“Great.”
“Is your father still living?” Was this guy a psychologist or a psychic? Nikki filled him in on the divorce and painted a distant but cordial relationship, shading the arm’s length part as coming from her father’s shoulder, not hers, which was partially true anyway. “When was the last contact you had with your father?”
“A couple of hours ago. I called him to do damage control on a mess created by my captain, who sent an investigator to question him about my mom’s murder.”
“So, you reached out to him.” Heat gave a strong yes, mindful of the PTSD warning sign of avoiding people linked to a trauma. “And how did your dad receive it?”
Nikki recalled his bluster and the jangle of ice cubes. “Let’s just say he could have been more present.” The therapist didn’t dwell on that but moved on to ask her about her other relationships, and she said, “Because of my work, it’s hard to maintain one, as you probably know.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Truthfully, but as briefly as she could, Nikki summarized the nature of her relationships over the past few years, the longest, most recent one being with Don. She gave King the same version she had shared with Detective Caparella the night before: Combat training partner with benefits. She told him next about Jameson Rook. His only digression in the session was to ask if he was the famous writer. Nikki used that as a point of entry to describe how they had met on his ride-along the summer before and how, even though she and Rook seemed exclusive, it was undeclared. Nonetheless she had not slept with Don or anyone since she met Rook.
“How are you dealing after last night’s shooting?”
“It’s difficult.” Tears made an invasion attempt as she reflected on poor Don, but she held them back. “Mainly, I’m trying to postpone dealing.”
“And last night, when you were with Don, was that platonic?”
“Yes,” Nikki said in a blurt.
“That was an emphatic response. Is it a sensitive topic?”
“Not really. Don and I had just had a workout. At our gym. And he came back to my place for a shower. That’s when the shooting happened.”
“A shower. And where was Mr. Rook?”
“Back at his place. We’d had a fight, and I … needed to blow off steam.” Lon King set aside the intake papers and folded his hands in his lap, watching her. Uncomfortable with the silence, she said, “I will admit, I toyed with straying, but …”
“You said you and Mr. Rook hadn’t declared exclusivity.”
“No, but …”
“What do you think the—toying, as you called it—was all about?”
“I don’t know.” And then Nikki surprised herself by asking, “Do you?”
“Only you do,” he said. “People make their own rules about what’s faithful, or not. Just as they have their own reasons for holding to those rules, or not.” She took a page from him and, for a change, waited him out. He obliged. “Sometimes … only sometimes, mind you … people in crisis try to mask their pain through deflection. Try to envision a subconscious attempt to change the radio stations in one’s head to a different pain than the one he—or she—doesn’t want to confront. What did you and Mr. Rook quarrel about?”
Whatever guard she’d had up before lowered. In spite of her attitude going in, Heat felt safe and comforted by all this. She walked him through Rook’s accusation about her defensive wall and how it sparked the fight.
“And why do you think that was so charged?”
“He’s been pushing me lately in ways I don’t like.”