you’re not being watched. But that’s no reason to lock one of my clients up where she doesn’t belong.”
Pat slammed the report on her desk with her fist. Dawn moved to pick it up, but Pat snatched it to her chest. “I’ve read what you put, Dawn. She’s clearly depressed, probably anorexic by the size of her, and are those kids really safe with a drug smuggler?”
“You twisted bitch. You know that she was exonerated of that. Does that woman who just spoke to you appear to be depressed? She seemed very confident to me.”
“Then let’s see what a psychiatrist makes of her, shall we. I’ll pass the report to Surinda Jahal, see what she makes of it.”
Neither women in the fierce exchange had noticed Hope enter the room. In her high black boots, with her lean, slim body, Dawn towered over the petite form, and Pat, not tall but cumbersomely huge, dwarfed her. Her tone was level, firm. “You will pass that report to nobody. I am paying Dawn to be my counsellor, and what I say in that room is for her ears only. Give me that report.”
Pat shoved the file under a chunky arm. “No.”
“Then you die.” The words rang, echoing repeatedly through the stunned silence, The edges of her lips crinkling into an ambiguous smile, Hope turned and left the room.
Session Nine
Dawn didn’t want to see her, she was scared now, but she knew she had to. She paced the room, back, forth, the report lying ominously on the table. The building was quiet, the usual buzzing white noise silenced by Pat’s untimely death. Gayle popped her head through the door, the normal sunny smile replaced with sombre grief, her usual singing sentences now a singular, sad tone. “Your client’s arrived.”
The diminutive figure slipped through the door, timid, shy, her pallor grey, floating like a ghost to her usual seat. Dawn remained standing. “How did you do it?”
“I didn’t, Dawn, it was a freak accident.” Hope had read the local headlines with shock, how high winds had blown a tile loose and it had fallen onto Patricia Hinds, breaking her skull and killing her instantly.
Dawn restarted the pacing, her blonde curls swaying with her unfeminine gait. Gone was the usual funky, ethnic themed outfit, now replaced with a sober Aran knit, men’s jeans, and flat ankle boots. She’d not told anybody of Hope’s statement the week before, how could she, they’d think she was nuts. But the coincidence was incredible. Too incredible.
“I cried too, you know, not for her, I didn’t like her, but because I knew you’d think it was my fault somehow.” Her tone was plaintive, a mewing kitten. “It wasn’t.”
Dawn was angry, she’d respected her boss, her work, her calm manner, her mentorship. “She didn’t deserve it, Hope, she was a good woman, an excellent counsellor. Why did you kill her?”
Hope pulled her knees into her chest, her dulled eyes almost hidden beneath the overgrown fringe. “I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t. I can’t make the wind take tiles off and throw them at specific people. Come on, where’s your common sense?”
Dawn looked to the ceiling, breathing heavily. “That’s why I want to know how you did it.”
“I didn’t.” She was weary with the inevitable questioning, wishing back her threat the week before, and tears threatened, prickling.
“Witchcraft? Was it witchcraft? Or voodoo? How did you do it?” Dawn’s hands expressed the words, animated with disgusted anger. Hope’s eyes flitted unconsciously to the report, Dawn followed the glance and snatched the folder up, hugging it tight to her athletic body, protecting Pat’s final encounter. Snarling, she ripped the report in two, in four, eight, sixteen, throwing the shreds about her feet, scattering Hope’s musings with disbandment. “There you are! You didn’t have to kill her. She’d given it back. We’d discussed it over a coffee, and she’d seen your reasoning. You didn’t have to kill her.” The shouting ended,
Pat slammed the report on her desk with her fist. Dawn moved to pick it up, but Pat snatched it to her chest. “I’ve read what you put, Dawn. She’s clearly depressed, probably anorexic by the size of her, and are those kids really safe with a drug smuggler?”
“You twisted bitch. You know that she was exonerated of that. Does that woman who just spoke to you appear to be depressed? She seemed very confident to me.”
“Then let’s see what a psychiatrist makes of her, shall we. I’ll pass the report to Surinda Jahal, see what she makes of it.”
Neither women in the fierce exchange had noticed Hope enter the room. In her high black boots, with her lean, slim body, Dawn towered over the petite form, and Pat, not tall but cumbersomely huge, dwarfed her. Her tone was level, firm. “You will pass that report to nobody. I am paying Dawn to be my counsellor, and what I say in that room is for her ears only. Give me that report.”
Pat shoved the file under a chunky arm. “No.”
“Then you die.” The words rang, echoing repeatedly through the stunned silence, The edges of her lips crinkling into an ambiguous smile, Hope turned and left the room.
Session Nine
Dawn didn’t want to see her, she was scared now, but she knew she had to. She paced the room, back, forth, the report lying ominously on the table. The building was quiet, the usual buzzing white noise silenced by Pat’s untimely death. Gayle popped her head through the door, the normal sunny smile replaced with sombre grief, her usual singing sentences now a singular, sad tone. “Your client’s arrived.”
The diminutive figure slipped through the door, timid, shy, her pallor grey, floating like a ghost to her usual seat. Dawn remained standing. “How did you do it?”
“I didn’t, Dawn, it was a freak accident.” Hope had read the local headlines with shock, how high winds had blown a tile loose and it had fallen onto Patricia Hinds, breaking her skull and killing her instantly.
Dawn restarted the pacing, her blonde curls swaying with her unfeminine gait. Gone was the usual funky, ethnic themed outfit, now replaced with a sober Aran knit, men’s jeans, and flat ankle boots. She’d not told anybody of Hope’s statement the week before, how could she, they’d think she was nuts. But the coincidence was incredible. Too incredible.
“I cried too, you know, not for her, I didn’t like her, but because I knew you’d think it was my fault somehow.” Her tone was plaintive, a mewing kitten. “It wasn’t.”
Dawn was angry, she’d respected her boss, her work, her calm manner, her mentorship. “She didn’t deserve it, Hope, she was a good woman, an excellent counsellor. Why did you kill her?”
Hope pulled her knees into her chest, her dulled eyes almost hidden beneath the overgrown fringe. “I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t. I can’t make the wind take tiles off and throw them at specific people. Come on, where’s your common sense?”
Dawn looked to the ceiling, breathing heavily. “That’s why I want to know how you did it.”
“I didn’t.” She was weary with the inevitable questioning, wishing back her threat the week before, and tears threatened, prickling.
“Witchcraft? Was it witchcraft? Or voodoo? How did you do it?” Dawn’s hands expressed the words, animated with disgusted anger. Hope’s eyes flitted unconsciously to the report, Dawn followed the glance and snatched the folder up, hugging it tight to her athletic body, protecting Pat’s final encounter. Snarling, she ripped the report in two, in four, eight, sixteen, throwing the shreds about her feet, scattering Hope’s musings with disbandment. “There you are! You didn’t have to kill her. She’d given it back. We’d discussed it over a coffee, and she’d seen your reasoning. You didn’t have to kill her.” The shouting ended,
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