Julie nodded, her face solemn.
Emily bit her lip, trying to adjust to the awkwardness of being the one doing the talking instead of the one doing the listening. “Why can’t I find a nice boring accountant to settle down with and have babies? No cops, no firefighters, no skydivers or thrill seekers of any kind. Just a normal guy who won’t make me a young widow.” Realizing that she was being a bit insensitive to Julie’s situation, she offered an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I’m being an ass. It’s just…like I said, I don’t know how you do it.”
“Most days I don’t let myself think about how dangerous his job can be.” Julie paused, giving thought to a topic it was obvious she wanted to avoid. “It helps going to all the retirement parties, you know? It reminds me that the majority of officers make it through twenty years or more without incident. And there’s the fact that Sean loves what he does. I wouldn’t want to take that away from him. Besides…” Julie’s tone turned tentative, as if she feared she was overstepping. “You know better than anyone that accidents happen. Forget having a risky job. Life is a risk, Emily. Our loved ones can be taken from us at any time.”
True. Take Emily’s parents—both college professors. As jobs went, it didn’t get any safer than that, and they’d still left her too soon, killed in a car accident.
“I know. You’re right. I suppose I just don’t want to tempt fate.”
Julie nodded. “I can understand that you don’t want to get involved with someone whose life is filled with added risk, but sometimes I wonder if—by trying to protect yourself from experiencing another loss—you’re keeping yourself from experiencing anything at all.”
“Wow. You really missed your calling, Julie. You should’ve been a counselor. We’d call what you just said a therapeutic confrontation.”
Julie smiled. “Kind of funny how people in your profession have so much insight when it comes to other people’s lives, but not when it comes to your own.”
Emily shook her head, smiling. “So true. So true.”
“Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If you’re not going to take a chance on Mac, take a chance on someone. Get out there. Meet somebody.” Julie bumped her shoulder against Emily’s. “For God’s sake, get a life.”
Emily offered a half-smile and tried to sound reassuring. “I’ll try.”
* * *
Get a life? How could three little words seem so impossible?
Emily tossed her keys onto the end table and made her way to her bedroom—all of three steps in her tiny apartment—stepping out of her high-heeled pumps as she went. After the long day she’d had, the simple pleasure of kicking off her shoes helped to lighten her mood just a smidgeon.
She opened the laptop on her dresser and turned it on. Waiting for it to boot up, she changed into flannel p.j. bottoms and an old college sweatshirt.
Just how, exactly, was she supposed to meet a man when everyone she worked with was female, and all of her clients were—for obvious ethical reasons—off limits? She worked unusual hours. No one would come in for counseling if they had to miss work every week, so she worked most evenings and kept office hours on Saturdays as well. That alone excluded her from all sorts of people-meeting opportunities.
She never thought in her wildest, wackiest dreams she would consider the online dating scene, but sitting down on her bed, propping herself up with pillows, and drawing her computer onto her lap, she wondered if she had any other options.
Get out there. Meet somebody, Julie had said.
With her sister-in-law’s words echoing in her head, she googled online dating.
Passing over anything that required a fee, she cruised through the website titles and descriptions and chose the most reputable looking site she could find.
There was no way to look at another person’s profile without creating one first, so she clicked on Create Profile.
Username? Apparently, it was common practice not to use real names. Excellent. She smiled and typed, Sally2meetHarry.
Feeling queasy at the thought of one of her clients stumbling across her profile, she uploaded a picture of Meg Ryan from When Harry Met Sally. She looked nothing like her, except for the blue eyes, but she was going for a theme here, and she was completely unwilling to put her face on the internet. Good thing she’d decided to toss off the counselor hat while out of the office. Otherwise, she might have had to examine the fact that she’d chosen a character known for being controlling and cheerful in an over-compensating way. Riiiight. Time to place that hat firmly on a shelf. And maybe bury it under some other crap in the closet.
She flexed her fingers and shook them out over the keyboard, trying to release her nervous energy, then typed her information into the user profile.
She took every precaution to ensure that her true identity was protected. She heard Sean’s lecture on internet safety playing in her head. If she ever went through with meeting someone from this site, she’d be certain to protect herself by meeting in a public place and not giving out any information that could trace her back to her home address or workplace.
With as much resolve as she could muster, she clicked on Meet Other Singles in Your Area. A list of eligible bachelors vied for her attention on the screen.
The first username to catch her eye was Thor. Seriously? Not that she had anything against nerdy comic book fans—admittedly she’d once had a secret crush on Drew Carey—but a god? That was just being too full of one’s self. If his profile picture was any indication, his resemblance to Thor started and ended with blond hair.
Moving on, her mouse paused over JustAGuy, age 27. Feeling that screen name might be an indication of a more humble bloke, she opened his profile. Under the heading of favorite movies, he’d listed action, horror, and…porn. So JustAGuy was just a pig.
Closing his profile in fear of finding something more disturbing than his favorite movie genres, she scanned through the other bachelors. One hemp-necklace-clad single claimed to be a horticulture enthusiast. Translation: he grows pot in his basement.
