She caught his stare and turned away, hiding her face.

‘I will tell him you came by,’ she said over her shoulder.

Felicia was the first to speak. ‘Where is your father?’

‘At work.’

Before they could ask more, Lexa Ostermann walked out through the front door. She was buttoning up the long coat she wore, and upon seeing them, she stopped. For a moment, her face remained expressionless, but then her natural graces took over once more. She looked past Felicia, directly at Striker, and smiled.

‘Well, it is a good morning, I see.’

Striker smiled. ‘Good morning yourself, Mrs Ostermann.’

‘It’s Lexa, for you,’ she said.

‘What should I call you?’ Felicia cut in. Her voice was dry, business-like.

Lexa only smiled at her, said nothing, then turned her attention back to Striker. ‘Please, from now on don’t be so formal.’

‘I’ll try to remember that,’ he said.

She stepped right into his personal space and stared into his face. When she smiled, she looked ten years younger, Striker noticed, and that magnetism pulled at him.

‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Last night you seemed a little . . . tense when we left.’

The smile on Lexa’s face remained, but her lips tightened and her eyes got a faraway look in them. ‘So what brings you out my way, Detective Striker?’

Felicia stepped forward. ‘Sorry to break up this scene from The Bridges of Madison County, but we’re here to speak with your husband.’

Lexa’s cheeks reddened from the comment. ‘Oh. I’m . . . I’m sorry. You missed him.’

‘Missed him?’ Striker asked.

‘Yes, he had much to do today, I’m afraid. He left far earlier than usual. Around six o’clock, I think. Didn’t Dalia tell you?’

Dalia, who had been standing there silently, said nothing. She then took the opportunity to make herself scarce. Without so much as a word, she slipped in between the group, crossed the driveway in front of the undercover police car, and hopped into the passenger side of a green Land Rover.

‘Quite the chatterbox,’ Felicia noted.

Lexa said nothing. She looked back at Striker and put on her best smile. ‘I will tell Erich you came by the moment I see him, Detective Striker.’

‘And when will you see him?’ Felicia persisted.

Lexa’s eyes never left Striker’s. ‘In a few hours. I’ll see him at the clinic.’

That made Striker blink. ‘What clinic?’ he asked.

‘Why, Mapleview, of course.’

‘Mapleview? I didn’t think your husband worked there. You mean, you work together?’

She nodded softly. ‘Yes. Well, now we do. It’s how Erich and I met, actually – through our professions. Long ago, before Erich even started the EvenHealth programme, I was a psych nurse at Riverglen.’

Striker thought this over. ‘Riverglen, huh? Interesting. But you no longer work there?’

‘No, now I do more private than public work. The pay is better, the hours are less and, more importantly, it’s all day shifts now. I stopped pulling nights after I turned forty. It was just too hard – though, with your profession, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.’

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘I know nights.’

‘I bet you do.’

Felicia stepped forward to get Lexa’s attention. ‘When exactly are you going to see your husband, Mrs Ostermann?’

‘Well, when he gets to the clinic.’

‘Which will be?’

‘Sometime this afternoon, I would guess. Erich usually does his paperwork in our home office Thursday mornings. The rest of the week, he spends the mornings at Riverglen. He avoids the worst of the rush-hour traffic that way – coming back from Coquitlam at the end of the day can be a real grind.’

‘But he did end up going to Riverglen today?’ Striker asked.

‘Yes, but he should be at Mapleview after two or so.’

‘We can’t wait till then,’ Striker said to Felicia. ‘We’ll have to head out there to see him.’

At hearing this, Lexa made an uncomfortable sound. She took in a deep breath and her face turned hard. She looked directly at Striker. ‘Erich doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s in the middle of his work – he takes it very, very seriously.’

‘So do we,’ Felicia said dryly. ‘Suicides and missing people are generally rated fairly high on our list.’

Lexa Ostermann didn’t so much as acknowledge the comment. She kept her eyes focused on Striker and continued speaking. ‘I only ask that you don’t . . . upset him right now. Erich is under a lot of pressure with his caseload at Riverglen, not to mention all the private work he’s doing with EvenHealth. He’s very tired. And he’s stressed out. He hasn’t been sleeping well of late, so he upsets rather easily.’

‘I’ll do my best to keep things on the level,’ Striker assured her.

Lexa nodded as if she was grateful for this, but her expression remained one of concern.

Striker felt for the woman. He said goodbye to Lexa, and they returned to the car. They climbed inside, backed out of the driveway, and then reversed so Lexa and Dalia could drive their Land Rover out of the front gate.

The last thing Striker saw before leaving was the look on Dalia’s face through the windshield. Her expression was as hard as rock and her eyes were cold and empty and seemed very far away.

‘Something’s wrong with that kid,’ Felicia said.

Striker knew it, too. He felt it deep down in his chest.

Thirty-Seven

The mental health centre known as Riverglen was old, having been built in the early nineteen hundreds. Fresh layers of white paint had been added to the old wood trim of the windows, and the crumbling blocks of surrounding red brick had been spraywashed clean. But no matter how much work the government put into the hospital, no matter how hard the politicians tried to make the facility look like a modern-day, healthy and happy place to live, an air of despair cloaked the facility, as visible as the storm clouds that were sweeping in from the north.

This was Riverglen – an institution for the mentally ill. It was listed under the government’s Mental Health and Addiction Services, for those who bothered to look for it.

Felicia pointed to the belfry high atop the central roof. ‘Gives me the creeps, this place,’ she said.

Striker nodded. ‘Right below that is where they gave people the shock-treatment therapy.’ The moment he said the words, he regretted them. Felicia already had a problem with these places, he didn’t want to make it worse.

‘I hate this place,’ she said softly. ‘My grandmother was brought here, way back in the days when everyone called it The Hallows. The things they did to make her better. Christ. They drugged her, strapped her down, gave her electric shocks. I don’t remember much of it – I was so little then – but I remember enough. Like her hair falling out from the stress, and her body turning rake thin.’

‘I had no idea,’ Striker said.

Felicia looked over at Striker and her eyes were hard. ‘She was a lot better off before ever going in here. And once she was committed, she never left. It was a tragedy.’

‘Psychiatry’s gotten a whole lot better since then,’ Striker offered.

But Felicia didn’t seem moved by the comment. She glared at the building before her, then shuddered. Striker parked the car, gave her a nod and they climbed out.

Outside, the wind from the Pitt River funnelled into the hospital grounds and caused the bushes flanking the walkway to flap and flutter. Felicia bundled up her long charcoal coat and marched ahead. Striker joined her. Together, they hiked up the old stone steps of the entrance and stepped between a giant pair of freshly painted white pillars before entering the foyer of the mental hospital.

Riverglen.

They had arrived.