assailants without the victim having gone through counseling with a mediator.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, sick to my stomach, head starting to pound, even though I was medicated to the gills. “I’m a psychologist.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s our policy. Generally, however, the victim is allowed to meet with the inmate a few months after applying.”
“Months?” I might be dead five times by then.
“Unless he doesn’t wish to speak to you, of course.”
I blinked. “He can refuse?”
“Those are his rights.”
“But…he tried to kill me.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s the law.”
I hung up, paced, and wondered rather hazily if there wasn’t some kind of law against guys trying to kill unsuspecting psychologists in their own living rooms.
By 7:23, I was as crazy as an Irishman. Crazy enough to pull Micky Goldenstone’s file from my cabinet and pace around my office with it. Fraternizing with clients is strictly forbidden in the shrink profession. And if the board finds out, they can really put a damper on your business. But getting murdered isn’t exactly a financial boon, either. My hand shook a little as I dialed the phone.
“Doc,” Micky said. He must have had caller ID.
I cleared my throat. “Hello, Micky.”
There was a pause, then, “You need to reschedule my appointment or something?”
“No,” I said, and closed my eyes. “I need a favor.”
M y trip home afterward seemed endless. Had Hawkins known Swanson? Had he told him my preferences, my dreams? Had they chuckled over my picture? Had he hired Swanson to kill me?
Turning onto Sunland Boulevard, I glanced behind me and noticed a red Corvette doing the same. I turned left on Oro Vista. It turned left, too. My nerves were jumping and my mind dizzy. I pulled my purse up against my hip. It contained a cell phone and a lot of other stuff, including the Glock. I’d felt silly about putting it in there, but I didn’t feel so silly now. I didn’t know anyone who owned a red Corvette. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t shoot him.
I took a sharp right onto Hillrose but the Vette stayed with me. Panic was starting to bubble up and suddenly the little roadster gunned up beside me. I glanced to the left. The passenger window was open. My heart stuttered. He was going to shoot at me. He was going to—
“Where the hell are you going?” shouted the driver, and suddenly I recognized him.
It wasn’t a coked-up psychopath with a split personality and anger issues after all. It was my soon-to-be-married brother, Pete.
And here I had thought things couldn’t get any worse.
10
If you don’t like your teeth, keep your mouth shut.
—Glen McMullen, a practical man
“W HAT ARE YOU DOING HERE ?” I might have sounded less than congenial as I climbed out of my Saturn. I hadn’t stopped driving until I’d reached my house. Peter John had pulled up behind me, kissing my bumper a little as he did so, then grinning like a hyena as he twirled his keys and sauntered toward me.
“What do you think of the Vette?”
I glanced at the car. It was sleek and sexy and looked expensive as hell, but I was in a bad mood and would rather have suffered ice-cream deprivation and shave daily than share that opinion. “Whose is it?” I asked.
“A friend’s. I’m thinking about buying it.”
I held a snort in reserve. I’d need it later. “Aren’t you expecting a baby or something?”
He shrugged, casual. “She can get her own Vette.”
I considered a couple pithy remarks, opened the gate, and stepped into my yard. The picture of maturity. “What about Holly?”
“Holly?”
I turned back toward him as I jiggled my key in the front door. It had a tendency to stick. “Your fiancée?”
Twin dimples winked at me. My brother James got the sad Irish eyes, and Michael had inherited enough muscle to sink a battleship, but Peter John has a smile that can knock a woman brain-dead at fifty yards. This has
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, sick to my stomach, head starting to pound, even though I was medicated to the gills. “I’m a psychologist.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s our policy. Generally, however, the victim is allowed to meet with the inmate a few months after applying.”
“Months?” I might be dead five times by then.
“Unless he doesn’t wish to speak to you, of course.”
I blinked. “He can refuse?”
“Those are his rights.”
“But…he tried to kill me.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s the law.”
I hung up, paced, and wondered rather hazily if there wasn’t some kind of law against guys trying to kill unsuspecting psychologists in their own living rooms.
By 7:23, I was as crazy as an Irishman. Crazy enough to pull Micky Goldenstone’s file from my cabinet and pace around my office with it. Fraternizing with clients is strictly forbidden in the shrink profession. And if the board finds out, they can really put a damper on your business. But getting murdered isn’t exactly a financial boon, either. My hand shook a little as I dialed the phone.
“Doc,” Micky said. He must have had caller ID.
I cleared my throat. “Hello, Micky.”
There was a pause, then, “You need to reschedule my appointment or something?”
“No,” I said, and closed my eyes. “I need a favor.”
M y trip home afterward seemed endless. Had Hawkins known Swanson? Had he told him my preferences, my dreams? Had they chuckled over my picture? Had he hired Swanson to kill me?
Turning onto Sunland Boulevard, I glanced behind me and noticed a red Corvette doing the same. I turned left on Oro Vista. It turned left, too. My nerves were jumping and my mind dizzy. I pulled my purse up against my hip. It contained a cell phone and a lot of other stuff, including the Glock. I’d felt silly about putting it in there, but I didn’t feel so silly now. I didn’t know anyone who owned a red Corvette. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t shoot him.
I took a sharp right onto Hillrose but the Vette stayed with me. Panic was starting to bubble up and suddenly the little roadster gunned up beside me. I glanced to the left. The passenger window was open. My heart stuttered. He was going to shoot at me. He was going to—
“Where the hell are you going?” shouted the driver, and suddenly I recognized him.
It wasn’t a coked-up psychopath with a split personality and anger issues after all. It was my soon-to-be-married brother, Pete.
And here I had thought things couldn’t get any worse.
10
If you don’t like your teeth, keep your mouth shut.
—Glen McMullen, a practical man
“W HAT ARE YOU DOING HERE ?” I might have sounded less than congenial as I climbed out of my Saturn. I hadn’t stopped driving until I’d reached my house. Peter John had pulled up behind me, kissing my bumper a little as he did so, then grinning like a hyena as he twirled his keys and sauntered toward me.
“What do you think of the Vette?”
I glanced at the car. It was sleek and sexy and looked expensive as hell, but I was in a bad mood and would rather have suffered ice-cream deprivation and shave daily than share that opinion. “Whose is it?” I asked.
“A friend’s. I’m thinking about buying it.”
I held a snort in reserve. I’d need it later. “Aren’t you expecting a baby or something?”
He shrugged, casual. “She can get her own Vette.”
I considered a couple pithy remarks, opened the gate, and stepped into my yard. The picture of maturity. “What about Holly?”
“Holly?”
I turned back toward him as I jiggled my key in the front door. It had a tendency to stick. “Your fiancée?”
Twin dimples winked at me. My brother James got the sad Irish eyes, and Michael had inherited enough muscle to sink a battleship, but Peter John has a smile that can knock a woman brain-dead at fifty yards. This has
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