teacher disapproving.
“And she’s not awake yet. Doctors said an hour or two more for the sedation to wear off,” Porto finished.
“Odd. Very odd. How does she…” The doctor trailed off. “Well, it seems I will be back in a few hours for a proper evaluation. Keep an eye on her, please. She could be dangerous.” Rogler smiled faintly at the thought.
Porto nodded politely though the doctor’s bright voice irked him. Her tone did not match her words. He wanted her gone, far, far away from him.
***
The girl grunted as she awoke, her arms straining against her handcuffs to no avail. Porto jumped at the noise. “Hello, ma’am. How are you feeling?” he asked.
Her eyes wandered, blearily taking in the hospital room, the blue-scrubbed people rushing about, the collections of tubes and bags of neon-colored liquids on every surface.
The girl – the doctor said her name was Kelsey – stared up at Porto. Her eyes traced the tubes stuck in her veins up into the IVs hanging on their sharp hooks. She focused on her handcuffs, clarity alighting on her face. “What happened?” she croaked.
“We’re at the hospital ma’am. I’m afraid we had to bring you in for your own safety. You were in real bad shape down at the docks. That crime scene wasn’t pretty,” Porto replied.
Kelsey seemed dazed; her mouth frowned with confusion. “How long?”
“You’ve just been here a few hours. Enough for a good nap.” He chuckled. Truthfully, with the number of tranquilizers pumped into her system, Porto was surprised the sedation hadn’t lasted a whole week.
“When can I go?”
Ah. That. He wasn’t a doctor, his minimal medical training not even close, but he had overheard enough to know a clear medical report wouldn’t get her released. The psychiatrist seemed to think she was a danger.
How her lean frame could have overpowered the two men was beyond him, but Porto refrained from commenting. “Once the psychologist checks you out, which I dunno when that’ll be, they said you’re free to leave once she gives the okay.” A half-truth. If the psychologist had her way, Kelsey would be here a long time.
The girl stared at the ceiling. Porto suggested sleep, but Kelsey gave no acknowledgement she heard.
He supposed that was a real conversation killer.
***
The lights awoke her before the cop did. The door slammed open a moment after Kelsey rolled over.
The officer, Porto, snapped to attention as a doctor stepped through the doorway.
“Hello Kelsey. I’m glad to see you’re awake. We’re just going to ask you a few questions, is that okay? Great…this is Dr. Rogler, she’s going to be speaking with you today.”
Kelsey’s mouth popped open as Dr. Rogler strode into the room. “What are you doing here?”
Rogler smiled. “I also happen to be the on-call psychiatrist.” Was this a joke?
Dr. Rogler bustled about the room, dragging a stiff-looking armchair to Kelsey’s bedside, and dropping her purse besides it.
“Can I go please? You know I’m not crazy,” Kelsey said. Maybe there was a silver lining here. Dr. Rogler knew she wasn’t a psych ward nutcase. After a nice weekend relaxing, they could talk about this on Monday.
“Would you mind giving us some space? I’d like to chat in private,” Dr. Rogler said to Porto. Her red lipped smile showed no teeth. Porto glanced at Kelsey, then back to Dr. Rogler, hesitating. He looked about to protest.
“I’ll be right outside,” he announced. From her angle, Kelsey just made out the tips of his black hair poking above the window frame.
“Now, why don’t we start by you telling me what happened.”
Kelsey sighed. The story took little time to tell; she had a dream, went to make sure that the docks were empty, and then found the crime scene. She remembered nothing about hospital-worthy hysterics.
“That officer informed me that you were screaming about Jack, and he felt it was best to bring you in before you injured yourself. Do you remember any of this?”
Kelsey shrugged. The tequila bottle was the last thing she remembered. The pinkish stain on the white porcelain, the dent on the bell like it had been smashed. Had she actually drunk that tequila? She had felt the warmth in her stomach and the spinning in her head, but then Jack had been stabbed – by her. How could that have happened and then she awaken in her own bed?
It didn’t make any sense.
“Jack was my friend.” Were they holding her hostage just because she found a friend dying to be upsetting?
“I see. Well…I think we’ll check up on you tomorrow morning. Grief is one of our strongest emotions, it’s okay to feel, Kelsey.” Rogler patted Kelsey’s hand, her fingers graciously avoiding the handcuff. Neither of them mentioned it.
***
Officer Porto straightened when Dr. Rogler exited Kelsey’s room. Their entire conversation had seemed off. He had never met a psychologist so…pushy.
“Hey, doctor!” he called out, falling into step beside her. “How long are you planning on keeping that girl in there?”
“Kelsey may seem fine but there is quite a bit going on beneath the surface,” Rogler replied. “In fact, I’m headed to see Chief Greenman right now. Perhaps you’d like to accompany me to the station?”
Technically, his shift ended six minutes ago but Porto agreed. He needed her to talk. To explain the knot tangling his thoughts and keeping their interaction on repeat. A feeling he couldn’t name pressed him forward. Intuition? Apprehension?
