Dante's Dilemma by Lynne Raimondo

It makes no sense that she would have stayed with Gunther all those years if she was truly being mistreated.”
    Amanda snorted. “That’s the theory they trot out in all these cases—she couldn’t have been abused because otherwise she would have left him. Whereas all the studies show that it’s far more complicated than that. Battered women who don’t leave their abusers often love their spouses and harbor the hope—however unrealistic—that they can become normal husbands and fathers. That’s why they stay.”
    â€œCareful now, Amanda,” another person laughed. “Someone might begin to think you’re a feminist. Are you sure one of your protégés in the Women’s Alliance didn’t perform the evil deed?”
    â€œGunther wouldn’t have been worth the effort. Though I did have to remind the young ladies not to make a show of dancing on his grave. Whatever you thought of him, no one deserves ending up like something out of an Orwellian farce.”
    Charles piped in then with his two cents: “I’m surprised the police didn’t think it was one of his students. I heard he was very hard on his PhD candidates.”
    â€œDid Westlake even have any? I’d be shocked that someone would voluntarily choose to study under the man,” Amanda said. “Erik, what do you know about that?”
    â€œWell, there were only two in the last ten years. The first one had a nervous breakdown last winter and transferred to USC. The second is still here, though I believe there was some friction. Fellow’s due to defend his dissertation next quarter. I’m one of the reviewers. Quite a nice piece of work, by the way. Which reminds me, has anyone here heard about the commencement schedule . . .”
    Which unfortunately put an end to the subject.
    Candace leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I need to go off to use the washroom. Is it OK if I leave you alone for a few minutes? I’ll get us fresh drinks on the way back.”
    I told her I’d be fine.
    Moments later, the space she left was taken by someone who sat down clumsily, nearly upsetting the drink I was balancing on my knee. From the way the seat cushions deflated, I gathered the newcomer was large.
    â€œPeter Crow, mind your manners,” Amanda said from the other side of him. “That seat’s taken and you almost crushed me on the way down.”
    â€œWho’s sitting here?” he said, slurring his words.
    â€œCandace McIntyre. She just went off for a moment. Isn’t that right, Mark?”
    Before I could reply, the man said, “Well, I’m staying until she’s back. Need some rest.” He pushed himself even farther into the sofa, practically forcing me onto the armrest with his bulk.
    I thought that was rude but didn’t want to seem impolite myself, so I gave him my name.
    He seemed not to notice, exhaling loudly as though from the exertion of getting himself settled.
    I tried again, saying my name a little louder this time.
    Still nothing but labored breathing.
    â€œPeter, what’s wrong with you?” Amanda asked. “Mark is trying to introduce himself.”
    â€œWho?” Peter asked dully.
    His behavior was starting to worry me.
    â€œAre you feeling all right?” I asked, nodding meaningfully in Amanda’s direction and putting my drink down. I thought to take his pulse and felt for his hand, which I judged to be somewhere to the left of my knee. I was right about him being huge. The thigh I encountered on my first pass felt like a tree trunk. His hand was equally plus-size, and nearly as big as a Ping-Pong paddle. But muscular, not fat, and oddly shaped on the metacarpal side.
    That was as far as I got when Peter exited his stupor. “Wha . . . what are you doing?” he said, tearing the hand away as if in panic.
    I put on my bedside manner. “It’s OK. I’m a doctor. I