“Hunting a serial killer, I presume,” he said, gesturing to my closed fist. “Where did you get those?”
“Long story,” I said. “Long and weird.”
“Well, you can tell me on the way then.” He turned off the ignition, removed the keys and handed them to me.
“On the way?”
“You weren’t just going to let your mom wander off in the woods alone, were you?”
“She told me to stay here. And how did you know—”
He interrupted me with a murmur of disapproval. “If I remember correctly, she also told you not to come on this trip in the first place.”
“I should’ve listened.” If only I could take it back. Rewind. I desperately needed a do over.
“Then I’d be all alone out here.”
“I get the feeling you’d do alright. You probably work better without a partner. Especially a naïve eighteen-year-old from the sticks, right?”
“Usually. But don’t sell yourself short. After all, you are a Texas girl. I hear they’re pretty scrappy despite their overwhelming lack of experience.”
Ignoring my eye roll, Levi slipped a small flashlight from his pocket and exited the car. He motioned for me to follow, then started walking toward the road. The wrong direction. “She didn’t go that way,” I called to him through my open door, still planted in my seat.
He stopped, but didn’t look back. “That’s probably what she wanted you to think. I know where she’s going. Trust me, it’s this way.”
“How do you know?”
He groaned and turned to me. I expected exasperated Levi—jaw clenched, brows furrowed—but his face didn’t give him away. Or maybe he had more patience than I credited him with. Probably a side effect of dealing with wackos like Skinny. “It’s a long story. Long and weird,” he parroted. I watched the corner of his mouth turn up, and I made a decision. Maybe I was more Keely than Bronwyn.
“I guess you can tell me on the way then.” I put one foot on the ground and waited.
“Partners?” he asked.
“On one condition.” Two feet on the ground now, I stood firm. “I need an answer. An honest one.”
“What’s the question?”
Sometimes, asking is like heaving up a half-court shot to beat the buzzer. Other times, it’s drawing back on a bow and setting free a piercing arrow. I knew it would hit its mark, and it would sting. But I did it anyway. Before I took a single step in his direction, I needed to know the score. “What does your dad’s death have to do with Cullen? I know he committed suicide.”
His reply came with no trace of mystery. For once, no slipperiness. Just a straight arrow shot right back to me with unequivocal pain. “That’s the thing, Sam. He didn’t.”
november 27, 1996
Clare skipped her morning run. She couldn’t be late. That would look bad. Not that it could look any worse. Her client was dead. And she hadn’t reported for work at all yesterday. No call, no show. She spent the day after—after her mother, after Cullen, after Dumas—making love to Neal. His words. It didn’t erase the before, but it dulled her senses enough. Neal thought he’d comforted her, soothed her pain. Really, she was just holding her breath underwater.
Sans her usual three miles, she still lumbered up the stairs to her office like her legs were bags of sand. She wanted to turn around, get back in her car, and drive as fast as she could to anywhere but here. If it had been up to her, she wouldn’t even be here at all. She pleaded with Neal. Literally begged him to let her stay in bed. It embarrassed her to think of it now, how she’d latched onto his waist, slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, and made him think she wanted him. She said things too. Things she didn’t mean. Like, I love you. Let’s start over. But Neal had more willpower than she’d expected. He forced her to go. They can’t blame you, Clare. You did nothing wrong. Show them your notes. Cooperate with the investigation. You’re a professional. Act like it.
She wasn’t a professional. That’s what she wanted to tell Neal. I was a heartbeat away from shoving my tongue down Clive Cullen’s throat. What would Dr. Neal Barrington say to that? She laughed out loud, then clamped her hand against her mouth, shutting it tight until the impulse passed. Fitzpatrick had already arrived. So had Bonner. She saw their shadows through the beveled glass. They were probably talking about her right now. Talking about what a professional she was. Not.
Straightening her blouse, a demure button-up, she knocked softly. Maybe they wouldn’t hear her. “Come in, Dr. Keely.”
“Good morning.” It wasn’t really. In fact, it was downright awful, but the men nodded in unison.