Thoroughly disgusted, and feeling this adventure had been a colossal waste of time, she prepared to delete her profile, when she noticed a clean-cut guy with brown hair and a smile worthy of a teeth-whitening commercial.
Bracing herself to be disappointed by rampant misspellings or canned speeches about walks on the beach, she opened LetsBeFrank’s profile.
I’m a 30-year-old professional in the technology field and recently transferred to the area. My profession is heavily saturated with males and I’m finding it difficult to meet a nice single woman. Having started my fourth decade of life, I’m over the bar scene and searching for a way to meet someone that is interested in building a life.
Reading over the rest of his bio, Emily’s hopes soared. He seemed sincere, down-to-earth and genuinely interested in a committed relationship. His hobbies included antiquing and reading, and his entire profile was free of the words porn, skydiving, and walks on the beach.
Ding-ding-ding. We have a winner!
CHAPTER FOUR
“If they take my son away because of this, I will fucking end you, ya hear me? I will kill you!”
“Carl, please sit down and let me explain,” Emily said.
“What’s there to fucking explain? I thought I had confidentiality. And now you’re telling me that you’re going to report me to Family Services? What the hell kinda show are you runnin’ here?”
Carl paced her office like a caged beast, radiating a barely contained rage that had her pulse racing. Two armchairs were arranged perpendicularly around a small square coffee table, and his heavy work boots were wearing the carpet thin in a circular path around the furniture.
“Please, Carl, sit down. Let’s talk about this.”
His stare bored into her, as if he was turning over options in his head. Would he sit down? Or take a swing at her? It seemed to be taking all of his brainpower to decide.
“Carl, p
lease.” She stretched her upraised palm toward the empty chair across from her.
She’d remained seated when he’d shot out of his chair and started pacing. She’d wanted to be a calm example and had refused to rise to his level of agitation. But now, with him prowling her office, towering over her, she felt small, unprotected. Should she stand to show him she would not be cowed? Or would that escalate the situation?
She stayed seated and tried to calm her nervously beating heart by concentrating on the soft, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
He drew a quick breath, raised his arm, and she prepared to dodge his fist. But instead of striking her, he swept his arm across the coffee table and sent a box of Kleenex flying across the office. It hit the wall with a loud pop. Having released some of his rage in the physical act, Carl sat down. Far from relaxed, he was tightly wound, sitting on the edge of the chair, fists clenched.
Emily let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and slowly inhaled, mentally commanding her nervous system to stop the flow of adrenaline.
“I don’t want to break confidentiality, Carl. I take your right to privacy very seriously, and I know that it’s the foundation of our trust.” When Carl’s fists unclenched, Emily continued, keeping her tone calm and reasonable. “However, you’ve just told me that you were using last night, and I am legally—not to mention morally and ethically—obligated to break confidentiality in cases where I believe not doing so would cause harm to you or someone el—”
“But that’s just it! You don’t have to worry about any harm coming to me or Nate. Nate’s safe with me. I’ve got it under control.”
Her heart squeezed at the sound of hope in his voice. She knew he wanted to believe this time would be different—this time he wouldn’t let his drug usage control him, but his past offered little hope to support that theory.
Beneath her notepad, the file in her lap outlined a long history of Carl’s indiscriminate drug use. Sometimes it was prescription painkillers, sometimes crack, but always it led to disastrous results. At best, Carl would be neglectful of his son, too busy seeking the next high to be bothered with feeding the eight-year-old boy or making sure he got off to school each morning. At worst—especially when he mixed alcohol with the drug use—Carl would become violent.
Looking straight into his eyes, her voice low, she asked, “For how long, Carl?”
His chin dropped to his chest.
“You’re an addict and an alcoholic. To think that you can use and keep it under control is not realistic, and you know that.”
His head snapped up. “But I’m doing it! Look at me. Do I look strung out? I went to work this morning. I made it here today.” He thumped his fist to his chest. “I’m in control. I’m not going to let it get out of hand. I just need a stress reliever sometimes. That’s all. I swear.”
She leaned toward Carl, hands clasped, forearms resting over the notepad in her lap. “You know this is how it starts. You use on your terms for a couple of days, maybe even a couple of weeks, and you lull yourself into thinking you have it under control. And then as your body builds up a tolerance or as your life gets more stressful, you use more…and then more…and then you’re completely lost to the cravings.”
He shook his head. “No. No. I know what I’m doing.”
Seeing this line of logic was a blocked path, she tried another route. “And what about Nate? Do you think you’re providing him with a safe home environment with drugs in the house?”
Carl’s gaze went to the floor. He looked defeated, the hardness of his life etched in the lines traversing the leathery canvas of his face. He looked much older than his thirty-five years.
“If you’re ready to quit, we can make arrangements for Nate to temporarily stay with another family member and admit you to an in-patient rehab program.”
He let out a long breath and stared at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at Emily. “And if I do that, you won’t call DCFS?”
It wasn’t a good idea to make promises, so instead she said, “If you leave here with the intention of continuing to use, I will have no choice but to call Family Services. You’ve told me how out of control you are when you’re using and the bad choices you’ve made while high. I can’t subject Nate to that.” She knew he wanted to be a good dad to Nate, knew he loved his son. She used that knowledge to press a little further. “I don’t think you want to subject Nate to that either.”
