Gayle Wilson - The Inquisitor

“Then if you’re both comfortable with not seeing one another, why not mail her presents to her. That way she can’t express any overt disappointment in them. Not any that will be up close and personal.”

“She’s the only family I have. I’d feel terrible not flying out there for the holidays.”

“And how would that be different from how you feel now?”

He laughed, and Jenna gave him points for acknowledging the absurdity of the caveat he’d just offered. Actually, she liked him better for the laughter.

Still, she’d begun to feel that he was a little old to be so thoroughly manipulated by his mother and perhaps less than truthful about why he was here. Somewhere in the back of her mind was a sliver of uneasiness.

“Maybe I’d just feel more guilty.”

“Or maybe you’d feel more in control,” she suggested. “You said it doesn’t matter what you give her. This year send her an expensive bouquet of roses and then go out and have that good dinner, knowing that you’ve done the best you can. If she doesn’t like your gift, you haven’t lost anything. Except the experience of watching her disapproval.”

“Do you really think something like that will work?”

“I think if you tell yourself this Christmas is going to be different, it will be. Call her and tell her you aren’t going to be able to make it this year. Send the flowers. Then tell yourself that you’ve done your part, and if she doesn’t like them, that’s her problem.”

“She is my mother.”

“Yes, she is. And ultimately it’s your choice as to how much control you’re going to allow her.”

His eyes again dropped to his hands. “You’re right, of course. I know that. It isn’t easy to change the dynamics of a relationship as it’s existed all your life.”

“You want to or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I think I believed that you would just give me something to make me feel better about myself.”

“I thought I was,” Jenna said, smiling at him when he looked up. “You thought I’d give you some medication.”

“I did, but…If I may, I’d like some time to think about what you’ve said.”

“Of course.”

“And I can call you again if I want to talk?”

“Call my secretary and ask for an appointment. I have to warn you, though. I may not be able to fit you in so quickly.”

“I know. And I appreciate that you saw me today. I didn’t expect it, to tell the truth. Not with what you said about how many people have problems this time of year.”

“That’s why we try to see anyone who needs us.”

He nodded, and then he stood. Jenna rose as he extended his hand. She took it and was surprised to find his handshake firm, his palm slightly callused. Of course, a couple of sessions a week at a gym could explain that.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly.

“You’re welcome. Call again if you want to talk more.”

“I will.”

He released her hand, stepping away from the desk. He had almost reached the door before he turned back, nodding once more before he went through it.

Jenna blew out a breath, before sinking back into her chair. She should write up her notes on the session, but instead she pushed the folder that held John Nolan’s paperwork to the middle of her desk.

She crossed her arms over her chest and exhaled again, this one audible in the silence of her office. All she wanted to do now…

…was to have a stiff drink and a good dinner.

Maybe her last patient was a better therapist than she was. She picked up the phone and punched Sheila’s extension.

“I’m gone,” she said when the secretary answered. “Nothing at eight tomorrow, right?”

“And a cancellation at nine. You’re in luck.”

“Thanks, Sheila. Hold that thought.”

“I will, believe me. See you tomorrow.”

Jenna put the phone down and pushed her chair away from the desk. As she did, she turned to look out the expanse of glass behind her. Although she was an hour later than usual leaving, for some reason she was surprised to find that night had fallen with seasonal suddenness.

The anxiety she’d managed to hold at bay most of the day bubbled up again. She was no longer able to distinguish between the unease caused by the general hysteria that gripped the city and that created by her personal nemesis. All she knew was that she hadn’t had time to take care of the restraining order, and that she now faced the prospect of returning to her apartment to find him waiting for her again.

She thought about giving in and driving out to spend the night at her parents’ home. Only the knowledge of how isolated that big, empty house was made her decide that going back to her own apartment was the lesser of two evils. And if Sean Murphy was there again—

She would call the police. And this time she would keep calling until someone paid attention.

Head lowered against the wind, Jenna hurried across the parking deck, the sound of her heels echoing off the concrete. She had deliberately parked nearer the building this morning.

A good idea, she decided, since the staff lot was practically deserted. Of course, this close to Christmas everyone was eager to get away from the office as quickly as they could to take care of the hundred and one things that still needed to be done in preparation for the holiday.

She was going to have to learn to say no to additional appointments at the end of an already full day. It wasn’t good for her or for the client.

Tonight she had felt her patience unraveling as John Nolan droned on and on about not being able to please his mother. Normally that kind of thing wouldn’t have bothered her, but she’d had to fight the urge to tell him to get a grip.

Maybe that’s what she should have done, she thought as she fumbled in her bag to retrieve her keys. She had already punched the unlock command before she looked up.

The driver’s side of the dark blue Accord was directly in front of her. In the accumulation of road splatter from the last few rainy days, someone had written “Help me” on its side.

The H began on the left side of the door, the other letters tracking neatly across its length. She stopped, reading the words twice to make sure they said what she thought they did.

Help me? Why would someone write “Help me” on her car?

She glanced at the three remaining automobiles on this level. None of them bore a similar message.

Some kind of prank? Except this was a monitored area, used only by the staff. And they gained access to it with a card.

She was sure the words hadn’t been there this morning. Given their position, she would definitely have noticed.

“Something wrong?”

She turned to find Gary Evers, one of the other psychologists on staff, watching her. She shook her head, embarrassed to admit she’d been stopped in her tracks by some words scrawled in the road dirt on the side of her car.

“Just trying to figure out who’s been leaving me messages,” she said, nodding toward the Honda.

Gary looked at the door and then back at her. “Help me? The tradition where I come from is ‘wash me.’”

Jenna tried to remember where Gary was from, but all she knew was that it wasn’t anywhere in the South. Of course, the tradition here was the same as the one he’d quoted.

“That would make more sense.”

“Maybe it’s a message from someone who feels he can’t afford your services.” Gary’s smile invited her to share his amusement.

For some reason, she couldn’t see the humor in the situation. Maybe it was the result of the long hours she’d put in today. Or—more likely—the result of everything that had happened during the last three. Of second-guessing her own actions and reactions. Just as she was now.