“Dr. Scanlan, I’m Detective Josephine Kelly,” I introduce myself, handing her the manilla envelope. “I got you that court order you requested.”

  The doctor removes the papers from the envelope and gives them a brief glance before flashing me a terse smile. Pale green eyes make the woman appear both intriguing and trustworthy. “Let’s have this conversation in my office,” she suggests.

  I follow her long, precise strides through another set of security doors, then into a large office at the end of a short hallway. The doctor sits behind a metal desk framed by textbooks with faded and ripped spines. I sit on the opposite side, noting the space is orderly and void of any personal decor, which is likely done out of necessity. Patients may wander into the room and use almost anything as a weapon.

  “Let me start this with an important question, Detective Kelly.” The doctor folds her arms over the desk. “What do you know about dissociative identity disorder?”

  “Not a whole lot,” I answer truthfully. “I’ve researched it extensively since Maxine Huisman’s last hearing, and I must say I’m still at a loss. It sounds like something a patient could easily emulate to avoid prison time.”

  “You were there for the court hearings. You heard the testimony. Both Maxine’s mother and Noah Huisman stated Maxine had exhibited signs of D.I.D. back when she was a teenager. The extreme mood swings, changes in appearance and dialect, impulsiveness, suspicion, anxiety…they’re all classic signs of the disorder. Her mother suspected it may have even started long before then. However, I’m skeptical of everything that woman claimed considering she turned a blind eye to her daughter’s abuse. And let’s not forget the testimony of the social worker who placed Maxine with her grandmother after the snake-bite incident. It’s close to impossible for a child to have planned to emulate those symptoms to be acquitted of murder several decades in the future.”

  “Regardless of Mrs. Baxter’s mental state, she was still present when she committed the murders. Am I right?”

  “Physically, yes. Mentally, no. Maxine was vaguely aware of another personality, but she said it felt more like someone was watching her, or something was lurking in the shadows. D.I.D. patients often experience lapses of time in which an alter personality takes over. ‘Beth’ was formed out of necessity to protect Maxine from harm. I believe Beth, as well as several other personalities that have come and gone over the years, were created around the time Maxine was afraid she would never escape the countless years of abuse at the hands of her mother’s boyfriend.”

  Struck with a genuine pang of empathy, I clench my jaw. After everything I read in the social worker’s file, I can understand why Maxine’s mental health was unstable.

  I pride myself on reading suspects and anticipating their motives. Even though I’m still angry for being duped, I need to give myself some credit. Maxine appeared to be competent in every one of our interviews. Was it possible she was genuinely oblivious to her alter’s actions and hadn’t known about the evil deeds done by her own hands?

  “Based on my intensive sessions with Maxine,” Dr. Scanlan continues, “I plan to recommend at her next hearing that she be discharged.”

  My jaw unhinges. “You’re going to suggest that a murderer be released back into society after only a few months of commitment?”

  “That’s the thing about D.I.D.” The doctor releases a long breath while leaning back in her chair. “Only a part of Maxine can be considered accountable for these crimes. I believe with the proper amount of therapy, Beth’s homicidal tendencies can be tamed. I’ve met with her at least a dozen times since Maxine arrived, and she has a cognitive understanding of the situation. She knows what she did was wrong and feels remorse. She allowed Maxine to turn herself in because she agreed it was the right thing to do even though Maxine is innocent of all three murders.”

  “Hold on.” Blinking hard, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, did you say three?”

  The doctor’s thin eyebrows shoot upward. “You weren’t made aware of the proceedings in Georgia? I just assumed they would’ve sent a copy of the court order to the detective involved in her active cases.”

  Dry, unamused laughter erupts from my lips. “You’re saying she killed another person in Georgia?”

  “Her mother’s long-term boyfriend, a man named Martin Clark. The social worker who took Max in believes he’d been molesting Max starting at the age of five. Maxine claimed it was the only way Maxine could finally escape his control. She confessed to the murder just days after her commitment here. Maxine was seventeen at the time of the murder and a victim. The court ruled it to be an act of self-defense.”

  “And yet you still believe it’s okay to let someone mentally ill with violent tendencies walk free?”

  “Patients with D.I.D., in general, don’t possess violent tendencies. In fact, it’s quite rare. I believe because Maxine went untreated for so long, she did everything in her power to hide her condition, including isolating herself from society for nearly a decade. Beth took it upon herself to battle Maxine’s demons her own way. She feared that if someone didn’t save Maxine, she would self-destruct.”

  Frustration rattles against my bones. “Yet you have no hard evidence that this ‘Beth’ persona exists.”

  “I’m basing my diagnosis off a doctorate and decades of experience,” the doctor deadpans. A thin smile lifts the corners of her mouth. “Listen, Detective. I could spend days educating you on everything I know about this disorder, and it’s possible you still wouldn’t believe it to be credible. At this point, I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  The doctor eyes the smartwatch on her wrist. “I’m afraid that’s all the time I can spare. The director’s on her way to meet with me.”

  I stand and lean over the desk to shake the doctor’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Scanlan. I hope you’re right about Maxine, and there’s nothing to worry about regarding her impending release.”

