After pulling up to the valet, I checked to make sure all signs of distress were gone, and I applied another coat of lipstick. Stepping out of the car, I didn’t miss where the valet’s eyes dipped. Andee’s words ran into my mind.
Making my way inside of the restaurant, I pulled as much fabric over my chest as I could. Noah wasn’t waiting in the lobby, but since I was fifteen minutes late, I presumed he was already seated. As the hostess led me to the table reserved under Dean Kincaid, there was no sign of Noah there either.
Dean’s attention drifted from his date to me as I made my way through the dining room. The way he watched me—with that veiled undertone of appreciation—made my legs move with a bit less confidence.
I lived in slacks and blouses at work, suits in court, and even at company parties, my dress selection veered more toward a simple sheath. The first and last time I’d worn the dress I’d squeezed into tonight was for Noah’s and my tenth anniversary, when he’d booked a private dinner on a boat. We’d enjoyed a rare night of laughter and nearness, floating the waters of the Puget Sound, before having sex in the front seat of his car the moment we crawled inside.
That night, I’d worn the dress for my husband. Tonight, who I’d worn it for was more complicated.
“You shine up nicely, Prosecutor Wolff.” Dean rose from his chair when I approached the table. “Allow me to introduce you to Kimberly Sanders.” His hand gestured between his date and me. “Kim, this is Grace Wolff, my colleague.”
“Nice to meet you,” she greeted as I took a seat across the table from them.
“You as well,” I replied.
She gave me the same two-second size-up I gave her, the same kind every woman issued another when being introduced. The cursory inspection that took in the obvious, reaching deeper to discern the not-so-apparent.
“I’m sorry for being late,” I said after getting situated. “You haven’t seen Noah?”
Dean motioned at the empty chair beside me. “No sign of the elusive Dr. Wolff.”
“Your husband’s a doctor?” Kimberly asked, angling herself closer to Dean.
“Not a medical doctor. He’s a psychiatrist,” I answered, which was usually what people were getting at when they asked about Noah being a doctor.
“He works with the kind of people who would make your skin crawl too.” Dean’s arm extended behind Kimberly’s chair. “I don’t know how he does it.”
“What kind of people exactly?” Kimberly asked him, though I answered.
“In addition to his private practice, Noah’s a court-appointed psychiatrist, meaning he sees criminals who, as part of their sentence or probation, are required to meet with a therapist.” My attention drifted to the front of the restaurant. Still no sign of him.
“Criminals?” Kimberly’s voice inflected. “Like murderers or something?”
Dean’s throat cleared. “Worse than that.”
Kimberly’s face pinched together as she contemplated what could have been worse than a murderer. It was most people’s general reaction—classifying murder the pinnacle of all crimes until they heard the label tied to the people Noah worked with.
“He counsels pedophiles.” I didn’t lower my voice or temper my expression.
Kimberly’s eyes shifted from intrigued to repulsed in the span of one word. Another typical reaction.
“He also moderates several support groups for recovering and celibate pedophiles,” I continued, enjoying the animated reaction Kimberly gave when the P-word was mentioned again.
“He’s a braver man than I,” Dean said. “And a more accepting one.”
A lick of heat lashed up my throat. My husband was running close to half an hour late and our marriage was reduced to its last drop of lifeblood, but my urge to defend him was deeply embedded. “He counsels them. That doesn’t mean he accepts or condones their behavior.”
Dean lifted his hand in mock surrender. Kimberly was assessing me with new eyes—adjusting the initial score she’d attached to me at meeting.
“I took the liberty of ordering the table a bottle of wine,” Dean announced as a server approached the table. “Do you and Noah like red?”
“I do. Noah doesn’t drink.”
“If I hung around those people all day, I’d drink.” Kimberly held out her wine glass for the server once he’d uncorked it. “A lot.”