Rogler made idle conversation as they drove, talk of sunrises and clouded skies. He couldn’t take the waiting much longer.
Finally – “Do you think Kelsey killed them?”
The question burst forth.
“She says things when we talk. Of knives and stabbings. She says she dreamed of murdering those men,” Rogler sighed. “Maybe she didn’t do it. But how else would she have known to go to the docks? She’s told me details of these deaths that even the newspapers don’t yet know. I’ve gotten the feeling there’s more to this than what appears.”
Porto had a feeling too.
The doctor was not quite what she seemed.
Yet Rogler thanked him profusely when they got to the station, the picture of professionalism. He drove away with the distinct feeling that she had seen his questions coming.
The doctor talked too easily.
***
Officer Porto listened to the harbor, letting his thoughts flow with the churn of water beneath his feet. Quieter today, satiated from a fresh feasting. He leaned against the farthest post, the one half eaten by waves and salt, watching the sun greet the sky and burn off the morning.
The harbor unsettled him. The way its moods changed each morning, sometimes angry and frothy, sometimes calm with gentle waves. He had always loved the sea, but something about the harbor…it snatched that joy from him.
He had lost track of the number of bodies the department had found on the beaches. Or tangled under the docks in a fisherman’s net. Death had become a common occurrence. An average morning.
He heard rumblings from the dockyard. Boat hands untied knots and started engines. Chefs grabbed the day’s fresh catch and retreated to their kitchens. The harbor came alive around Porto, the monstrous side died with the moonlight.
Porto winced, rubbing his hand. A splinter had sliced the flesh of his palm. It bled down his wrist. Coating his arm in red.
That was a lot of blood. Porto turned to leave, needing his squad car and the first aid kit within. But a shove from behind forced his body forward. His feet couldn’t find purchase on the decaying planks.
His nose cracked against the deck. Pain lashed across his face.
Then his shoulders. His back. A knife sliced gaping gashes into his body. Multiplying, over and over.
He tried to breathe.
To push off the dock.
To regain his feet.
But his throat was thickening, his mouth sucked down air that couldn’t make it to his lungs. Another stab. He felt it through his chest, the knife buried to the handle.
It tore through him as it was yanked away.
Porto managed was a slight raise of his head.
His eyes caught sight of the distant sunrise before the harbor snatched his life.
***
“Porto. Porto!”
Hands grabbed her wrists. Shoving her shoulders down into the bed.
“Porto!”
“Kelsey. Stop! Jesus, get the shrink.”
An officer pinned her to the bed. Not Porto. “Where is he? Where is he!”
“Officer Porto is off his shift.”
Kelsey twisted her torso, this way and that, attempting to shake the cop’s death grip. “No, no, no. Find him. He’s going to die. You need to find him!” More squirming resulted in zero progress.
“Officer Porto is fine, Kelsey,” a woman’s voice explained. Kelsey froze. Through the gap under the cop’s arm, Kelsey watched Dr. Rogler enter the room. Her heels clicked with each step towards Kelsey’s bedside. “Why don’t we continue our chat?”
Dr. Rogler rummaged through her bag; bits of white notebook paper and her shiny silver letter opener poked their heads out of its pocket.
“Dr. Rogler. You need to listen to me. Porto is going to die. I just saw it,” Kelsey pleaded.
The doctor only pursed her lips. She jotted something down with that red pen of hers. “You saw it? You mean you dreamt it.”
Dr. Rogler doesn’t believe her. The way her voice dropped, turning flat and fake with each question. “I know it sounds crazy but please. I saw Carlton die and then he did. I saw Jack die and then he did. I just saw Porto die, please. You have to save him!” Kelsey screamed.
***
Rogler watched as the officer shut the door, Kelsey’s screams cut off as the lock clicked into place. “I’ll come back to check on her in the evening. She seems to be in a state of psychosis, claiming she’s ‘seen’ these murders. I’m thinking it’s a case of retroactive reverse amnesia, but I’ll need to monitor her further…I’m worried she might have had a hand in them.”
“Okay, Doctor. We’ll page you if her status changes.”
Dr. Rogler exited the hospital, sifting through the contents of her bag. She pulled out of the parking garage, humming along to the radio. Her daughter would like this song. Maybe she would send it to her.
The road went east past the town border; the scenic route followed the coastline until it curled up into the mountains. Dr. Rogler took exit 5 and pulled into the harbor parking lot.
She parked next to a police car. The blue and red lights shone steadfast. At the docks edge, a single officer stared at the distant horizon.
Dr. Rogler kept humming. She grabbed the letter opener out of her bag. It was still slightly red. One final wipe then it glittered.
The dockyard began to awaken. Boat hands untied knots and started engines. Chefs grabbed the day’s fresh catch and retreated to their kitchens. Dr. Rogler stopped humming as she strode down the rotting planks.
She wanted to listen. To hear. To feel. To embrace the harbor as she paid it her final offering.
