Indeed, what good? He forced himself to look away from that shadowed end of the hall where the last door remained closed, and remembered—or rather, quit trying to stop—the memories from flooding over his being. “This is our fight, Dolly, and I’m going with you to that place.” He could hear his youthful voice vowing it. “Where you go, I will go. What you face, you’ll face beside me.”

Dahlia’s relief had been instant and messy, tears pouring down her face as she had melted into him. She’d been so relieved, so grateful for his promises, believing them just as much as he. Within months, she was begging—pleading with him—for freedom. It had been a mistake, she claimed. All a mistake to come here. She wasn’t mad. She didn’t need confinement, just a little help—and no one would believe her.

And then she was dead.

Turner locked gazes with his superior. “What exactly is her diagnosis?”

“Hallucinations—hearing music—and delusions of grandeur. She believes she’s a famous concert pianist and she’s late for her scheduled tour.”

Mitchell stared at every crack running up and down the door before him. He swallowed and forced his mind to remain in the present. “Well, she certainly seems to have some background in music. Perhaps she is a pianist.”

“She may play in her little parish church or some other such business. There’s always a little truth to what most of them say. Surely even you know that, Dr. Turner. Yet they have no grasp on reality. A competency or obsession with music does not equate to professional talent.”

“What if her hallucinations are temporary? Right now she looks as though she’s merely lacking sleep and good nutrition. There are so many other explanations.”

The man sighed, his bushy gray eyebrows lowering, and placed a hand on Turner’s shoulder. His voice was gentle. Gravelly. “There’s something built in all of us that wishes for a happy ending. If they can have one, we believe, then maybe we will too. Yet we live in a broken world, where happy endings are rare—especially in our profession.”

“Perhaps no one is trying hard enough. Everyone gives up on these people before offering them half a chance. Provide her some decent food and rest, a little compassion, and see where it gets us.”

“I appreciate your charitable spirit, Dr. Turner, but this case runs deeper than poor health. As you’ve likely seen in the report, Cora Fletcher lost both her mother and two brothers in a fire about a year back, and she’s not been right ever since.”

“She told me she was a babe—with her mother, at least.”

“Deception is among her traits. Repainting stories to suit her purposes, and that’s only the surface. Unstable, erratic, and overly driven by instincts as an animal, her neighbors say.”

Turner bit his lip.