“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the guy telling you to take a walk and cool off.”
He stood. “And what if I don’t?”
“You’ll be physically removed.”
“You’re going to call the cops on me for breaking a piece of glass?”
“Not unless Emerie wants me to. But I will toss your ass out on the street myself.”
I folded my arms across my chest and kept eye contact. Men who abused women were pussies. I’d kick his ass and enjoy every fucking minute of it.
After a few seconds, the guy looked at his wife. “I’m done with this counseling shit.” Then he stormed out. I stepped aside to make room for him to pass.
Both Emerie and her client stayed quiet until we heard the front door slam closed.
“You good?” I asked.
Emerie nodded, and for the first time, the woman turned and faced me. Her cheek was purple and yellow with a fading bruise. My jaw clenched. I should have punched the fucker while I had the chance.
“He’s not usually like that. It’s just been tough at his job lately.”
Sure he isn’t.
Emerie and I locked eyes one more time, an unspoken exchange. We were on the same page.
“I’ll let you two talk.” I shut the door behind me.
For the next half hour, I worked on a case file at the empty reception desk in the lobby, not wanting that asshole husband to walk back in without my knowing. Eventually, I caught his face outside the front window. He was smoking a cigarette and waiting outside for his wife. Smart move.
Emerie walked Mrs. Dawson to the lobby as they spoke. “How about we talk on the phone tomorrow? Even if it’s just for fifteen minutes? I’d really like to hear from you after today’s session.”
Her client nodded. “Okay.”
“How does ten sound?”
“That’s good. Bill leaves for work at eight.”
Emerie nodded. “You know what? I didn’t give you an appointment card for next week’s session. Let me grab one for you, and I’ll be right back.”
After she walked away, I spoke to Mrs. Dawson. My voice was low, nonjudgmental, and cautious. “You gonna be okay?”
She briefly looked in my eyes, but quickly diverted hers to the ground. “I’ll be fine. Bill isn’t really a bad guy. Honestly, you just caught him at a bad time.”
“Uh-huh.”
Emerie returned and handed her client a small card. “Talk to you tomorrow?”
She nodded and left.
When the door shut, Emerie sighed loudly. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. You can’t help that your client is an asshole. Got plenty of ‘em myself.”
“I think he’s physically abusive to her.”
“I’d tend to agree with you.”
“I also don’t think I’ll ever hear from her again. She’s going to cut me off because I confronted her about what I suspected was going on.”
“You don’t think she’ll call tomorrow or show up at her appointment next week?”
“Nope. He’s not going to let her continue. Now that I know him a little better, I’m really surprised he ever agreed to come here at all. My counseling sessions have been with just her.”
“It’s tough.”
She sighed again. “I hope she calls you.”
“Me?”
“The appointment card reminder I gave her was your business card. Figured she needed a divorce attorney more than relationship counseling.”
My eyebrows jumped. “Nice.”
We walked side by side down the hall.
“I could use a drink,” Emerie said.
“Your office or mine?”
Emerie looked at me. “You have alcohol in the office?”
“I have a lot of shitty days.”
She smiled. “My office.”
“This tastes like turpentine.” Emerie’s entire face twisted.
I sipped. “It’s twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie. That’s six-hundred-dollar-a-bottle paint thinner you’re drinking there.”
“For that price, they could have added some flavor.”
I chuckled. I sat in a guest chair, and Emerie was behind her desk. She must have unpacked the rest of her box because there were some new personal items on display. I lifted the glass coaster-like base that had gone with the award douchebag Dawson broke.
“You’re gonna need a new weapon.”
“Don’t think I need one with you around to threaten my clients.”
“He deserved it. I should have punched him in the face like he likes to do to his wife.”
“You should have. That guy was a real asshole. A fuckin asshole.”
She was cute working her New York accent, although it still sounded like Oklahoma doing New York.
There were two new frames on her desk, and I reached for one of them. It was a photo of an older couple.
“Help yourself,” she said with sarcasm and a smile.
I looked at her face, then the couple, then back at her. “These your parents?”
“Yep.”
“Who do you look like?”
“My mother, I’m told.”
I studied her mother’s face. They looked nothing alike. “I don’t see it.”
She reached over and slipped the photo from my hands. “I’m adopted. I look like my biological mother.”