  Returning to the hallway, I start for the exit until I hear a familiar voice floating from the other direction. I spin around, walking past the small number of open doorways leading to empty patient rooms. At the end of the hallway, a petite blonde sits alone inside a computer lab. On a screen in front of her, a husky woman in an orange jumpsuit twirls her white-blond hair around her finger as she speaks to the camera.

  Gabby Gallo.

  “…told you this would all work out.”

  “Yeah, only it took a pretty big turn of events,” the other woman replies in a Southern drawl. “You goin’ to prison wasn’t part of the plan.” From the flawless texture of the woman’s sunshine-yellow hair, I realize she’s wearing a wig.

  Beth.

  Gabby waves a dismissive hand through the air. “I did this to myself. I never should’ve mentioned my husbands to that detective.” With a wistful smile, she sets her elbows on the table before her and rests her chin in her hands. “At least one of us got away with eliminating those causing us pain.”

  “If I hadn’t done somethin’, Maxine would’ve allowed that evil bitch to continue tormentin’ her for the rest of her life,” Beth agrees. “After her cousin tried to steal every man Maxine cared about, Maxine still had a soft spot for Britta. It’s good that she took Roger and Oliver off our hands, though. They were both toxic.”

  My lips part with a silent gasp. No one had mentioned that Oliver and Maxine had once been an item, or that Britta had an affair with Max’s first husband. It’s almost understandable why Beth had been so paranoid about Noah’s involvement with Britta.

  Gabby makes a loud snorting noise. “Seriously. What was her beef with Max?”

  “It’s complicated.” Beth’s shoulders rise with a deep inhale. “Britta was angry because her daddy left her momma to be with Maxine’s momma.”

  “Wait a minute. Wasn’t it Max’s mom’s boyfriend who abused Max?”

  “Yep,” Beth answers, popping the ‘p.’ “Somehow Britta was convinced both Maxine and her momma seduced her daddy—even though Maxine was only a little girl.”

  “That’s disgusting! I can’t believe Max never told me Britta was that sick in the head! I get the heebie-jeebies just thinking about how easily Max’s mom or aunt could’ve stopped poor little Max’s nightmare.”

  Beth glances at the analog clock beyond the monitor. “Listen, I gotta run. Noah’s makin’ arrangements for us to start house huntin’ in Greece as soon as I’m released. I promised I’d narrow it down to a small handful of islands. I only have half an hour before all the psychos return from their outside break and take over the computers.”

  “Does he think moving across the world will stop you from hooking up with strangers at the bar?”

  Beth’s shoulders lift. “He claims it’s because one of the top D.I.D. experts is located in Athens. Anyway, I promised Maxine that I’d stay loyal to him. Me and her started communicatin’ through a diary at the doc’s suggestion.”

  “Either way, I’m jealous you’re moving to Greece with the love of your life.” Gabby sighs dreamily. “I can’t imagine anything more romantic.” Then, her eyes spark with excitement. “Promise me you’ll find a villa with an extra bedroom so I can visit once that appeal my attorney filed goes through. He says there’s an eighty-five percent chance it’ll happen before the end of the year.”

  “It’ll happen,” Beth agrees. “And we’ll celebrate in style once you join us.”

  As the women say their goodbyes, I whirl around and stomp back to the guard holding my personal effects.

  I’ll be damned if they’re going to realize their dream of celebrating a victory in paradise.

  If there’s any way to stop either murderous woman from being set free, I vow to make it happen.

  Want to receive free bonus content, sneak peeks of upcoming releases, and access to my exclusive monthly giveaways? You’ll also receive a FREE copy of my standalone, What They Never Said, when you sign up for my mailing list!

  Thank you for reading Right Across the Bay! If you enjoyed this book, please take a quick minute to leave a review on the page where you bought the book. Anything you can do to spread the word about this book is greatly appreciated!

  Thank you for reading Right Across the Bay! If you enjoyed this book, please take a quick minute to leave a review on the website from which you purchased your copy, Goodreads, and BookBub. Anything you can do to spread the word about this book is greatly appreciated!

  Want to receive free bonus content, sneak peeks of upcoming releases, and access to my exclusive monthly giveaways? You’ll also receive a FREE copy of my standalone, What They Never Said, when you sign up for my mailing list!

  KEEP READING FOR A PREVIEW OF

  LOST GIRLS OF KATO

  also by Quinn Avery

  Lost Girls of Kato

  by Quinn Avery

  Chapter One

  Jackie - 1986

  Standing on the pedals of my pink Schwinn bike, I pant in the scent of freshly cut grass, pumping my legs like my life depends on it—or rather, like the devil is chasing me, as my grandma Anna would’ve said. My life really does depend on how quickly I can go since I’m not supposed to be riding this far from home on my own. If my mom finds out I went as far as Minneopa State Park by myself, she might ground me from going to Becky Myers’s sleepover next week, which I guess wouldn’t be all bad. I’ve been looking for an excuse not to go without hurting Becky’s feelings.

  It’s not my fault that my older sister by four and a half years ditched me to hang out at the arcade with Karrie Schaumberg, her best friend from the trailer park. They told me I couldn’t come along, which was fine by me. I don’t have any money, and Kato Arcade only has a bunch of old games like Q*bert and Dig Dug.

