“The loss of a close friend would be enormously hard for anyone.”
Rain concentrated on breathing.
“I haven’t had exactly that kind of loss, Rain, but I’ve had other kinds.” Dr. Mallory paused, studied Rain for a moment, then continued. “Two years ago my husband died. The only thing that got me through was that I had people to talk with, people who were there to support for me at a very difficult time. I would like to offer that kind of support for you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need support. I’m okay. No matter what my mother told you.”
“Everyone feels what you’re feeling, Rain. That’s normal. And even people who are strong and well need other people.”
Rain glanced at the clock. “Aren’t we supposed to stop now? The time is up.”
“Is it?” Mallory smiled. “I don’t always go by the clock. Some sessions are shorter and some are longer. It depends on what makes sense. If you think this is enough for today, that’s fine. Do you want to stop now?”
An hour ago. I wanted to stop an hour ago. “Yes,” she said. She nudged the dog away with the toe of her shoe and rose.
In a surprisingly graceful movement, Dr. Mallory unfolded her legs and stood. She slipped on the ugly black shoes and crossed to the desk, where she flipped open her appointment book. “We can meet next week at this same time if that works for you.”
“Whatever.” What would work for Rain was to get the hell out of there.
Dr. Mallory came toward her, and for a horrible moment Rain thought she was going to hug her or something, but the shrink only held something toward her.
“Here’s my card, Rain.”
Rain made no move to take it.
“As you can see, this is my home, and I’m here all the time, days, nights, and weekends. I always answer the phone, and I want you to feel free to call.” She pressed the card into Rain’s hand. “If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m out briefly, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Right.” Rain shoved the card in her pocket.
“And I’d like you to call if something is troubling you or if you just want to talk.”
Like that was ever going to happen. “Sure.”
Mallory opened the door. “Take care of yourself, Rain. If you aren’t able to take care of yourself, please call me.”
“Sure.”
“Until next week, then.”
As she expected, her mother was waiting in the car. Rain opened the door and slid in the front seat, exhausted, as if she had been running sprints.
“How did it go, dear?” Her mother’s face was all expectant and hopeful. “How was Dr. Mallory?”
“Short. She was short.” She could sleep for a solid month. “Where did you find her anyway? The circus?”
The hope faded from her mother’s face. “Dr. Mallory is highly recommended, Rain. Mr. Clarke was very enthusiastic about her.”
“Mr. Clarke? You asked Mr. Clarke for the name of a shrink? Well, that’s great. Just great.” Now the whole school would know. The teachers weren’t supposed to talk about the students, but good luck with that. They were a nest of vipers, and the guidance counselor was the worst of all. “And I’m not going back.” She jammed her hand in her pocket, scrunched the card Dr. Mallory had handed her. “And there’s nothing you can do to make me. Nothing.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There was nothing I wanted to do but go home.
Yet I was glad for the walk, for time to shake off the memories that had risen in the Crow’s Nest and get my head straight from the two beers. But in spite of the walk and the evening air, the memories lingered and I still felt the effects of the alcohol, probably more than I normally would have had, either because I’d had the sherry with the priest first or because I’d had all of it on an empty stomach. Whatever the reason, there was a low buzz in my head, as if the A string on a guitar had been thumbed. Not entirely a bad feeling as it took the edge off, but this was not necessarily a good thing since the desire to deaden pain and quash feeling with booze had proved dangerous in the past. The trick was to hold steady at the buzzed stage before it flipped over to flat-out drunk, but that was a trick I hadn’t mastered. The best I could manage lately in spite of my best intentions was to try to stay away from the hard stuff.
I was a half block from home when I saw the car parked in my drive. In the glow cast from the streetlight, I made out a shadowy outline on the driver’s side. As I approached, a woman stepped out. She was in her midthirties, hair in a blonde bob, heavy makeup, gray slacks, black blazer. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
“In sight,” she called out.
What was in sight? Or had she said insight? One word. Who the hell was she? What did she want with me?
“Mr. Light?” she repeated.
Oh. “Yes?”
“I wondered if I could have a moment?”
I was still trying to place her, aware of the oily odor of tar in the air. I glanced over and saw that once again Payton Hayes had resurfaced his drive. The guy did it twice a year or something. Talk about overkill. I hated the smell of asphalt. If hell had a signature smell, it would be that emanating from his driveway, not sulfur.
“I’m Melinda Hurley. I’m a reporter with the Boston Herald,” the woman said.
Recognition snapped in. She wore her hair in a different style, had done something to lighten it, but it did nothing to soften the sharp features and searching gaze that were so suited to her work. She was one of the ferrets who had covered the story of Lucy’s murder. One of the cameras. Last fall, the press had practically moved into town, nosing about and invading every aspect of our lives, questioning Lucy’s friends and teachers, our friends, showing up at our neighbors’ doors. It had been beyond invasive, closer to cruel.
“I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?”
Anger uncoiled in my belly.
“I’m working on an update,” she said.
The anger rose to my chest. Christ, how I hated these people.
“Earlier today I spoke with the chief, and he told me there’ve been no new developments on the case.”
The case. I felt as if an artery has just been ripped opened. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“It’s been seven months. Have you lost hope that your daughter’s murderer will be found?”
I brushed by her, circled toward the steps.
“Mr. Light. Just a few words. Our readers wonder how you and your wife are doing.”
I swung on her, shouted, “Just how the fuck do you think we’re doing?”
Instinctively she stepped back, then raised her hand, palm open, and made a calming motion. “Whoa. Take it easy. I’m just doing my job.”
“Your job?” Drops of spittle flew from my mouth.
The reporter recovered her poise. “I’m trying to help, Mr. Light. Keep the case in public consciousness.”