“Is that why John Abbott was seeing you? He didn’t want to hurt people?”
I kept my features pleasant. “Like I said, I treat clients for a variety of things. Some just need someone to talk to. You want to know more than that, I need a warrant.”
“Hey, I had to try,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. Glancing toward my window, he studied the park view for a long moment. “Any reason I should look at this as anything other than a suicide?”
He was questioning the wrong death. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Would you swear to that under oath?”
“Absolutely.” Just please don’t ask about Brooke.
He nodded slowly. “I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions, Dr. Moore.” He pushed on the arms of the chair and stood. “Thank you for your time.”
I walked him to the lobby and gave a reassuring smile to Jacob, who watched us with interest. Returning to my office, I closed the door and let out a shuddered breath.
The chances were high, very high, that this was my fault. I’d had one job to do, and I had failed in an epic way with Brooke—but also John. Because of that, two people were dead.
CHAPTER 3
“This isn’t your fault.” Meredith squinted at me over a brussels sprout–laden tuna fish sandwich. “Tell me you know that.”
“While I appreciate your emotional life raft, you’re wrong.” I stabbed my fork into a piece of melon and prosciutto. “He sought treatment with me because he wanted to kill his wife. He killed his wife. He killed himself. If I’d done my job properly, they’d both be alive.”
“Okay, first, you have no proof he killed his wife.” She spoke through a mouthful of food, one finger lifted in the air as she started to count off a list of bullshit. “She had a heart attack.”
“Someone can trigger a heart attack.” I set down my fork. “He was a pharmacist. Trust me.”
“Then call the detective. Have him run a tox screen.” She waited, her sandwich hovering before her mouth.
“You know I can’t do that,” I said grudgingly, lowering my voice as I glanced around the crowded downtown café.
“You can do that,” she pointed out. “You just don’t want to. Because then I might be right and you’ll have to release this self-imposed guilt and move on with your life in a happy and productive manner.”
This was why I shouldn’t have befriended a fellow shrink. We couldn’t have a simple lunch without analyzing each other.
I studied the stamped design along the rim of my plate. “I shouldn’t do that,” I amended, “for several reasons.” I could waste our entire lunch going over why that was a horrible idea. If I was wrong, and Brooke’s death was natural, I’d be a laughingstock who’d tried to tarnish my own client’s name. If I was right and my client had killed his wife, I’d be under a microscope, would have to turn over his files, and for what? For justice on a man who had already imposed his own death sentence? It was a waste of government resources and time.
Meredith took a sip of herbal tea and shrugged. “Whatever. Dig your own mental grave. Did you call that guy whose number I gave you? The handyman?”
“I did not call the handyman.” I tore off a piece of bread. “I appreciate the matchmaking, but I already have one new man in my life, and I don’t need another.”
“A pack of Mr. Clean sponges doesn’t count.” She frowned at me and picked a sprout off the front of her blouse.
“Yeah, well. He’s the first man inside my house other than my brother in . . .” I squinted and did the depressing math. “Eighteen months? So, I’m counting it as a step in the right direction.”
“Even more reason to call Mimmo. Have you had an Italian before?” She let out a low whistle. “Honey. It’s a spiritual experience. Besides, he’s a total sweetheart.”
“So you said.” I placed a forkful of cold melon in my mouth.
“Oh, did you hear?” She perked up, her handyman forgotten. “They caught the Bloody Heart Killer.”
Amid the news of John Abbott’s death, I’d forgotten. “I missed the full story. What happened?” I took a sip of ice water. “The kid escaped?”
“Right. That Beverly High senior—the one who’s been gone seven weeks? He—” She took a sip of tea, paused, then coughed, her fist in front of her mouth as she hacked out whatever was bothering her. “Sorry about that.”
“The BH victim,” I prompted her.
“So he escapes from the guy and makes it back to his Beverly Hills mansion, where his parents freak out, prodigal son has returned, blah blah blah, and they call the police. Turns out the kid knows who the killer is.” She pointed her finger at me. “Get this—the guy’s a teacher at Beverly High.”
“Wow.” I leaned in closer. “What do we know about him?”
“Loner. Never married. Harmless-looking guy, looks like a mall Santa Claus. Won teacher of the year a decade ago.”
“That’s interesting.” I mulled over the information. “I wonder why he just now targeted a Beverly High kid. Normally it’s the first victim who’s in easy and close proximity.”
She shrugged. “Killers are your thing. I’m perfectly happy to stay on my side of the office with my orgasm-hungry lacrosse moms.”
“Speaking of which . . .”—I glanced at my watch—“I’ve got an appointment in forty-five, so I need to wrap this up.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to run over to the dry cleaner anyway.” She half raised her hand, catching the attention of our waiter, who fished the bill portfolio out of his apron and placed it on the table.
I reached for it. “I got it. Thanks for the counseling session.”
Placing a few bills down on the table, I stole one last sip of water and stood. I needed to hurry. A wannabe killer was probably already in my lobby, tapping her four-inch stilettos and waiting.
CHAPTER 4
“You know, most killers start with a close family member or friend.”
This fact was delivered by Lela Grant, who wore a bright-yellow dress with a white cardigan and had a designer purse tucked between her turquoise-blue heels. In the first thirty minutes of our appointment, she had complained about her husband, chattered enthusiastically about the addition of a salad bar to her country club’s lunch hour, and shown me photos of two chaise lounge options she was considering for her lanai. After we made the excruciating choice to go with the white-and-green-cushioned bamboo chaise, we finally circled around to why I was treating her: her violent fantasies toward her husband’s sister.
“Yes, I’m aware of that statistic.” I drew a small line of roses along the top of my notepad and made a mental reminder to order a funeral spray for John and Brooke’s service.
“The problem is that she lives so close. He’s going to want to go to her house for Christmas dinner, and what can I say? I have no good excuse. Sarah’s house is bigger than ours, her kids haven’t seen him in months, and she makes some lemon pie he won’t shut up about. I mean, it’s lemon pie. How spectacular could it be?”