This was important to him. Important enough for him to drive through rush-hour traffic and be here in person, a stiff new copy of Gabe’s file in hand. I rose and went to it. Pulling the rubber band free, I opened the folder and ran my fingernail along the row of color-coded tabs that organized the contents. “How many psychologists have you given this to?”
“Shrinks? None.”
“We don’t really like that term,” I said mildly, flipping open the tab marked “Evidence.” There was a neat line of items, and my blood hummed with excitement.
“Sorry.”
“There are better ways to heal than obsessing over the killer.” I was dying to study the file, to read each page in detail, to find the hidden clues. I always loved clues, which was why I set down the file and turned my attention back to Robert. He was giving me clues—I just couldn’t seem to follow them.
“Healing isn’t my main objective.”
“Maybe it should be. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, this week’s arrest of your son’s killer is a major emotional event.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me. Just read his file and tell me what you think.”
I let out a half laugh. “Psychoanalyzing people is part of my job.”
His gaze hardened. “Not this job.”
“For a proper profile, I’d need more than just his file.” I settled back onto the couch, ignoring the silent scream of the folder. “You said you could get all the other victim files?”
“Yes. But look at his first and see if you have the stomach for it.”
I glanced at my watch, conscious of the fact that I had another appointment in fifteen minutes. “My stomach won’t be a problem, but my time is tight. I’ll need a few days to go through everything.”
“You told me the night we met that you specialize in clients with violent inclinations.”
“That’s right.”
His knee jiggled, a quick staccato beat that stilled when I looked at it. It was a tell, and I cataloged it beside the evasive eye contact and the bite of hostility in his tone. Frustration. Angst?
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, delivering the direct eye contact I wanted. It was invasive, a cross-examination level of confrontation, and I welcomed it. “Why spend your days with society’s most vile individuals?”
“I don’t see them as vile,” I answered truthfully. “I see them as human. We all battle demons. If they’re in my office, it’s because they’re trying to fix that part of them. I can relate to that. Can you?” I arched a brow at him in question.
He held my stare for a long moment, then rose, buttoning his suit jacket closed with a finality that came from years of practice. “I don’t need you to analyze me. Just read Gabe’s file and send me your initial thoughts, Gwen.”
“You know . . . I think I’ll pass.” I stayed in place. “You can take the file with you.”
It was a bitchy move and a gamble, given that I wanted the job as badly as anything in recent memory. Still, the risk was necessary. I had to see how much he really needed me. Because there were a lot of experts out there, but he was in my office, the file on my desk. Why?
He paused, and when he turned to face me, the frustration was evident. “I’m hiring you for a job. You’re refusing the work?”
“There’s a potential conflict of interest.”
“And that—” He cleared his throat and began again. “That is what?”
“We slept together,” I pointed out. “I’m not exactly an unbiased third party. You may put too much weight into my opinion, or it may be skewed on my end, based on our history.”
It was a valid and excellent point, one my conscience had raised as soon as I started to get excited about the potential project.
“It was one night.” He shrugged. “Not exactly history.”
My ego wilted a little, and I smiled to hide the hurt. “You’re also grieving.”
“So?”
“The death of a loved one can eat at you,” I said quietly. “Looking at crime scene photos . . . obsessing over his murderer . . . I just want to make sure it doesn’t devour you.”
A sardonic smile twisted across his lips. “Too late for that.” He strode forward and picked up the file. “But if you don’t want to do it, don’t. I’ll find another expert. The country’s full of them.”
He waited, and there was a long moment where we played a silent game of reverse psychology, and I lost.
I held out my hand. “Give me a few days, and any of the other case files you can get.”
He handed it over, and then, like a lion sauntering away from a carcass, he strolled out of the room.
I looked down at the folder, then glanced again at my watch. Eight minutes before my next appointment. Just enough time for a peek.
CHAPTER 12
Los Angeles welcomed Scott back with open arms, and everyone wanted a piece. With Nita beside him, Scott appeared on the local news, then sat down with People magazine. His mother followed him through hair and makeup, sound checks, and on-camera interviews. With each performance, Scott’s story grew smoother, and his confidence bloomed. Then the camera would turn off, and he’d retreat back to his bedroom, to his phone, uninterested in life.
Now, Nita sat in a green room, watching him on a bank of monitors, a cold diet soda in hand. Beside her, a production assistant with a diamond nose ring and a goofy headset loudly gushed over Scott.
“Your son is a hero,” she mused. “To escape like that? And to be brave enough to tell his story?”
“Yes, he is.” Nita watched her son on-screen, his dimple appearing as he turned his head to face the cohost. What Scott had done was so brave. Then again, Scott had always been brave. When he was six and there had been a giant snake in their yard, he had grabbed its tail and yanked without even thinking twice.
The camera cut to the interviewer’s face. “I know it’s painful to recount, but can you tell our viewers how you escaped?”
Scott looked down, as he always did when faced with a difficult question. The camera scanned across a crowd filled with concerned audience members paying rapt attention. Nita thought of the first time she’d heard his answer, in their large dining room, the silver still out on the buffet, where the housekeeper had been polishing it. The room had been dim, the curtains pulled tight, covering the impressive views of the gardens. Once it had been her dream home. Now it would always be the place where she had lost and then refound her son.
“He used to chain me up.” Scott rubbed at the underside of his wrist as if remembering the restraints. “By my wrists and ankles.”
Nita had heard the story a dozen times but forced herself to stay in place. If he could live through it, she could listen to it.
Naked. That was how the monster tied up her son. It was a fact Scott left out of the media interviews, and she felt guilty for appreciating the omission. The sexual torture the BH victims had experienced was something the police had kept out of the news. In awareness of that, and of the other victims’ families, they had made a decision—among their family and with the police—to keep the information private.