“Have a seat, Clare.” Fitzpatrick gestured to the metal folding chair he’d brought in just for her, positioned directly across from them, and she sat.
“I’m sorry I missed worked yesterday. I was—”
Fitzpatrick silenced her with his hand. “I’m sure you were overwhelmed. We completely understand.” Clare could tell by their smug faces they didn’t. “Lieutenant Bonner and I wanted to review protocol with you so you know what to expect in the coming weeks. We want to be completely transparent. No surprises.”
Bonner’s cheeks plumped with the kind of backhanded pity that can only come from arrogance. “As you know, Mr. Dumas hung himself on Monday afternoon.” Dumas. Until then, she hadn’t let herself think his name. “He was discovered by one of our officers shortly after he returned to his cell from the chow hall. Now, as I’m sure you know, when an inmate takes his own life, we’re obligated to investigate. Between you and me, I’d rather just chalk it up to our good fortune. One less sorry bastard in here getting fat on our taxpayer dollars.” Fitzpatrick chuckled, prompting a forced smile from Clare. It seemed essential to agree. That’s what a professional would do. “But it’s not up to me, of course. His family will have questions, and we have to give them answers.”
“Where are your session notes?” Fitzpatrick asked. “We’ll need to review them ASAP.”
“They’re in my office. I can get them now. It’ll just take a—” Anything to escape.
“That won’t be necessary,” Bonner interrupted, offering another smirk. “Dr. Fitzpatrick will retrieve them after we’re done here. It’s part of the protocol.” Clare entertained a fleeting fantasy of balling up her fist and nailing him in his upturned nose. Just following protocol, she would say, twisting her heel into the portly cushion of his stomach on her way out the door. “Dr. Fitzpatrick tells me you had a session scheduled for the 25th. Is that correct?”
“Yes, but I—”
“You canceled it last minute.”
“Because my mother died.” Clare cursed herself. She already sounded defensive.
“I see. So you were distraught?” Bonner exchanged a purposeful glance with Fitzpatrick.
She shrugged. “That’s not really the right word.”
“What is the right word, Dr. Keely?”
Clare saw storm-cloud eyes and salt-and-pepper stubble. A freckle she’d traced with her thumb. She saw a child’s bloody fist where Fitzpatrick had dribbled his coffee. She saw Dumas, grinning. Not even a trace of anger, though she’d forgotten all about him. “Distracted,” she said. “I was distracted.”
Bonner made a noise, throaty with concern. “Did you speak to Mr. Dumas that morning?”
“He came by for his session, and I told him we could reschedule for the following day.”
“And how did he seem to you? In your professional opinion?” Clare bit the side of her cheek to keep another laugh from escaping. Maybe she could be a professional after all. If Bonner said so.
“Happy. Relaxed. Euthymic.” Clare added that last word for her own amusement. She knew Bonner would have no clue what it meant, but would be too proud to ask.
“Euthymic,” he repeated. “Okay. Did he mention any plans when he left?”
You mean
aside from hanging himself with a bedsheet? She desperately wanted to say it, to level him with sarcasm, but she kept it in where it festered like a hot blister. “Nothing specific. I think he said something like I’ve got nothing but time. He was joking around.”
Bonner turned to Fitzpatrick. “I’m no expert, but isn’t this sort of thing fairly common? When a person finally decides to off himself, he feels better. Like a sense of relief. Is that what happened here?”
“No,” Clare answered as a mute Fitzpatrick fumbled with his tie. “He wasn’t suicidal. He was hopeful. He didn’t kill himself. Is it possible that … ” Until she said it aloud, Clare hadn’t known what she thought. But now, she felt convinced. “ … somebody else killed him? Made it look like a suicide?”
Bonner and Fitzpatrick both chuckled at her. “Sounds like you’ve been watching too much Law and Order,” Bonner told her. “Or are you a Grisham fan like me? That sounds like his next bestseller.”
“So it’s never happened?” Clare asked. She knew it had, of course. And she delighted in knowing she’d cornered him in the worst way, stuck between a lie and an admission he might be wrong.