  As I push my bike even harder across the bumpy field, my waist-length braid begins to stick to the back of my damp neck. Spiderwebs catch on the tips of my jelly shoes as a cardinal tells his story in one of the trees overhead. When my dry tongue drags across the roof of my mouth, I’m all at once mad I didn’t grab my sister’s last can of Jolt from the fridge.

  I’ve always hated the hot and sticky weather of mid-August in Minnesota. Mosquitoes swarm my head, biting a little harder than usual, and my legs itch from the long grass. Then there’s the never-ending, annoying chirp of stupid crickets and the trill of cicadas. I imagine my tires squishing the life from every last one, finally shutting them up for good.

  Worst of all, it’s the time of year when most kids’ parents take them on shopping sprees at the malls in The Cities for new clothes and school supplies.

  It’s not fair. I’ll never be like them. My clothes fit funny and the patterns are faded because they’re old and once belonged to other girls. Our pencils, paper, and folders come from a donation box at the Lutheran church. If I’m lucky, maybe someone will donate a Trapper Keeper with puppies or hearts like every other girl at Roosevelt Elementary had last year.

  My mom is always reminding my sister and me how lucky we are to have a roof over our heads since our daddies both split long ago. It’s hard to believe that we’re any kind of lucky when the older boys have always teased me for being “trailer trash” and “having a whore mom.” When I was younger, I asked my sister what they meant about our mom, and it only made her mad at me for an entire afternoon. By the time I understood the cruel intentions behind their words, it made me want to punch every one of those boys in their dumb faces.

  The golden glow from the sun slipping beneath the evergreens lining the park causes my heart to rise into my throat. If I’m not home for my mom’s break between her shifts at the paper factory in North Mankato and Happy Dan’s convenience store down the road, I’ll surely be grounded for life. The trailer park is still at least half an hour away, and my calves already burn from exertion.

  With a tight band across my chest, I glance over to my left where the Minnesota River runs along the edge of the park. My mom told Diane and me we weren’t allowed to cross through that area as it’s rumored to be the spot where Shannon Bentzen was last seen a month ago. But all the local kids say the 10th grader ran away from her grandma’s place with a carny rat she met at the county fair, so I don’t understand why my mom makes a big deal out of it.

  Swerving in that direction, I soon hear water rushing over tree roots and rocks. A cool breeze skims over my bare shoulders, rustling the loose strands of hair framing my face and blowing the mosquitos away. At least I would finally cool down if I took a dip in the river.

  I slide off my bike’s long seat and begin to walk, stopping dead in my tracks once I realize I’m not alone. At the edge of the river bank sits a lanky brunette boy in a white t-shirt and ripped jean shorts, his back curved like a question mark. Facing the rushing water, he wears a set of headphones plugged into a Walkman clipped to his shorts pocket. At first I think he must be fishing until I see a stream of smoke drift over his head. Worried he’s one of the older boys always teasing me, I begin to steer my bike back in the other direction. Being late for taking the long way is better than being bullied.

  “Hey!” he calls out, his voice a confusing combination of rough and high like he’s stuck between being a boy and man. “Where’re you goin’?”

  I peer back at him over my shoulder. He’s twisted around to look at me, headphones slung around his neck. His hairstyle reminds me of Johnny in the Outsiders. Thick, sandy brown locks curl around his neck and above his ears, feathering across his forehead. His nose and bottom lip are both a little bigger than the rest of his features, and his cheeks are as round as balloons. Dark eyes beneath thick eyebrows catch the golden hue of the setting sun, making my heart drum a little faster.

  Although he’s definitely a grade or two older, I’m pretty certain he’s not one of last year’s sixth graders who loves teasing me. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him around.

  “Pretty sure that’s none of your business,” I finally answer.

  He holds up a funny-looking little cigarette and flashes a dimpled grin. “Want a drag?”

  Butterfly wings flutter through my stomach. With that grin, he’s the most beautiful boy to ever come into my life. Before I think it through too hard, I’m already guiding my bike back in his direction. It’s as if he’s holding a giant magnet, drawing me in. “I’m…trying to quit,” I say smartly, lifting my chin a little higher.

  He laughs, his voice crackling with the gruff sound. “It’s not that good anyway. I think the guy sold me ditch weed.”

  I lean my bike against a tree and shuffle over to him. “Aren’t you a little young to be smoking weed?”

  Taking another drag of the strange cigarette, he shrugs. “I’m almost fourteen.” His brown eyes are warm and friendly when they meet mine. “How old are you?”

  “Twelve and a half,” I lie, standing a little taller. Although I just turned 12 a few weeks ago, my chest is flat as a board and I have a chubby baby face, so most people assume I’m a year or two younger.

  “Nice bike,” he tells me.

  I can’t decide if he’s being mean or not. My mom gave it to me on my eighth birthday. It was already old and worn, its pink and white plastic basket cracked, the tassels on the handlebars torn. I removed them, thinking the pink flowers on the white seat made it pretty enough. Looking at it now, I realize it looks like something only an 8-year-old would ride.