Shaking his head, he seemed to consider her words. “Rehab is such a fucking joke. I don’t need it. I’m coming to see you for counseling. Isn’t that good enough?”
“Is that why you come to see me, Carl? To quit using drugs? Or because you’re court ordered to do so?”
His eyes narrowed.
Shit. Perhaps she’d gone too far with that last comment.
“I’ll quit using.” The words hissed through his barely open lips. “I’ll quit today, but I’m not going to any fucking rehab. I don’t need to bare my soul or talk about my childhood to some stupid group. Been there. Done that. It doesn’t fucking help.”
Emily paused, trying to decide which card to play next. “I’m not sure your word is enough for me to gamble the safety of your son.”
He flopped back into the chair, raising his hands in surrender.
“So my choice is rehab or you call DCFS?”
“It is your choice.” She wanted him to see that he was in control. Whether or not she called DCFS was entirely his decision. “What do you want me to do?”
He leaned forward in the chair, moving all the way to the edge and well into her personal space. Her grip tightened on her notepad, but she held her ground, refusing to shrink away from him.
“I want you…to go fuck yourself.” He stood and reached the door in two long strides. Yanking it open, he said, “You do what you have to do, but remember, if I lose my son, I’ll know exactly who to blame.”
She felt a vibration in her chest when he slammed the door shut behind him, followed by the strangely whimsical sound of tinkling glass after her framed diploma fell from the wall, hit the floor, and shattered.
She rose from her chair and circled around to her desk. She tossed Carl’s file and her notepad down and reached for her rolodex. Despite the fact that she’d called this number many times, her brain refused to memorize it.
* * *
Mac took a sip of strong, bitter tasting coffee and put the cup down in disgust. What the hell was all the fuss about? Starbucks’ coffee sucked.
The Saturday before—the day he’d first seen Emily—he’d wandered into the coffee joint just to have something to do, to kill some time in the long day that stretched ahead of him. Not much of a coffee drinker, it’d been his first cup of coffee from Starbucks. And he’d hated it. But the offensive white paper cup with green logo on his desk right now was his seventh.
He reasoned that he’d been stopping there once a day to try different roasts—after all, they couldn’t all suck. It was the most successful coffee chain in America for Christ’s sake. It was an experiment. A taste test. It was certainly not an effort to accidentally bump into Emily. No, he definitely had no interest in seeing her again.
“Starbucks coffee? Yesterday, you said you hated their coffee.” Sean nodded toward Mac’s cup, strolling into the roll-call room with a stack of papers tucked under his arm.
“It was on the way from my place,” Mac said, mumbling like a thief in the interrogation room.
Sean stared off into space, probably projecting some invisible mental map where he was quickly concluding that there was not a single Starbucks between Mac’s apartment and the PD. To break Sean’s concentration, Mac asked, “So whatcha got there?”
Sean looked confused for a moment then glanced down at the papers in his hand. “Oh, these? I just bumped into the records clerk while she was stuffing subpoenas into our mailboxes.” He leafed through them quickly, keeping several and then handing a few to Mac. “Here, I grabbed yours for you.”
&nbs
p; “Thanks.” Mac took the subpoenas without much interest and leaned back in his chair, flipping through the stack.
The first one was for traffic court. He recognized the name of the defendant and chuckled. “I got this bastard on camera running a stop sign, and he’s still contesting the ticket. Idiot.”
Sean nodded, not looking up from his own subpoenas. “Nothing like wasting an afternoon in traffic court.”
Mac didn’t recognize the name of the defendant on the second subpoena. He’d have to pull up the report and review it before the court date. And the third subpoena—his heart stopped for a moment and then began pumping double-time. “Shit.”
“What is it?”
“I’m being fucking sued.”
“For what?”
“The wrongful death of Mitchell Swanson.” Mac couldn’t take his eyes off the paper in front of him. He read the name Mitchell Swanson again and again.
“Are you kidding me? That’s bullshit, Mac. The D.A. wouldn’t even press charges. He said it was a clean shot, absolutely textbook.”
“Well, apparently that wasn’t enough to stop the Swanson family from believing they had a strong case for ‘wrongful death’. They’re going after me and the department.”
Sean’s voice sounded reassuring but his face showed concern. “They’ve got nothing. Don’t even worry about it.”
“They’re probably going to harp on the fact that I was off duty and out of uniform when it happened.”
“Doesn’t matter. The state allows law enforcement to conceal carry for exactly that reason. So when you walk up on some shit going down, you can do something about it.”
“Yeah, except in this case, what I thought was going down ended up being a fifteen-year-old kid with a plastic gun.”
Sean rolled his subpoenas into a makeshift bat and hit the edge of the desk with it. “Any one of us in your situation would have done the exact same thing. Nobody in that convenience store knew his gun was fake. They were all scared shitless, right? You don’t have a goddamn thing to be sorry about.”
Talk to Me Page 4