Bonner’s jaw tightened. “Remind me, Dr. Keely. How long have you been a licensed psychologist?”
She knew where this was going. She didn’t answer—her eyes locked in a stalemate with Bonner’s—until Fitzpatrick cajoled her. “Answer the question, Clare.”
“Since July.”
“Four months,” Bonner said. “And how many suicidal patients have you treated?”
“None.” Unless you counted Rodney Taylor’s half-hearted, pre-coital threats. And you considered him feeling her up in his backseat a form of treatment.
Bonner could’ve stopped there. He’d proven his point. But Clare knew men like him. They didn’t stop until they stripped you bare. Not even a shred of dignity left to cover yourself. “Do you know how long I’ve been working at Quentin? Twenty-five years. That’s longer than most marriages these days. Hell, it outlasted my marriage.” No surprise there, Clare thought. “Now you may have book smarts, but you’re just a little girl in here. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do.”
Fitzpatrick winced. Humiliated for her, his cheeks flamed. That was worse than anything Bonner could’ve said. Or so she thought. “All the evidence here points to the suicide of a very depressed man with a lengthy sentence ahead of him. A case like this should have been assigned to a seasoned clinician. Someone with a little more life experience under her belt. I suggest you cooperate fully with this investigation. Do that for me, and I’ll do my best to shield you from any outside repercussions.”
Bonner shook Fitzpatrick’s hand before he departed. Clare was prepared to withhold hers, but he didn’t even offer. Just gave a little wave. When he closed the door behind him, she stood and stared at the shadow of her face in the glass. She wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. She was twenty-seven, but she felt sixteen. She was childless, but she’d held a baby in her arms. A blink, and it was gone. She wondered if murder counted as life experience.
****
“Are you alright, Clare? I’m sorry about Bonner. He can be a real asshole sometimes.” Fitzpatrick’s arm around her shoulders brought her back.
“What did he mean, outside repercussions?” She took a step away from him to free herself. “Could I be fired?”
Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Doubtful. But the family might try to sue you and the prison for negligence, malpractice, or some other BS cooked up by a greedy attorney.”
“You saw him that day, right? Dumas? You saw me talking to him?”
“I heard a snippet of conversation through a half-closed door.” Well, that didn’t take long. Fitzpatrick had already begun distancing himself.
“And what did you think? He didn’t seem suicidal, did he?” Her voice came out high, screeching. It frightened her a little. “Did he?” she said again. “He didn’t. I know he didn’t. He had just talked to his wife last week. He was so happy about it.”
“Sit down, Clare. Try to breathe.” Fitzpatrick pushed the folding chair toward her, and she collapsed into it. “I’m going to tell you something, but it’s just between us. It doesn’t leave this room. Lieutenant Bonner thought it was best you didn’t know. But, I’m fond of you, and I think you deserve the truth.” Clare nodded as he sat across from her, their knees close enough to touch. “Dumas had received a telephone call right after he left your office. It was from his wife.” Fitzpatrick put his hand on her knee and left it there, but she felt too desperate for the rest of the story to care. “She’d asked for a divorce.”
november 28, 1996
Clare clutched all that was left of her mother—an urn, half-filled with slate-gray ash, on her lap as they drove. Neal wanted to wait, but Clare insisted on going today, even though it was Thanksgiving. She needed to escape, to feel San Quentin shrinking behind her, smaller and smaller until it looked like an ant she could crush between her fingers. She needed the expanse of the road ahead, the radio cranked up until she couldn’t hear the obnoxious discord of her own singing voice. This was therapy. But Neal—sturdy, reliable Neal—spoiled her oasis. He wouldn’t shut up about Dumas. Two hours into the six-hour drive back to San Francisco, mid-Goo Goo Dolls, he started up again.
“I really think you should consult an attorney, Clare-bear.” She sighed, hard and heavy, hoping it would deter him. John Rzeznik was about to get to the good part. “This is your career we’re talking about. Everything you’ve worked so hard for.”
