The hope in Holli’s face deserted her as quickly as it had arrived and shock replaced it. Zo? recognized the shock for what it meant: shock that her friend would abandon her to save her own ass. Shock that she would surely die.
Zo? mouthed the word sorry and dropped out of sight. As she darted over to her car, she heard Holli scream, “No, no, no. Help me, Zo?!”
Each word cut into Zo? as she ran. Tears poured down her face.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
She tugged on the door handle, and it opened. Thankfully, the keys were inside. She slipped behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. She slammed the car into drive and it leapt forward.
“I’ll come back for you,” she said, knowing full well her escape had condemned her friend to death.
CHAPTER TWO
Fifteen months later
The therapist’s room was cramped and uninviting. Maybe she’d seen too many movies where psychologists conducted their work from something resembling a gentlemen’s lounge, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, knee-deep shag carpeting, and a leather couch. Maybe some of these people had offices like that, but not the ones provided by a charity for victims of violence. David Jarocki worked out of a twelve-by-twelve box with furniture liberated from an Office Depot display. The walls were painted a depressing off-white shade that erred on the side of gray. She sat on a sofa that failed to be comfortable. Jarocki sat across from her in a chair that had been pilfered from the waiting room.
“You’ve cut your hair again,” he said.
She’d been keeping hers short for the past year or so. Not mannish short. She kept it all one length in a feminine bob. Reflexively, she touched the nape of her neck. It felt exposed.
“I thought you were letting it grow out.”
“I wanted to, but long hair is a problem for the job.”
Jarocki nodded, but his expression said he didn’t believe her. It wasn’t surprising. Even she didn’t believe her. To have kept her hair long would have made her vulnerable. She had learned that in her defense classes. She kept it short for one reason and one reason only—so there wasn’t enough of it for someone to grab. She knew it, and so did he.
“Maybe we should do a systems check,” Jarocki said.
A systems check was Jarocki’s little phrase for a self-assessment he had her perform before every session. Zo? hated it when the therapist made her jump through his hoops, but that was his job.
“OK, let’s go.”
“Sleep?”
“Good.”
“Nightmares?”
“Yes. One. Last Sunday.”
“Sobriety?”
“I’ve been a good girl. No benders.”
Jarocki smiled. “Glad to hear it. Impulse control?”
“In check. No spur-of-the moment events.”
“Good. Panic attacks? Anxiety?”
“Just one incident. I got a little freaked out but did your breathing techniques, and it calmed me down.”
“Excellent. How’s your week been?”
As much as Jarocki could irritate her with his tactics, she liked him. He might twist her arm in therapy to get her to open up, but he never judged her. Or at least he never showed it. He had to be evaluating her in some way. He was a psychologist. Assessing people and making judgments about them was in the job description, but he’d never uttered a personal opinion. He didn’t pity, resent, or revile her for what she said, did, or thought. He offered her alternative perspectives, suggestions, and insight—and all with a passive, calm-seas expression. She marveled at his ability to do this. Her emotions were always an inch from the surface. His were always hidden. No, hidden was the wrong word. Off-line was a better word. It made sense, she supposed. What use would a therapist be if he or she showed shock, disgust, or contempt at the slightest remark made by a patient? Still, his passivity had irritated her at the beginning. She’d wanted his contempt and disgust. Now his disapproval wasn’t something she craved.
In the year or so she’d been his patient, she’d come to trust him. She felt safe with her thoughts in this room, with him as referee. But she didn’t give him carte blanche to all her emotions. As much as he was the expert on all things to do with the mind, he fell down in one aspect—experience. He hadn’t abandoned a friend to her death. He hadn’t fought against cowardice and lost. He wasn’t a worthless piece of crap like her. When he posted those qualifications on his wall, then they really could shoot the shit about everything.
“OK.”
“Anything you’d like to discuss today?”
“Nope. Not really.”
“That’s going to make today a little slow.”
“I can’t help that.”
Jarocki squeezed out a humorless smile. She knew her lack of openness was irritating to him. “We seem to be sparring today.”
That was code for “you’re pissing me off.”
She wished Jarocki would let rip at her, take her to task, anything to show he had some fire in his blood. She guessed it was in some therapist rule book that they couldn’t lose their temper with a patient. A flash of emotion might actually do wonders for their relationship. Unflappability got to be annoying.