“The temptation is there, I won’t deny it. But if I turned to a bottle every time I had a bad day, I’d be the one in need of counseling.” Noah seemed to appear out of nowhere, hair disheveled and eyes tired. “I apologize for being late. Work troubles.”
“That phrase takes on a whole new shine when a pedophile psychiatrist says it.” Kimberly chuckled, appraising Noah in a way that had me wringing at my napkin in my lap.
“That title can be taken two ways, one most unfortunate for my reputation.” Noah’s gaze shifted to the server pouring the wine, before he took a seat beside me. He had yet to really look at me. I wondered if he’d remember the dress, recall that night he’d wrestled with it in the front seat of his car.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You’re a shrink who works with pedophiles, not a shrink who is a pedophile.” The lines of amusement deteriorated from her face. “Wait. You’re not one? Are you?”
Noah picked that moment to glance at me, the silent question in his eyes readable despite the deterioration our relationship had suffered.
“No,” he answered her flatly. “I’m not.”
Kimberly breathed a visible sigh of relief.
“It’s good to see you, Noah. We missed you at the last few company parties.” Dean’s posture had changed with Noah’s arrival. He was closer to the table, his back straight, shoulders square, the relaxed vibe no longer present.
“Work keeps me busier than I like these days.” Noah picked up the menu, seeming to decide on the first thing his eyes landed on.
“Grace and me too. I guess our jobs and yours are kind of related in a way, aren’t they? The more sickos who crawl out of society’s woodworks, the busier we get.” Dean swirled his wine in his glass, eyes pinned to Noah, who seemed to be searching the dining room for our server. “Although where Grace and I believe sexual predators who prey on children deserve hard jail time and perhaps an untimely death at the end of a shank, you maintain the stance that these types of creeps can be cured with what? A few rounds of therapy and a weekly support group meeting? A couple of positive affirmations to fall back on when they find themselves alone with some helpless child?”
“Dean,” I interrupted, shaking my head at him.
“What? I’m genuinely interested in knowing if Noah’s therapy works, because from everything I’ve heard, there’s no hope for a man who gets off to a kid.”
“God, Dean, enough.” Kimberly was back to making her repulsed face. It was a good one. “This is not the kind of conversation I want to have over dinner.”
“I agree,” I said, wondering why I’d thought this double date was a good idea.
“What I do, it works.” Noah had set down the menu and was staring at Dean, expression calm, voice even. “It might not fit into the mold of traditional methods society has subscribed to for dealing with these types of individuals, but my methods work. And, I daresay, better than yours.”
Dean grunted, exchanging a look with me, but I wasn’t going to pick sides on this. There was a major conflict of interest for me.
“What’s better than spending as much time as possible in a glorified cage?” Dean pulled at the collar of his dress shirt as he reached for his wine. “They’re off the streets and can’t hurt anyone else while they’re locked up.”
“The flaw in that model is that it’s temporary. Criminals go to jail and come out better criminals—we’ve all seen the statistics to prove it.” Noah’s gaze drifted toward the doors. “I don’t count it a success unless the solution is permanent.”
Dean’s mouth was turned up more in a smirk than a smile. “And that’s what you focus
on? Permanent results with kiddie rapists?”
Noah didn’t ruffle easily—came with the job. He’d also developed a skin so thick, it had become impenetrable by most standards. “My methods are more effective than throwing them into the prison system with other hardened criminals so that when they come out, they’re smarter, crueler, and less human than when they went in.” Noah’s head turned toward me. “No offense.”
Waving it off with one hand, I reached for my wine with the other.
“Well, next time we don’t get a conviction, I’ll send the baby fucker your way.” Dean leaned into the table, a vein pushing through his neck. “Let you fix him right up.”
Dean ignored both Kimberly’s and my mumble of disgust.
Noah nodded, fighting a yawn. “Please do.”
“What do you do for work?” I directed at Kimberly.
