Kill Switch Read Free Page B

smiling to himself. Both she and Curtin knew that Claire was winning. And so was Curtin, who relished the moment. His instincts about Claire were correct—he’d made the right decision in bringing her into the program.
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    â€œWhy do you people always have to go back to childhood?” Quimby asked Claire.
    â€œChildhood makes us who we are.”
    â€œI don’t see why I have to talk about it,” Quimby said, scooting his chair back.
    â€œYou need to. Your mother murdered your father right in front of you.”
    â€œLike father, like son. Our dicks got both of us into trouble.”
    â€œYou know there’s more to it than that,” Claire said, leaning forward. “Tell me about that day.”
    â€œI don’t remember it.”
    â€œYou don’t? Or don’t want to?”
    â€œWould you want to?” Quimby said defiantly, leaning toward her.
    â€œI’d want to get on with my life,” Claire responded without missing a beat, her eyes boring into him.
    â€œI don’t have much of a life.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œWhy do you think?”
    â€œBecause you’re afraid,” Claire said. Their faces were now inches apart. She could smell his hot, minty breath. He must have brushed his teeth before he came in, Claire thought.
    â€œBullshit,” Quimby muttered, lowering his head.
    But not before Claire noticed the sweat beading above his upper lip. He’s the one who’s bullshitting, she thought. Time to push .
    â€œWhat was that day like, Todd?”
    â€œHuh?” Quimby asked, his head bobbing up. “I told you, I don’t remember.”
    â€œI meant the weather. What kind of day was it? Sunny? Rainy?”
    â€œWhat the hell difference does it make?”
    Claire sat back, giving him more space. “I’m trying to help you remember,” she offered.
    â€œIt’s not working.”
    â€œClose your eyes.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Quimby hesitated. “This is ridiculous.”
    â€œTry again,” Claire said gently. “What was the weather like?”
    â€œWho gives a crap about the weather?”
    â€œI do. Come on. Humor me.” She tilted her head in a way she hoped would make it seem like she wasn’t judging him. He closed his eyes. Claire knew she had to hide her excitement.
    â€œI’m not seeing it,” he replied.
    â€œWhat about noises? Sounds?”
    â€œI hear music—the hurdy-gurdy organ pumping out ...” He didn’t feel himself starting to sway. “Just the usual carnival bullshit,” Quimby said, trying to cover his trembling voice.
    Claire knew she was close.
    â€œWhat else?” Claire asked quietly.
    â€œPop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Like fireworks—only it’s not night.”
    Claire leaned in, close to his ear, almost whispering. “What do you smell?”
    â€œCotton candy. Hot dogs. Burnt popcorn.”
    At first he thought it smelled like burnt popcorn. But then he realized it was gunpowder. Singed flesh. Blood.
    For an instant, Claire smelled rain.
    She could see it on Quimby’s face; the memories were rising up, seeping through the barrier between Quimby’s subconscious and conscious. He didn’t feel himself banging his fingertips together in front of him like an autistic child.
    â€œPop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop,” he sputtered, louder and faster, like darts piercing all the balloons at his favorite carnival game.
    He was out of his chair, moving toward the corner of the room, his back against the wall. Claire rose, not sure what he was going to do. And then she realized. He doesn’t see me. He can see only that day.
    She knew she had him.
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    Curtin and Fairborn were on their feet in he observation room.
    â€œI’m calling security,” said Fairborn.
    â€œNo,” Curtin said. “She’s okay.”
    â€œWhat if he becomes