“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her friend’s sigh huffed into the phone. “You want me to prescribe a powerful, habit-forming antianxiety medication without explaining why. Let me think … No. Sign up for a yoga class.”
“It’s either drugs or sell the house, and I love the house.” Jordan targeted a curl of dingy white paint roughly the size of some third world nations.
“You aren’t having a psychotic break,” Carol said, her desk chair creaking the way it did when she swiveled to prop her Gucci platform sandals on her antique needlepoint footstool. “Okay, correction. If you are having a psychotic break, it’s caused by your impulsive decision to remodel a century-old house, a decision which all along I suspected indicates a deeply disturbed mind. After all, who willingly puts up with Sheetrock dust?”
“The walls are plaster, not Sheetrock. And I’m not impulsive.”
“Uh-huh. Denial is such an underrated emotion.”
Jordan chose to ignore that. “This has nothing to do with purchasing the house.” Well, sort of. The ghosts and the house were related, but this was really about her inability to distinguish fantasy from reality. “I’m telling you, I’m having a psychotic break.”
“You aren’t even capable of having one. You worship at the altar of ‘well adjusted.’ Now, what’s really going on?”
Jordan closed her eyes for a moment, then scraped furiously. “I’m seeing ghosts.”
“Get out!” Carol sounded delighted. “You bought a haunted house?”
“I did not buy a haunted house. I’m simply seeing things that aren’t there, having conversations with the things that aren’t there, and fixing fucking breakfast for the things that aren’t there. I’m in the initial stage of a major psychosis, probably manifesting itself as a delusional disorder, but I can—”
“Who are they?”
“What?” Jordan paused, thrown off stride. “Oh. Two women who lived in the house in the late 1800s.” Then she added darkly, “Not that they actually exist. Can we please stay on topic here? I need those meds.”
“You’re the most rational person I know,” Carol retorted. “Freakily, you haven’t even exhibited much emotional trauma in the past year, even though Ryland cheated on you with size-two starlets, willingly fed you to the paparazzi, then had the nerve to get murdered in a way that made you the prime suspect. At the very least, you could’ve had the decency to check yourself into a spa and demand herbal wraps. So trust me, you’ll take a ghost or two right in stride.”
“Will you listen to yourself? Our training is grounded in science. There. Are. No. Ghosts. I’m having delusions.”
“Bullshit. You haven’t exhibited any of the early symptoms of a delusional disorder; ergo, you don’t have one.”
“I’ve been under a lot of stress, okay? And delusions can be triggered by stress.”
“Jordan.” Carol’s voice turned firm. “You know better than to self-diagnose. What do the ghosts want from you?”
“What makes you think they want anything?” Jordan asked suspiciously, the spatula halting on an upswing.
“Well, that’s why ghosts hang around, isn’t it? Because of some unresolved issue?”
Jordan ripped a huge chunk of paint off the top edge of the column and dropped it into the bucket, then eyed the chunks hanging from the board-and-batten porch ceiling. “Hypothetically speaking, they want me to help them solve an old murder.”
“Cool! Who got murdered?”
“One of the ghosts. She doesn’t think the guy who hanged for it did it.” Though Jordan had her doubts. She’d spent the wee hours of the night reading the rest of the papers the ghosts had brought her, and according to Hattie’s diary, Frank Lewis had outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. He also had a history of violence. Jordan could easily envision him killing in a moment of rage.
Hypothetically speaking.
“With your background in psychology, it makes perfect sense that they’d ask you to investigate,” Carol was reasoning out loud. “I get called all the time to do psychiatric evaluations of inmates.”
“You know I’m taking time off from my practice, and you know the reasons why.”
Carol snorted. “I know the bullshit explanation you gave me.”
“Come on. If I can’t even recognize my own husband’s pathological tendencies, how can I expect my patients to trust my judgment? How can I trust my judgment?”
“My answer to that remains unchanged. Anyone can be fooled, especially when their emotions are involved. There’s no correlation between what happened with Ryland and the excellent work you’ve done with patients.”
“But I’m a proponent of Rational Therapy, for chrissakes. Somehow, researching an old murder based on my own delusions doesn’t seem all that rational.”
“Rational Therapy works for your patients, but what you need to do in this situation is take a leap of faith.” Carol’s tone was astonishingly matter-of-fact.
“You can’t honestly tell me you believe in ghosts.”
“Why not? Our professional training has nothing to do with believing in the possibility of alternative energy forms. I think you’ll be dynamite at profiling, and investigating an old murder is the perfect interim project for you.”
Jordan gave the phone a dirty look, then jammed it between her chin and her neck so that she could use both hands to climb onto the railing. Wrapping one arm around the column for support, she swiped at a hanging paint chunk with the spatula, missing by several inches.
“Speaking of investigating, your pal Detective Drake has been sniffing around, asking questions.”
Jordan tensed, almost losing her balance, then barely managed not to shriek when she felt a warm, steadying hand on her calf. Jase stood below her, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.
Hell. “What did Drake want to know?” she asked Carol, keeping her tone neutral and her wary gaze on Jase.
“Whether I thought the divorce would’ve gone through without a hitch, whether you were having financial problems, whether I’d witnessed any recent fights between you and Ryland, stuff like that. I told him I couldn’t answer without violating doctor-patient privilege.”
Jordan relaxed a bit.
The night of the accident, she’d called Carol and her divorce attorney, wanting both of them present when Drake questioned her. But Carol—whom she’d confided in later that night—was the only person who knew the details of what had really happened just before Ryland’s death. If Drake ever found out, Jordan had no doubt an arrest warrant would be issued within hours.
“Thanks,” she told Carol now, her tone heartfelt.
“No problem. But if I were you, I’d start thinking about replacing your divorce lawyer with a criminal defense attorney. Conspicuously absent from Drake’s list were any questions regarding the victims of Ryland’s rampant libido.”
Jase held out a hand to help Jordan climb down, then handed her a latte. She smiled her thanks, though her stomach had started doing flip-flops at Carol’s mention of a defense attorney. “I gave Drake plenty of names to investigate.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think he was listening. Have you talked to your family about all this?”
“Of course not. You know what their reaction would be—Mom would fret and lose sleep and drive Dad nuts in the process, and Lindsay would harangue me about how bad choices lead to bad consequences.”
Carol harrumphed. “Your sister could take a few lessons in how to be supportive. I was hoping something this serious would bring her around.”