Porter seems in a hurry to leave once I am back in control. I don’t blame him. I’m not angry the way I was before, but I still don’t fully trust him. The wary look has returned to his eyes, which tells me the lack of trust is probably mutual. I wonder if he’ll manage to convince himself that none of this really happened, that it was all some elaborate ruse, once he’s back on the freeway.
He shrugs on his coat and scribbles a phone number on a piece of notepaper. “This is my cell number, Anna, if you need to reach me. I’m—uh, I have a meeting I need to get to, but we should talk soon.”
I take the scrap of paper. He seems to be waiting for something. “You already have my number, right? You had the phone long enough.”
He has the good grace to look sheepish. “Yeah, I guess I do. I’ll call you. I need to get in touch with some people and see if we can get the case reopened, since we have some new information.”
“How will you explain?” I ask.
“An anonymous tip, I guess. They do happen from time to time. I’ll get them to start looking into any associates Lucas has named Craig, for starters. Eventually, I’ll see if they can find anything on the trafficking issue. It could be a day or two, though. I . . . uh, well, I’ve already called in a lot of favors over the past few years, so it may take a little persistence to convince them.”
Kelsey walks him to the door. “Mr. Porter, what about the phone call Anna received? And the note?”
He shoots me a look and his eyes narrow slightly. “I don’t know anything about that, Dr. Kelsey. If it does turn out that Anna needed to make those claims in order to get me here, well . . . I would certainly understand. I’m not sure I would have come otherwise, so I’m willing to forget the matter.”
I open my mouth to object, but Porter has already opened the door into the stairwell and is headed down to the exit.
“He’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?” Kelsey says as she returns to her desk. “Do you think he’ll ever admit he was trying to scare you away?”
“I doubt it. I’m surprised the stubborn old goat even believed it was Molly.” I half expect to hear a complaint about me dissing her grandfather, but Molly is quiet.
Kelsey glances at the clock, and I realize that her four o’clock appointment should be arriving any minute. I go to the sink to rinse out my cup. She follows me and gives my arm a squeeze. “So, Molly’s not gone, is she?”
“No.” I slide my mug back into its usual spot in the cupboard. “But she doesn’t think it’s a good idea to talk to Porter again. Maybe she’s right. I couldn’t push her back today, Kelsey. Building up my wall seems to work fine for keeping them contained when I’m in control, but it doesn’t work so well when I’m the one in the backseat. I was trying to take control . . . well, maybe not a hundred percent, but pretty close. Molly wasn’t going to budge until she finished talking to him.”
“How did that make you feel?”
I used to tease her about stereotypical therapist questions like that, and I suspect she’s thrown this one in to lighten the mood, more than anything else. I roll my eyes and feed her the textbook response. “It triggered a fight-or-flight response, Doctor Freud, with a strong sense of fear and rage because I didn’t have control. You know exactly how it made me feel.”
She gives me a half smile. “I do, just as you know that putting those emotions into words helps you cope with them. And speaking of coping, do you still have enough sleep medication in case the dreams start?”
I nod. The pills help, at least enough (usually) to keep me from waking up screaming that I can’t breathe, or that there’s a car coming straight toward me, or whatever sensation comes along with someone’s final memories. Libra has already had to put up with my dreams when one of my tenants vacated, and that woman died in her sleep. I can only imagine what it’s going to be like when Molly goes.
“I’ll see you on Tuesday. And, thanks, Kelsey,” I add as I head toward the door. “I couldn’t have gotten through this without you.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Call me if you need me before then, okay?”
I close the door to the stairwell. I’m one step from the bottom when I hear the squeal of rubber on asphalt. I push open the door, and a loud crack hits my ears, followed quickly by another. A gray sedan bounces off the curb at the far end of the parking lot, turning right. The man on the passenger side sees me at the door and raises a gun to his shoulder as the driver accelerates off toward Veirs Mill. There’s another cracking sound, a loud ping as the bullet hits the dumpster about twenty yards to my left, then a screech of brakes.