Her shoulders relaxed. “I’m an intern at KING 5. I’m hoping to one day slide into Natalie Baxter’s job and become the Morning Face of Seattle Weather.” She sung the last part in the same way the news played the catchy jingle.
“An intern.” I shot a pointed look across the table at Dean, realizing she was even younger than I’d guessed.
“I graduated from the U last summer,” she explained, tipping her wine glass in the air. “Go Alpha Delta Pi.”
Dean smiled into his lap when my look became more pointed. He was nearly two decades older than her—it was safe to say he probably hadn’t seen a future life partner when he first laid eyes on her.
“How long have you and Dean been dating?” I asked her.
“Not long. Nothing serious.” She playfully punched his arm. “Neither of us are the exclusive type, you know?”
“You’ve never been married, have you?” Noah directed his question at Dean.
“What can I say? All of the good ones are always taken.” His gaze drifted toward me, lingering a while.
Noah didn’t miss it.
Kimberly’s punch was less playful this time. “Excuse me?”
“All of the good ones born in the same decade as me, at least,” he clarified, winding his arm behind Kimberly tighter.
Her lips formed into a pout, though she must have felt mollified enough to return his kiss when he leaned in.
Noah and I both shifted.
“Do you ever counsel women pedophiles?” Kimberly asked, tracing her lips to wipe away any lipstick that had been misplaced from the kiss.
“Rarely. Females make up less than 95 percent of sexual offenses, and their psychology behind pedophilia differs from a male’s rather extraordinarily,” Noah answered as though he were reading a line from a familiar script.
“Differs how?” Kimberly pressed.
A server had never had such impeccable timing. I rattled off my order before he could ask if we were ready.
When Kimberly finished ordering her salad with a dozen different modifications, Dean gestured at Noah. “Let the Offender Defender order next.”
I choked on the sip of wine I’d been taking. Noah instinctively patted my back until I waved him off.
“Dean, enough,” I demanded in a tone that boded no argument.
He laughed it off. “Come on, Grace. It was a joke.” Dean lifted his chin at Noah. “You can take a joke can’t you, Dr. Wolff?”
After giving his order to the server, Noah checked his watch. “Oh, I can definitely take a joke. Although if I were you, I’d be more concerned with what it says about a person’s psyche when they mask insults with humor.” For the first time, Noah came close to smiling. “I’d be happy to go into a detailed description, beginning with a child who was regularly picked on and ending with an account of the adult’s performance, or shall I say lack of, in the bedroom.”
“Noah,” I whispered, tapping his foot with mine.
I felt like I was playing referee and the only other person at the table acting appropriately given the four-star restaurant was the sorority sister with a butterfly tattoo on the inside of her wrist.
“It’s okay. I can take a joke too.” Dean’s hand covered mine resting on the table, giving it a light squeeze. The whole time, he stared at Noah.
Pulling away, I tucked my hands into my lap.
“Seriously. If dicks start getting whipped out next, I’m leaving,” Kimberly stated as she combed her fingers through her hair.
“Grace tells me you keep late office hours.” Dean twisted the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “That’s got to be difficult on a marriage.”
Noah’s chest moved as he inhaled. “Nothing about a marriage is easy. Not that you would appreciate that concept given your marital status.”
“With all of the lonely women in the world, why settle down?”
Kimberly’s finger lifted. “I am not lonely.”
“No.” Dean’s gaze shifted my way. “But plenty of married women are.”
“That is just wrong,” Kimberly cringed, checking her phone tucked into her sequined clutch. “What does that say about a guy if they’re a serial wife chaser?” she asked Noah, who was appraising Dean with something new in his eyes.
Noah might have been absent and distracted, but he wasn’t naïve. “It says a lot, but I’m sure there’s nothing I could tell you about the type of man who pursues a married woman that you don’t already know from personal experience.”
My legs hit the table when I stood, rattling the silverware. “Excuse me for a moment,” I said, ignoring the question on Noah’s face as I left the table in search of the women’s restroom.
