A knock at my door has me swinging around. My breath catches and then accelerates. Is it Jake? Daphne? Do I feel fear or anticipation? I rub my sweaty palms together and call out, “Who is it?”
“Dr. Terrance.”
I drop my head into my heads and press the bridge of my nose between my two index fingers. The pain in my head doesn’t go away. Neither does Dr. Terrance, judging by the repeated knocking on the door.
“Oliver is worried about you,” he calls. “I promised I wouldn’t leave until you opened the door.”
“I can’t open the door. I’m too sick,” I lie. I probably could open the door, because I can see by Jake’s security setup on my laptop that it is indeed Dr. Terrance alone and outside my door. But I don’t want to. I want him to go away and let me wallow in my misery.
“I heard about Daphne. That’s a difficult situation. I’m sure you feel betrayed.”
I squeeze my entire head between my spread fingers, but Dr. Terrance’s incessant knocking continues.
“Use the key,” I finally call out. I know Oliver has given it to him.
The lock disengages and the knob turns. I slam the top of my laptop down and fold my arms, waiting for him to step inside and close the door.
“Your curtains are open. Are you feeling well enough for that?”
I glare at him in mulishness. I don’t want him here. There’s nothing he can do for me today.
“I see you’re in a mood.” He sets a small white bag on the table. If it was Jake bringing me this bag, I’d guess there was something flaky and delicious inside. Because it’s Dr. Terrance, I’m certain it’s drugs. He wanders into my office, where I’m sure he’s counting the prescription bottles and the number of pills I have left. Predictably, he returns a short while later.
“I see you haven’t been following my medication regimen.”
“I believe at our last meeting you said that the drugs were ‘as needed.’”
“And you believe you haven’t needed them?” Skepticism abounds in his tone.
“I believe I took them when I needed them.”
“Hmmm,” he murmurs. He crosses one elegantly shod knee over the other. Dr. Terrance is a handsome older man and dresses well. I wondered at times in the past whether his success was largely reliant on his looks. He’d once lamented to me how he’d do well on television and thought we could work together in shining a new light on anxiety-based disorders. I said no. “It’s unfortunate about Daphne. Were you able to finish your book?”
“Yes.” I wonder how long it will take until he leaves, or rather how many questions I’ll have to answer before he leaves.
“Really?” His eyebrows arch, just slightly. “When was it? After the dog was delivered or before?”
“Before,” I say stonily.
He leans forward. “How fascinating. So the note and the clown were all you needed to push you forward? Tell me, how did it feel when you received the dog? I’ll need to document this all for your charts.”
“It didn’t feel good.”
He continues as if I hadn’t said anything, or as if he can’t hear me. “Daphne’s methods, although unorthodox, worked. Interesting.”
“Interesting? How is it interesting that my best friend royally screwed me over.” Disgusted, I rise and pour myself a glass of water.
Dr. Terrance waves his hand as if to say “never mind.” “It’s an interesting data point to help me treat you better. The more information you provide to me, the better I am able to help you cope. Now why do you have a camera installed above your door?”
I hesitate because Jake told me to keep the details of my security in the apartment a secret. But since the danger is gone, what’s the point?
“It’s so I have eyes on the areas that I feel present the most danger to me. Jake thought if I could see what’s going on outside my door, I’d feel better.”
“Was he right?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting,” he muses. “Are there any other security precautions that Jake installed for you?”
I open my mouth to say yes, but then close it. He doesn’t need to know. I need to keep some things private, and the night that Jake installed the sensors, the night I opened the door and let him in, is a memory I don’t want to share.
Dr. Terrance senses that I’ve shut down and gets to his feet. He taps the white bag with his finger. “This is a prescription for a higher dose of your sleeping aid. Take it tonight and for the rest of the week. When you’re better rested, we’ll start therapy again. I’m confident that now you are no longer being targeted by an unscrupulous person, you’ll be able to make great strides. But it all begins with rest. So take the prescription and help your body recover. Your mind will soon follow.”
He leaves me with this sage advice.
There’s a kernel of truth in his statements. The more tired I am, the more emotional I get. I stare at the white bag. If rest can help me get better faster, then that’s what I should do. I should sleep, get rid of these headaches, and start therapy again.
Maybe if I can get better soon, Jake will still be available. I’d take a taxi to his apartment and stride up the stairs and knock confidently on his front door. When he opened the door in surprise, I’d invite him out on a date. We’d go to the local Chinese place with its wonderful, cheap food. We’d hold hands and walk along the Hudson as the joggers and tourists pass by.
I reach for the white bag and open it. Inside I find one pill bottle. “Take two,” it states. I swallow them and go into the bedroom to start my recovery.
CHAPTER THIRTY
JAKE
The four days that have passed since Natalie left have not been good. I wake up every morning with an ache I can’t massage away. It’s not unlike a phantom pain—one that you feel but can’t alleviate because the limb is just gone.
Today, I arrange things so that Mike will take all the reports and assignments and report to me on an hourly basis. I won’t be in the office.
I make an appointment to see Daphne Marshall. I tell her assistant that I’m John Vinton, a former Army Ranger with two prosthetics. I’m interested in writing a memoir about my time during the war. I hear those are popular now.
The assistant couldn’t book me an appointment fast enough.
Other than the glassed-in bookcases filled with the latest bestsellers and large pasteboards on the wall of book covers, I am hard-pressed to distinguish this sterile set of beige office walls from any other type of office. A slender, young woman about Sabrina’s age arrives in the lobby. She’s wearing a skinny skirt and a sweater with a big chunky necklace.
Her eyes discreetly take me in, pausing only seconds on my hand and lingering on the jeans leg that hangs perfectly straight to the floor. There’s no visible sign of my lower leg prosthetic with pants on.
“John Vinton?” she asks.
I hold out my right hand, which she takes without hesitation. “Yes, and you must be Katie Robinson.” I smile and she blushes. Her hand clutches mine for a heartbeat too long and her appraising gaze returns to my chest and then my face. She likes what she sees and isn’t shy about letting me know it.