Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Grace stood and squeezed both of Helen’s hands, dropped the left gently after a second but held on to the right as she steered Helen out of the therapy room. Doing it smoothly, adroit as a tango champion, so that Helen felt guided, not dismissed. They walked silently through the bare, dim hallway that led to the waiting room, made it to the front door before Helen paused.

“Doctor, may I... you know?”

Another habitual question.

Grace smiled. “Of course, e or snail. Or Pony Express, if that works for you.”

The same answer Grace always provided. Both women laughed.

“And, Helen, should you find yourself in L.A., don’t be a stranger. Even if it’s just to say hi.”

Now Helen’s smile was warm and full, untrammeled by conflict. When they smiled like that, Grace knew she was in the right profession.

“Never a stranger, Dr. Blades. Never.”

Grace’s therapy room had once been the master bedroom of the country-English cottage that served as her professional headquarters. A cute little twenties thing, the house occupied a quiet corner on an obscure side street in West Hollywood, like many of its neighbors hidden behind tall hedges.

The location was walkable from the flats of Beverly Hills but set well away from B.H. glitz and the frenetic activity of WeHo’s Boystown. The corner location was no accident: Grace had insisted on it, so patients could enter on one street and exit on another.

On the surface, the people who came to her for help had much in common but they would never meet one another. A different therapist might question that, reasoning that post-traumatic patients could benefit from sharing common experiences.

Maybe so, but in Grace’s mind that was outweighed by the need for depth probing, the magic of one-on-one. Sometimes she thought of herself as a one-woman emotional vaccine.

She’d done the place up with soft seating, flattering lighting, inoffensive hues, the only feature hinting at herself, an array of framed diplomas, licenses, and honors, displayed behind her desk.

The house had come with wainscoting, Greek-key moldings, decorative alcoves, a tile fireplace, and diamond-pane windows. The day Grace took ownership, she began painting and scrubbing, ended up polishing the oak floors on hands and knees. After teaching herself the rudiments of commercial sewing — plenty of trial, even more error — she created ecru silk drapes from remnants scored in a thrift shop, hung the finished product from antique brass rods she nabbed online.

Proud of me, Malcolm?

The result: a work environment that felt right.

Now, with her workday over, she poured herself a glass of water and glided into the living room/waiting room. Parting two of the curtain panels, she gazed out on blackness.

Starless: her favorite flavor of night.

Double-bolting the front door and switching off the lights, she returned to the therapy room and unlocked the closet, a walk-in intended for a wardrobe that now held far less. Retrieving a small leather box, she plucked out a pair of nonprescription color contact lenses from a collection she’d assembled.

Tonight: light blue, allowing some of her natural brown to peek through and create an intriguing sea green.

Stepping out of oxblood flats, she unbuttoned her work blouse — one of the dozen white silk button-downs she’d had custom-tailored by a Hong Kong tailor who visited L.A. twice a year for trunk shows — and shed man-tailored black slacks, also purchased from Mr. Lam in a lot of twelve. Off came her bra and panties and on went tonight’s dress.

She’d selected it yesterday, a long-sleeved, gray, cowl-necked cashmere sheath she’d christened One Piece Wonder. Silk lining eliminated the need for underwear. The gray was a medium shade that adored her chestnut hair, the hem ended an inch below her knees, promising an interesting journey, and the sleeves flattered her arms.

No buttons, no zippers, no froufrou of any sort. Over the head, in with the arms, slithering down her body, liquid as a coat of lotion.

Tonight’s shoes were maroon suede pumps handmade by a Barcelona cobbler who specialized in flamenco shoes. Add to that the chocolate-brown single-clasp briefcase and matching drawstring bag already hosting money, keys, lipstick, and a gray-matte .22 Beretta, and she was ready.

Playtime.

It had been a while — months — since Grace had surrendered to The Leap. Abstention had nothing to do with self-doubt or restraint, it was simply a matter of professional responsibility: Busy time in her practice, her priority was the mental health of her flock.

Which wasn’t to say she hadn’t taken a few small jumps.

Driving home late at night on Pacific Coast Highway, making sure the road was clear then bearing down delicately on the Aston Martin’s accelerator.

Pushing the car to seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred and twenty.

Holding that speed while clamping her eyes shut, hurtling forward, blind.

The joy of weightlessness.

A couple of Sundays ago, she’d woken at sunrise and hiked up a canyon on the land side of PCH, finding herself the sole explorer of a series of well-marked trails that snaked up into the Santa Monica Mountains. After two miles of following the rules, she’d stripped herself naked, balled her clothes and tucked them into her backpack, and veered off the trail, stepping randomly into brush.

It didn’t take long for the foliage to turn dense, obscuring landmarks.

Soon, Grace was giddy with disorientation.

Losing herself.

Nearing a grunt. Spying a flash of beige.

Letting in the fear. Reprocessing it as arousal.

Reaching deep into her core and reminding herself of all that she’d been through, everything she’d accomplished.

The key was to survive. She walked on.

It took a while, but eventually she found her way back to the Aston, scratched and bruised and dirty, a mountain lion’s warning reverberating in her head.

Abrasions were easily touched up with cosmetics. The beast’s bravado remained a barb in her brain and that night she went to sleep imagining its rage and its bloodlust and slept wonderfully.

Oh, you gorgeous killer.

Maybe one day she’d return and look for the cat. Toting a slab of raw steak in her backpack.

Naked Woman with Meat. Great title for a painting.

Grace’s exit took her through the kitchen, out the rear patient door, and onto the impatiens-ringed, jacaranda-shaded lawn that served as the cottage’s backyard.

A narrow door cut into the facing wall of the garage. Though tiny, the house had been built for L.A. and even in the twenties that meant Worship the Automobile and space for two vehicles.

Waiting for her, side by side, were her twin chariots, both black, both spotless, both, in Grace’s mind, female.

The Toyota Matrix S station wagon was logic and function, as obtrusive as a tree in a forest.

The Aston Martin DB7 screamed irrationality.

Tonight, the choice was obvious.

Sliding into the low-slung beauty, she home-linked the garage door open, inserted the ignition key, pushed the red starter button, and brought four hundred fifteen snorting broncos roaring to life. Switching on her iPod, she called up Bach’s Sixth Brandenburg Concerto and backed the Aston out just past the garage door. Looking up and down the street, she idled, giving the car time for its rarefied organ system to reach optimal body temperature.

Automotive foreplay; rush a girl and she could grow balky and cranky.

When the Aston’s noises signaled readiness, Grace looked around again and pressed a maroon toe down on the gas.

The car shot forward like the land-rocket it was. Grace raced a block or two before slowing to a cruise as she manipulated a maze of narrow streets and exited east onto Sunset.