Jessica Patch - Protective Duty

Bryn parked in a lot a block down from Dr. Warner’s. Downtown could stand to be cleaned up some. There were abandoned warehouses with cracked windows on one side and trendy places to eat on the other. Grabbing her purse, she stepped out of the car and headed toward his office.

Cracks and loose gravel caught the toe of her shoe. She righted herself, crossed the street and inhaled.

By granny, she had this. She’d prove to Dr. Warner that keeping her behind a desk wasn’t utilizing her well, that Towerman hadn’t made a mistake by sending her into the field. Maybe the city’s and the mayor’s panic had been to her advantage. She’d keep her fears buried and only give him information on the case, which he already possessed anyway. As the session progressed, he’d see she was on top of everything. And he’d give a glowing recommendation to Towerman.

The semi-decaying brick building held some old charm. She opened the tinted-glass door. Inside, the building transformed from decrepit and broken to fresh and classy.

Violins harmonized to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major and filtered through hidden speakers. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus wafted through the front lobby. Her shoes clicked against polished hardwood flooring as she crossed to the circular mahogany desk to the left of the foyer. Should she wait for a secretary?

She strummed her fingers along the desk, then sank onto the chocolate-colored leather couch while the violins began their crescendo.

Bobbing her knee and flicking her nails, Bryn gnawed the inside corner of her mouth.

A door down the hall squeaked open. Floor joists creaked and squawked, and then a man in his midforties, attractive, smelling like new money, loomed in the door frame leading into the foyer. Thick chestnut hair cut in a trendy style matched the thin lawn of scruff on his face. Warm amber eyes greeted hers. “I’m Dr. Warner.”

“Bryn Eastman.”

He glanced at his expensive watch and raised an eyebrow. “You’re early. Eager to start?”

Eager to get out. Bryn cracked a shaky smile. “Sure.”

“Follow me.” He led her down the hallway past a men’s restroom, then a women’s restroom. His office was to the left. He opened an espresso-colored wooden door and slipped inside. Bryn followed.

Set like a formal living room with a large comfy couch and two leather club chairs surrounding a decorative table, his office was masculine and inviting. A large ornate desk rested in front of a built-in fish tank that lined an entire wall. The tank had to hold at least a thousand gallons.

“Have a seat, Agent Eastman.”

Bryn settled in a club chair. No lying on the couch for her. Dr. Warner chose the couch, leaning back comfortably, ankle cocked over his knee. Muscular. Probably from tennis or rowing.

Other than the sounds coming from the filter on the fish tank, silence filled the room and dragged. Was she supposed to start? She had nothing to say. “I like your fish tank. Salt water?”

He glanced at the tank. Schools of fish swam in colors ranging from banana yellow, silver, violet and turquoise to an array of multicolored ones. “Fresh actually. Easier to clean.”

She admired the coral, the sand, a small elegant ship and a treasure chest in the corner. The bubbling eased her jumbled nerves. Peaceful.

Bryn studied the blur of colorful fish. “They’re beautiful. Eye-popping.” So many. How did he keep them from overcrowding? That’s how she felt. Overcrowded. With being back in Memphis, working on the rental house, the new puppy, this high-profile case and Eric—working with him and old feelings poking at her.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “They’re all male. They tend to have more color than the females.”

“Huh. No one fights for alpha status?” She examined the fish as they weaved in and out of each other’s way. She fought for it every day, not so much dominance as equal footing. In her line of work, she was the minority.

“I did my research.”

Probably did his research on her, as well. She didn’t want to talk about herself. “I like the quiet water, too.” Bryn leaned back in her chair. “Which ones are your favorites?”

Dr. Warner checked his watch again. “This session is about you. Do you want to talk about you?”

No. Not in the least. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Time crept along as silence hung.

Uneasiness broke it.

“I can do this job. I know the risks. I knew them when I pursued this career.”

“Do you want to talk about why you pursued this career?”

“You already know why. You know everything.” As a contracted therapist by the FBI, he was privy to all of her case files, as well as her dossier. He knew what happened in Ohio. What happened on her first night in the field—the attack. It would all be there in black and white. She couldn’t hide any of the facts from him. Her feelings were an entirely different matter. “And as you can see, I’m fine.”

If she kept repeating that, he wouldn’t believe her. He scribbled on his notepad. Was he writing that she was uncooperative? If she wanted her permanent freedom from the desk, she needed to toss him a bone. SAC Towerman had already had a lengthy discussion with her after the attack in the park. Was she okay? Could she keep up out there? Blah. Blah. Blah. He needed her out there as much as she needed to be out there, but she hadn’t missed the skepticism in his eyes and hesitation in his voice.

“I was nervous walking on the scene. And I was afraid when the attacker grabbed me around the neck. Who wouldn’t be?” Being an FBI agent didn’t make her superhuman.

Dr. Warner kept writing, then looked at her again.

Bryn held his gaze. “It had nothing to do with what happened in Cleveland. I did my job there. You know that.” But flashbacks and that same fear had resurfaced. To tell the good doctor that meant to tell him she wasn’t healed.

Well, she wasn’t. Never would be. She’d thought about praying but was fairly certain God had stopped listening to her prayers. He definitely had stopped answering them, or she and Eric would be together. Happy. With a family.

She pointed to the file in his lap. “Can’t you just sign off on my paperwork and let me do what I do best? I don’t see the need for these appointments.”

The giant obstacle between her and the career that compelled her to take risks stared into her eyes. “You don’t see the need in talking to someone about almost being murdered...twice? Or about the past events that drove you to this line of work?”

“I saw a family therapist at my mom’s request after my brother...” She couldn’t even bring herself to go back in time. It had been excruciating and pointless. “And, yes, that’s why I pursued this career. I can catch this killer. But I can’t do it behind a desk.” Time to show him she could cooperate and be compliable. “Scared or not, we have to push past the fear for the greater good. Every agent has some level of fear.”

“You think pushing fear aside is dealing with it?” His voice was low. Calm. Nonjudgmental.

It was the best she had to offer. He made a strong point with the question, though. Eventually, her fears and stress would snap, and she might put herself or others in danger if she slipped. She just wouldn’t slip. Wouldn’t let “eventually” come.

“You think by keeping silent you’ll get clearance from me. I understand that. I see many agents who think the same thing, but it’s not true. However, if you want to sit here every Friday for an hour and say nothing or talk about my fish, then we can do that.”

If she talked, if she spilled it all, he might think she was weak and unfit. But if she didn’t divulge, he’d assume she was burying feelings and a ticking time bomb. She bobbed her knee, debating what to do. “I... I have trouble sleeping sometimes. Right before I doze off, I see Scott Mulhoney’s face, and I might have a mild panic attack—but I assure you it’s getting better.” She’d long stopped calling Mulhoney the Cleveland Creeper and put a name to his face. Made him human. Even if he’d seemed superhuman.