And scars are souvenirs you never lose. The past is never far. Did you lose yourself somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star? Don’t it make you sad to know that life—
“Clare.” That tone. The way he scolded her like a child. She hated him.
“Fitzpatrick said even if they sue me, it’s the prison they want. The prison has the money. Not me. Besides, last I checked, you didn’t even want me to work there. Now you’re acting like I did something wrong.”
Neal turned down the radio. She felt an argument coming on, stirring up the pit of her stomach like the wind before a storm. “Did you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He raised his brows in that know-it-all way. Accusatory. Like Clare masterminded every disaster. Or at least one. The one he would never let her forget. “This is totally different than my postdoc. And I can’t believe you’re still blaming me for that. How was I supposed to know his wife would find out he’d sent me flowers? It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Actually, it was a big deal, Clare. They weren’t going to sign off on your hours, remember? Without that note from your therapist, you wouldn’t be licensed.”
“Fine. Whatever. I didn’t handle it properly. The way Dr. Neal Barrington would. But I never encouraged that guy. Even he admitted he was obsessed with me.”
It bothered Clare when Neal didn’t fight back. Like he’d grown tired of her. “Look, let’s just focus on the present, okay? You said you were distracted with Dumas. And you cut your session with Cullen short. That’s not like you. Maybe you missed something.”
“Like what? It was a two-second conversation. There was nothing to miss. How could I have known his wife was going to end it with him? The last he told me they were better than ever.”
“It’s okay to admit it if you screwed up. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately, especially running into you-know-who. It wouldn’t surprise me if you weren’t totally focused.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Bonner. I appreciate your support.” Clare turned away toward the window to punish him. But she wasn’t satisfied. “You know, I was stupid for thinking we could ever make this work. You don’t get me, Neal. You never have.”
“What don’t I get? What is so mysterious about the great Clare Keely? So you were abused as a kid. I get it. Your mom was a floozy. I get it. Men take advantage of you. I get it. You have flashbacks. Poor boundari
es. Hang-ups about sex. You’ve got issues. I get it, Clare. I get all of it.” He steered the car down the nearest exit ramp and turned into a gas station parking lot. Always careful. Safe. That was Neal. “Do you get it? We’re supposed to help people deal with their problems, but you seem hell-bent on running away from your own.”
She opened the door before he could stop her. Twisted the ruby from her finger and threw it at him. It bounced off the seat and landed unceremoniously at his feet, where he regarded it open-mouthed. Like a knife she’d just aimed at his apple-red heart. “The only thing I’m running away from is you,” she told him, willing herself not to cry. She tucked the urn under her arm and made her escape. “I’ll find my own way back.”
“Be reasonable, Clare. Are you really going to hitchhike? At a truck stop? And what am I supposed to do with your car?” He struggled to reach the ring on the floorboard, his mouth twisting awkwardly with the effort. She almost felt sorry for him. “Please, just let me drive you home. I won’t say another word.” He patted the seat, then dropped the ring in the cup holder. “It’s still yours. It always will be.” Whoever Neal loved, it wasn’t her. It was a pretend Clare. The Clare she might’ve been. He would figure it out eventually—the repulsive thing she really was. He was halfway there already, analyzing her like one of his patients, cataloguing her scars, the ones she thought she’d hidden so well. The fact that he saw it all anyway, that disgusted her.
“You’re spineless, Neal. Boring. Not an ounce of passion. You can’t even argue with me. That’s exactly why I could never love you. Why I never did.” She slammed the door as hard as she could to properly punctuate her lie. And then Neal did something she never expected—he drove away.
****
“Clare, wake up.” Lizzie nudged her shoulder. “We’re back.” Clare wasn’t really sleeping. She hadn’t slept at all. But it was easier to feign slumber than to face a firing squad of questions. And when you call your best friend from a payphone at a truck stop in Los Banos, begging for a ride on Thanksgiving night, there are bound to be questions. Clare opened her eyes and saw it right there in front of her, parked in her assigned spot in the complex. She walked to it, half-expecting Neal to be waiting in the driver’s seat. He would take her inside and make love to her again.
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 17
