Karin Slaughter - A Faint Cold Fear

Chuck hitched up his pants as he walked to the counter. Lena could almost read his mind as he looked around the room, taking in the fact that most of the patients were young women wearing cropped T-shirts and bell-bottom jeans. Lena had her own thoughts about the girls, whose worst difficulties probably centered on boys and missing Fido back home. They probably had no idea what it was like to have real problems, problems that kept you up at night, sweating it out until morning came and you could breathe again.

“Hello?” Chuck said, popping his palm against the bell on the counter. Some of the women jumped at the sound, giving Lena a nasty glance, as if they expected her to be able to control him.

“Hello?” He leaned over the counter, trying to see down the hallway.

His voice was so loud in the small room that Lena wanted to put her hands over her ears. Instead she stared at the floor, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt.

The receptionist, a tall strawberry blonde with an irritated look on her face, finally appeared. She glanced at Lena with no sign of recognition.

“There you are,” Chuck said, smiling like they were old friends.

“Yes?”

“Carla?” Chuck asked, reading her name tag. His eyes lingered at her chest.

She crossed her arms. “What is it?”

Lena stepped in, keeping her voice low. “We need to see Dr. Rosen.”

“She’s in session. She can’t be disturbed.”

Lena was about to take the woman aside and privately explain the situation when Chuck blurted out, “Her son killed himself about an hour ago.”

There was a collective gasp around the room. Magazines were dropped, and two girls walked out the door within seconds of each other.

Carla took a moment to recover from her shock before offering, “I’ll go get her.”

Lena stopped her, saying, “I’ll tell her. Just take me to her office.”

The younger woman exhaled with relief. “Thank you.”

Chuck was at Lena’s heels as they followed the girl down the long, narrow hallway. Claustrophobia struck Lena like a sudden flame, and she found herself sweating by the time they reached Jill Rosen’s office. With his usual flair for knowing how to make things worse, Chuck stood close to Lena, almost hovering over her. She could smell his aftershave mixed with the sickly sweet smell of his gum, which he smacked loudly in her ear. She held her breath, turning her head away from him, trying not to be sick.

The receptionist rapped lightly on the door. “Jill?”

Lena pulled at her collar, trying to get more air.

Rosen sounded exasperated as she opened the door, asking, “Yes?” Then she saw Lena, recognition bringing a curious smile. Her mouth opened to say something, but Lena cut her off.

“Are you Dr. Rosen?” Lena asked, aware her voice sounded tinny.

Rosen looked from Lena to Chuck, hesitating for a moment before she turned back to the patient in her office, saying, “Lily, I’ll be right back.”

She pulled the door closed, saying, “This way.”

Lena glared at Chuck before following her, but he still kept close to her heels.

Rosen stopped at an open doorway, gesturing into the room. “We can talk in here.”

Lena had only ever been in the waiting room or Rosen’s office, so she was surprised to find herself in a large conference room. The space was warm and open, with lots of plants, just like Jill Rosen’s office. The walls were painted a soothing light gray. There were chairs covered in mauve fabric tucked under a long mahogany conference table. Large four-drawer filing cabinets filled one side of the room, and Lena was glad to see they were padlocked to keep people from prying.

The doctor turned around, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Jill Rosen had a narrow face and shoulder-length dark brown hair. She was attractive for her age, which was probably early forties, and dressed in an earthy style, with long, flowing blouses and skirts that suited her figure. There was a no-nonsense manner about her that had been very off-putting to Lena, especially when the doctor took it upon herself to diagnose Lena as an alcoholic after only three sessions. Lena wondered that the woman had any patients at all with that kind of attitude. Come to think of it, there was not much to be said for a shrink who couldn’t keep her own son from taking a deep dive into a shallow river.

Predictably, Rosen got straight to the point. “What’s the problem?”

Lena took a deep breath, wondering how strained this was going to be, considering her past with Rosen. She decided to be direct. “We’ve come about your son.”

“Andy?” Rosen asked, sinking into one of the chairs like a slowly deflating balloon. She sat there, back straight, hands clasped in her lap, perfectly composed but for the look of sheer panic in her eyes. Lena had never read anyone’s expression so clearly in her life. The woman was terrified.

“Is he—” Rosen stopped to clear her throat, and tears sprang into her eyes. “Has he gotten into trouble?”

Lena remembered Chuck. He was standing in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets as if he were watching a talk show. Before Chuck could protest, she shut the door in his face.

“I’m sorry,” Lena said, pressing her palms against the table as she sat down. The apology was for Chuck, but Rosen took it a different way.

“What?” the doctor pleaded, a sudden desperation filling her voice.

“I meant—”

Without warning, Rosen reached across the table and grabbed Lena’s hands. Lena flinched, but Rosen did not seem to notice. Since the rape, the thought of touching someone—or worse, being touched—made Lena break into a cold sweat. The intimacy of the moment brought bile to the back of her throat.

Rosen asked, “Where is he?”

Lena’s leg started to shake, the heel of her foot bobbing up and down uncontrollably. When she spoke, her voice caught, but not from sympathy. “I need you to look at a picture.”

“No,” Rosen refused, holding on to Lena’s hands as if she were hanging over a cliff and Lena was the only thing keeping her from falling. “No.”

With difficulty Lena freed one of her hands and took the Polaroid out of her pocket. She held up the picture, but Rosen looked away, closing her eyes like a child.

“Dr. Rosen,” Lena began. Then, moderating her tone, “Jill, is this your son?”

She looked at Lena, not the photograph, hatred glowing like white-hot coals.

“Tell me if it’s him,” Lena persisted, willing her to get this over with.

Rosen finally looked at the Polaroid. Her nostrils flared and her lips pressed into a thin line as she fought back tears. Lena could tell from the woman’s expression that the dead boy was her son, but Rosen was taking her time, staring at the picture, trying to let her mind accept what her eyes were seeing. Probably without thinking, Rosen stroked the scar on the back of Lena’s hand with her thumb as though it were a talisman. The sensation was like sandpaper on a blackboard, and Lena gritted her teeth together so she would not scream.

Rosen finally asked, “Where?”

“We found him on the west side of campus,” Lena told her, so taken by the urge to jerk back her hand that her arm began to shake.

Rosen, oblivious, asked, “What happened?”

Lena licked her lips, though her mouth was as dry as a desert. “He jumped,” she said, trying to breathe. “From a bridge.” She stopped. Then, “We think he—”

“What?” Rosen asked, her hand still clamped onto Lena’s.

Lena could take no more, and she found herself begging, “Please, I’m sorry . . .” A look of confusion crossed Rosen’s face, which made Lena feel even more trapped. The level of her voice rose with each word, until she was screaming, “Let go of my hand!”