Gayle Wilson - The Inquisitor

At the very least, Sean Murphy had some kind of fixation with the killer. And at the worst…

She’d get the restraining order the dispatcher had mentioned. Something that would keep him off the grounds of her apartment complex and away from her office as well.

Paul knew a lot of people in this town. He would help her figure out whom she should call. Then, if this bastard pulled this same stunt tomorrow night—

The police would deal with him, and she wouldn’t have to. Never again.

And right now, that’s really all she wanted.

“I saw the segment you did for Channel 47 on holiday depression. I confess that it struck a little too close to home. Especially the part about feeling let down that things don’t live up to your expectations.”

Despite Paul’s undoubtedly kind intentions in insisting she take yesterday afternoon off, it had made today a scheduling nightmare. And when Sheila had asked her this morning, Jenna had reluctantly given the okay for a new patient to be added to the end of her already full appointment calendar.

After less than five minutes spent with John Nolan, she was wishing she’d put him off until another day. Nothing he’d told her so far seemed to warrant the urgency he’d expressed when he’d called the office.

He had asked for her by name, however, and more importantly, he’d specifically mentioned the television interview. That had set off a few alarms. Enough that she had decided to work him in, just to see what kind of read she got.

Even before he’d arrived, she had discarded as ridiculous the idea that a serial killer would be brazen enough to show up at her office. Calls like Nolan’s resulted from most of the interviews the staff gave. Add that to the increased demand for counseling brought on by the pressures of the season, and there was nothing unusual about the guy’s request for an immediate appointment.

She’d already been booked solid the rest of the week with the makeups from yesterday and her regular patients, many of whom also had trouble dealing with the holidays. If she hadn’t agreed to see him today, Nolan would have been forced to wait until after the New Year, which Sheila said he really didn’t want to do.

“That’s something that’s extremely common,” she said, trying to sound interested. “Not only with Christmas, but with any occasion we look forward to with a lot of anticipation. Is this something you experienced last year?”

“Last year. Every year I can remember. It seems that nothing I do is quite good enough.”

“For your family? Or for yourself?”

“Both, I suppose. It just doesn’t seem to matter how much I plan or how hard I work, things…unravel. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“And that makes you feel…?” She hesitated, allowing him an opportunity to fill in the blank she’d left.

His lips pursed slightly as he looked down at his hands. They were well shaped, the nails clean and neatly trimmed.

On the paperwork John Nolan had filled out, he’d written self-employed. He hadn’t put anything in the section on insurance or in the one that asked for his occupation. Which meant he could be anything, she supposed, from a writer to a day trader.

Nor had she been able to glean much about either his education or financial status from his appearance. The maroon V-necked sweater, which he wore over a white button-down collar dress shirt and the khaki trousers were too generic to offer much socioeconomic information.

His hair, light brown and slightly sun-glazed, appeared to have been freshly cut, although it was a little longer than she normally found attractive. And yet he was, she admitted. Very attractive.

Just as she reached that conclusion, he glanced up, meeting her eyes. His were hazel, tending more toward green than brown. They widened as he realized she’d been watching him.

“So how does that make you feel?” she prodded.

“Inadequate.”

Her smile widened. “The human condition. At least for most of us. Do you want to talk specifics? Something particular that happened last Christmas?”

“Not really. Suffice it to say that I again fell short. And they let me know about it.”

“Your family,” she clarified.

“My mother in particular. She’s always been hard to please. I know I should be used to it by now, but for some reason I always think that this time I’ve found something she’ll have to approve of.”

“So this is a pattern that’s been repeated over and over, no matter what you give her.”

“Implying she’s the problem and not me?”

His question was a little too glib, but perhaps he’d done some reading on the subject. Many people did these days, especially with the proliferation of mental health information on the Web.

“Is that a possibility?” she asked, her tone neutral.

“More than a possibility. It’s almost certainly the case.”

“Then if you recognize that…” Again she hesitated, waiting for him to draw the obvious conclusion.

“I should be able to do something about it. You’re right, of course. And believe me, I’ve tried. I still manage to end up feeling as if I’ve failed. Her. And myself.”

“Then maybe the first step in changing your feelings is to acknowledge that no matter what you do or how much trouble you go to, you probably aren’t going to please her. That should lower your expectation to a more reasonable level.”

“It sounds simple, but…Look, I’m a grown man. I’ll be the first to admit that she shouldn’t have that much power over me. Not enough to spoil one holiday after another.”

“She’s your mother. Most of us were raised to care about pleasing our parents. Just not, I hope, to the detriment of our own well-being. You mentioned that my comments during the interview about holiday depression had struck a chord. Do you think that what you’ve felt over the years might be classified as depression?”

“I don’t know. I guess one person’s depression is another person’s excuse for a stiff drink and a good dinner.”

Not too far off the mark, Jenna thought with an inward smile. Not that depression wasn’t real and serious, but to some people, anytime they felt disappointment or sadness about something, even if those feelings were justified by the situation, that qualified in their minds as depression. John Nolan seemed to have a more realistic attitude.

“Is that what you do? Indulge yourself to make up for how she makes you feel?”

“Occasionally. After hearing you talk, I realized the mistake I make every year is in still having any expectation of pleasing her.”

“So will that help with the stress this year?”

“It should. But then, I am here.”

“Taking steps to deal with your feelings is definitely a move in the right direction. So what do you think you need to do next in order to feel better?”

“What do you think, Dr. Kincaid? That is why I came, you know. To hear your advice.”

Again, something about the exchange seemed contrived. It was all too pat.

Of course, some patients didn’t want to give voice to the obvious conclusions. They wanted to have them spelled out, so that they became more like directives. Since Nolan’s mother was obviously controlling if not domineering, perhaps he needed that kind of instruction.

“All right. Other than on gift-giving occasions, what kind of relationship do you have with your mother?”

“Distant,” he said with a laugh. “Both physically and emotionally. That’s by choice, by the way. Probably by both our choices.”

“And she doesn’t want a closer relationship?”

“If she does, she’s never given any indication of it.”

Which was strange, considering the apparent power play at Christmas. Still…