Kane awoke to the insidious craft of these questions too slowly to work his way out of them. It was as though the lights had come up on a stage he didn’t know he was standing on, revealing a play he didn’t realize he was performing in. The play was a tragedy. He was the lead: a gay boy, lonely, suicidal, brimming with angst. He had played his part beautifully.
Even now, Kane’s whole body burned in humiliation. His parents had been there. They’d whispered with Thistler after, in the hall, and their whispering continued until the next day when they sat Kane down and told him about the psych evaluation. Kane’s second chance.
“You’re a Montgomery,” Dad had said. “That means something in this town, you know. Your uncle is on the force.”
“You’re lucky,” Mom had said. “They’re giving you a chance to prove you’re committed to helping yourself. Not everyone gets that, sweetie.”
“You’re screwed,” Sophia had said. “They think you’re nuts. You’re gonna have to figure this out for yourself. Prove them all wrong.”
And that’s how they’d ended up at the mill.
Fear splintered through Kane’s guts. If he made it through this conversation with Thistler, he promised he’d never go back to the Cobalt Complex. He’d never even wonder about it.
The door to the Soft Room opened.
Kane burst to his feet. “Detective Thistler, I can explain—”
But it wasn’t Thistler at the door, or even Kane’s parents. Framed in the cold light of the hallway was someone entirely new to Kane’s small, disastrous world.
“Mr. Montgomery? I hope you weren’t waiting long in this dim, sad place. I left as soon as I got the call.”
The person said this with humor, in a voice adorned with theatric flourish that warmed the small room. They wore a fitted suit sashed at the waist and sleek pants trimmed in satin, all of their outfit rendered in a rich, golden fabric that revealed an elusive pattern beneath the lamplight. Even their skin glowed with a gold luster, shifting as they sat. Kane sat, too, a bit dazzled by the person’s faultless face, which would not allow him to answer the question as to whether this person was a man, a woman, both, or neither.
They slipped a pad of paper from their bag and peered at Kane through curled lashes.
“What, you’ve never seen a man in mascara?” he said, answering the question on Kane’s face.
“I’m sorry.” Kane’s cheeks burned. How often had this man caught people staring? How many times had he been asked that question? How many more times had he answered it without being asked, just for the sake of people uncomfortable with ambiguity, who ignored what this person had to say while instead wondering viciously at his identity?
“I’m sorry,” Kane repeated. “I didn’t mean—”
The person pinched the air, snuffing out Kane’s apology. Kane sat a bit deeper in his shame. This was not a person usually found in suburban Connecticut. This was not a person Kane knew how to hide from. He found instead a need to impress them.
“You’re not Detective Thistler,” Kane said, even though it couldn’t be more obvious.
“Ah, how astute. They told me you were a clever one.” The man winked conspiratorially, making Kane grin. “Thistler is occupied with…I don’t know. Whatever occupies the pathologically heterosexual. Perhaps trying to find just one more use for his three-in-one shampoo–conditioner–body wash? Maybe he ought to use it as a mouthwash, too? It might help that dingy rainbow of a smile he keeps showing everyone.”
Kane outright laughed, surprising himself.
“Anyhow. It’ll be just you and me today, Mr. Montgomery. You may call me Dr. Poesy.”
Kane was fascinated by Dr. Poesy, especially by his conspicuous queerness. He was not naïve enough to dismiss this similarity between himself and the doctor as a coincidence, because (and as a rule) Kane didn’t believe in coincidences. Life so far had shown there was something awful and determined about the way the world put itself together for people like him. A seductive sort of unluckiness that repeated in infinitely small and cruel ways. And at first Kane thought Dr. Poesy was part of that wicked design. A further unluckiness, sent to trick him one more time. But how could someone so like him be bad for him? Deep in his distrust, Kane felt something long lost blink to life: hope. This meeting wasn’t a coincidence, but perhaps it wasn’t unlucky, either. Maybe Dr. Poesy was good. Maybe he was here to help Kane break free from the wicked designs of his life. Maybe, just maybe, Dr. Poesy was the brighter edge of fate.
The thought stung Kane’s eyes. He bit down the emotion, telling himself this new hope was dangerous. He needed to stay on guard. Wiping his face clean of emotion, he asked, “You’re the psychologist, aren’t you? You’re here to do my psych evaluation, right?”
“I’m one of many people here to help you,” Dr. Poesy said. “And yes, I am here to evaluate, though today we’re only talking. Your parents have been informed and have left the station for the evening.”
“Do they know what happened?”
Dr. Poesy’s smiled impishly. “Not quite. I told the officers to let me handle them, and I haven’t yet decided what I’ll say. I suppose I’ll decide during this meeting.”
Kane drew back a bit. Was that a threat? What did that mean?
“I see you’ve brought a book. What is it?”
“Oh.” Kane was still clutching The Witches. “Nothing. A kid’s book.”
Dr. Poesy gazed at it. His eyes held a color that slid between black, blue, and oblivion.
“Witches interest me,” Dr. Poesy said. “If you look at most female archetypes—the mother, the virgin, the whore—their power comes from their relation to men. But not the Witch. The Witch derives her power from nature. She calls forth her dreams with spells and incantations. With poetry. And I think that’s why we are frightened of them. What’s scarier to the world of men than a woman limited only by her imagination?”
Kane sat forward. He sensed he was supposed to respond, but how? Was this part of the evaluation? He hadn’t been careful with Thistler. He would have to be with Dr. Poesy.
“It’s just a book,” Kane said cautiously.
Dr. Poesy flipped through a file. A golden pen appeared in his hand, and it waggled haughtily as he wrote something.
“So, in your own words, Mr. Montgomery, why are we here?”
“I was in a car accident.”
“Painting in broad strokes will get you nowhere with me. Try again.”
“I…” Kane flattened his voice. Steeled himself. He knew what needed saying. “I ran away a week ago today. I stole a car from my parents, and I drove it through the Cobalt Complex after a big storm. I lost control of the car near the river and crashed into a building. The car caught on fire. So did the building. I got out and the police found me in the river. I passed out and went into a brief coma, but I woke up in the hospital later. I’m in a lot of trouble. I don’t remember any of it.”