Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Which wasn’t to say success was flimsy. Nearly everyone could be guided toward accepting pleasure, and pleasure was the nutrient of healing.

The final principle applied to Grace: Take frequent vacations.

The process could take months, years, decades. Forever. Grace had patients who visited her on tenth and twentieth anniversaries. Reliving horror that had occurred when Grace was in grade school.

Helen, now crumpled in Grace’s arms, might turn out to be one of those, no way to know. No way to know about people, period, which was what made Grace’s job so interesting.

She felt Helen tighten up. Out came a hoarse, terrible growl of a sob.

Grace held Helen tighter. Began rocking her like a baby. Helen whimpered, turned quiet, fell into a trance-like state that brought a serene smile to her lips. Grace had expected that, she was generally excellent at guessing her patients’ inner worlds. Despite that, she worked at staying humble, because the job had nothing to do with cure, one didn’t talk about cure.

Still, nearly everyone got somewhat better, and how many endeavors could provide that level of satisfaction?

This month, Grace had reached one of those nice lulls where the patient load had thinned and allowed her to schedule another vacation. Tomorrow would be her last day before she checked out for two weeks.

Vacation was a loose concept. Sometimes she flew to faraway places and stayed at luxurious hotels and had adventures. Sometimes, she remained home and vegged out.

The nice thing was, it was all up to her and as yet she had no specific plans for next week, could entertain possibilities from Malibu to Mongolia.

When she worked, her appointment book was solid ink for months in advance, with spots opening up only when patients flew from the nest. She’d never engaged in any sort of self-promotion but word got around and judges and lawyers — more important, their perceptive assistants and secretaries — came to appreciate her work. But most of her business came from patients talking her up.

Her fee was slightly above average and everyone paid by check or cash upon entering the treatment room, no sliding scale, no insurance forms, no billing. Making money wasn’t the point — she could have lived quite well without her practice. Being businesslike and ethical was, and that included avoiding patients building up mountains of debt.

Treatment needed to be a partnership valued by both sides, meaning hard work for all concerned. Grace had never shirked anything in her life and by the time the Haunted came to her, they were ready to do whatever it took.

God bless them.

Helen continued to cling to Grace. She was fifteen years older than Grace but today, in this quiet, pretty room, Grace was the mother and she was the child.

Grace was younger than most of her patients but felt centuries older. She suspected none of them thought much about her age. Considered anything about her, other than her ability to help them. The way it should be.

She’d turned thirty-four a month and a half ago, but could pass for early twenties when the situation called for it. A prodigy throughout her formal schooling, she’d earned a Ph.D. in clinical psychology at an unreasonably young age, compressing a six-year program to four, the second of only two doctoral candidates at USC to pull that off.

The first was a man from whom Grace took the required seminar in child clinical. Not her cup of tea, working with the little ones, but Alex Delaware had made it sound as interesting as anyone could. He was obviously brilliant, quite likely compulsive, driven, and perfectionistic, not the easiest man to live with. But Grace appreciated his no-bullshit attitude, and his success at pushing his way through the academic bureaucracy spurred her to try it herself.

Now, at an age when adulthood-deferring wimps were still “trying to figure it out,” Grace relished being a grown-up.

She was comfortable with everything about maturity — her place in life, the luxuries she afforded herself, her rhythms and routines. Even her looks, without that translating to self-centered delusion.

She’d been called beautiful by men but blew that off as post-orgasmic Y-chromosome myopia. She was, at best, attractive, occupying a body assembled of flat planes rather than curves. Too broad at the shoulders, too narrow at the hips, both of which served to de-emphasize her small waist, she was light-years from centerfold territory.

Speaking of which, her breasts.

At fourteen, she’d flattered herself by rating them perky, figuring at some point they’d blossom into lush. At more than double that age, she’d come to celebrate perky.

Her eyes were wide-set but plain-wrap brown. She was especially amused when more than one man claimed to discover tiny flecks of gold floating near her pupils. Try as she might, she never found them.

One tiresome would-be poet tagged her eyes “twin lodes of precious ore.” Fool’s gold was more like it and the face they occupied was too long for the perfect oval, though sheathed with smooth ivory skin stretched tight over fine bones. Sprinkles of butterscotch freckles sprouted in interesting spots all over her body. One man had designated the pointillist patches “dessert” and set about licking every one of them. Grace let him do his thing until she started to feel like a dog’s water bowl.

Her hair was a plus, a bounty of chestnut silk that looked good no matter how it was cut. A few months ago, she’d allowed a Beverly Hills stylist to run riot, ending up with a loosely layered mop that terminated just above her shoulder blades and shook out easily.

But the winner was... her chin, a firm, pointy thing, crisp and defined and strong.

Not a hint of indecision.

Therapeutic chin.

Helen drew away from the embrace and offered a face full of confidence. Accepting the scented tissue Grace offered, she sat back down in the patient chair. The session had run over significantly, something Grace tried to avoid. But you needed to be flexible and Helen was her final patient of the day and Grace had plenty of energy for what lay ahead tonight.

She did, however, shift her head to the side so Helen had a clear view of the bronze art nouveau clock atop her mantel.

Helen’s mouth formed an O. “I’m so sorry, Doctor — here, let me pay you extra.”

“Not a chance, Helen.”

“But Dr. Blades—”

“It’s been wonderful seeing you, Helen. I’m proud of you.”

“Really? Even though I freaked out?”

The same question she asked on each anniversary.

“Helen, what I saw tonight wasn’t freaking out, it was honesty.”

Helen attempted a smile. “The best policy?”

“Not always, Helen, but in this case, yes. You’re an impressive person.”

“Pardon?”

Grace repeated the compliment. Helen blushed and looked down at her brand-new cowgirl boots, at odds with her dress, but pretty, nonetheless.

She now lived on ranch land outside Bozeman with her new dream man, a large, concrete-thinking block of oak who liked to hunt and fish and opined that he’d have loved to get his hands on the bastard who’d...

“Sometimes, Dr. Blades, I think honesty can be the worst thing.”

“It can be, but look at it this way, Helen: Honesty is like one of Roy’s guns. Only someone with training can be trusted to use it properly.”

Helen pondered that. “Oh... yes, I see...”

“To my mind, Helen, you’re well on your way to becoming a crack shot.”

“Oh... thank you, Dr. Blades... well, I’m catching an early flight tomorrow, better be shoving off.”

“Have a great trip.”

Another stifled smile. “I think I can, Dr. Blades. Like you always say, at some point we need to decide to be good to ourselves.”