The air in the restaurant was thin, my lungs struggling to take in enough to chase away the lightheadedness sweeping over me. The form-fitting dress that had been tight before I’d gained fifteen pounds was not helping my breathing problems, and all I could think about was choking back a pill or two to chase away the discomfort ebbing to the surface.
As soon as I shoved through the restroom door, I flew to the sink and cranked it on. I had the pill bottle in my hand and started to unscrew the lid before I stopped.
My vision blurred as Andee’s words echoed in my head. Some role model I was, turning to pills, booze, and denial as my means of coping with difficulty. In another life, I’d been stronger, surer of myself, but in this one, I was feeble and filled with doubt.
Dropping the pill bottle back into my purse, I forced my breathing to slow, my mind to quiet, my thoughts to calm. I could feel the storm receding—a millimeter at a time, but it was a victory no matter the measure.
Sticking my hands under the facet, I let the cold water stream across my wrists, then I patted the back of my neck with my damp hands. I focused on keeping my breaths slow and deep, feeling as though I were caught in some epic battle that would decide the fate of the world . . . if only mine. It felt significant that I prove to myself that strength hibernated inside, waiting for me to waken it from its long slumber.
My grandmother had been struck by a nervous breakdown in her forties and survived the rest of her three decades on this planet heavily medicated. In the back of my mind, I’d always worried the same type of fate might await me. If ever there were a point in my life when a break from reality would happen, it would be now.
My daughter hated me and was likely sexually active with a young man who had WRONG stamped across his forehead. My husband was becoming a stranger, intimacy a forlorn element of our marriage. I was playing with fire letting the line between work and pleasure blur with my co-worker, and I was coming to realize that nothing about the person I’d become felt authentic.
I was a mirage of the woman I’d once been, self-assured and determined. Passionate and headstrong. This version was a sad, blurry copy of the original.
A woman emerged from one of the stalls and washed her hands at the sink beside me. When she noticed my distressed patina, she appeared like she wanted to say something, but every time her mouth opened, no words came. She probably couldn’t tell if I was drunk or hysterical. The woman’s attention diverted to the door when it swung open, he
r eyes widening.
“Excuse me.” The voice streaming from the door was familiar.
When my head whipped around, I found Noah standing inside the women’s bathroom, face unapologetic.
“Can I have a private minute with my wife, please?” he asked the woman gaping at him, though he received no response other than persistent gawking as she skirted through the doorway.
“You know this is the women’s bathroom?” I asked, scanning the other stalls to ensure no one else was in here.
“So this is what one looks like? Always been curious.” He scanned the room as he closed the door.
“What are you doing?”
His fingers worked the lock on the door closed before deftly sliding the nearby chair in front of it. “Looking for you.”
Turning off the sink, I checked myself in the mirror. No mascara streaked down my cheeks, no claw marks striped my neck, not a single hair out of place—there was nothing on the outside to suggest the turmoil churning within.
“You found me.” Grabbing a fresh towel, I wiped the back of my neck to collect any leftover water. “We should probably get back to the table though.”
“I don’t want to go back to the table.” The floor creaked when he moved toward me.
“I know, this is the worst double date ever. I’m sorry for talking you into it, and I’m sorry for the way Dean’s behaving, and . . .” I leaned into the counter after tossing the towel into the basket. “I’ll never ask you to agree to something like this again on a night off. I know there are a million things you’d rather be doing with a few free hours.”
Noah’s head shook infinitesimally. “Not a million.” His voice was different, almost impatient. “Just one.”
I watched him from the mirror, his eyes running over my body in a way that made my throat dry.
“You remember what happened the last time you wore that dress?”
My forehead lined despite the dizzying effect his unrelenting stare had on me. Our prolonged dry spells had been interspersed with bland sex that felt rehearsed and void of passion. But right now, inside this women’s restroom I’d been on the verge of hysterics in, the heat between us was palpable.
These Violent Roots Page 11
