“What kind of people exactly?” Kimberly asked him, though I answered.
“In addition to his private practice, Noah’s a court-appointed psychiatrist, meaning he sees criminals who, as part of their sentence or probation, are required to meet with a therapist.” My attention drifted to the front of the restaurant. Still no sign of him.
“Criminals?” Kimberly’s voice inflected. “Like murderers or something?”
Dean’s throat cleared. “Worse than that.”
Kimberly’s face pinched together as she contemplated what could have been worse than a murderer. It was most people’s general reaction—classifying murder the pinnacle of all crimes until they heard the label tied to the people Noah worked with.
“He counsels pedophiles.” I didn’t lower my voice or temper my expression.
Kimberly’s eyes shifted from intrigued to repulsed in the span of one word. Another typical reaction.
“He also moderates several support groups for recovering and celibate pedophiles,” I continued, enjoying the animated reaction Kimberly gave when the P-word was mentioned again.
“He’s a braver man than I,” Dean said. “And a more accepting one.”
A lick of heat lashed up my throat. My husband was running close to half an hour late and our marriage was reduced to its last drop of lifeblood, but my urge to defend him was deeply embedded. “He counsels them. That doesn’t mean he accepts or condones their behavior.”
Dean lifted his hand in mock surrender. Kimberly was assessing me with new eyes—adjusting the initial score she’d attached to me at meeting.
“I took the liberty of ordering the table a bottle of wine,” Dean announced as a server approached the table. “Do you and Noah like red?”
“I do. Noah doesn’t drink.”
“If I hung around those people all day, I’d drink.” Kimberly held out her wine glass for the server once he’d uncorked it. “A lot.”
“The temptation is there, I won’t deny it. But if I turned to a bottle every time I had a bad day, I’d be the one in need of counseling.” Noah seemed to appear out of nowhere, hair disheveled and eyes tired. “I apologize for being late. Work troubles.”
“That phrase takes on a whole new shine when a pedophile psychiatrist says it.” Kimberly chuckled, appraising Noah in a way that had me wringing at my napkin in my lap.
“That title can be taken two ways, one most unfortunate for my reputation.” Noah’s gaze shifted to the server pouring the wine, before he took a seat beside me. He had yet to really look at me. I wondered if he’d remember the dress, recall that night he’d wrestled with it in the front seat of his car.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You’re a shrink who works with pedophiles, not a shrink who is a pedophile.” The lines of amusement deteriorated from her face. “Wait. You’re not one? Are you?”
Noah picked that moment to glance at me, the silent question in his eyes readable despite the deterioration our relationship had suffered.
“No,” he answered her flatly. “I’m not.”
Kimberly breathed a visible sigh of relief.
“It’s good to see you, Noah. We missed you at the last few company parties.” Dean’s posture had changed with Noah’s arrival. He was closer to the table, his back straight, shoulders square, the relaxed vibe no longer present.
“Work keeps me busier than I like these days.” Noah picked up the menu, seeming to decide on the first thing his eyes landed on.
“Grace and me too. I guess our jobs and yours are kind of related in a way, aren’t they? The more sickos who crawl out of society’s woodworks, the busier we get.” Dean swirled his wine in his glass, eyes pinned to Noah, who seemed to be searching the dining room for our server. “Although where Grace and I believe sexual predators who prey on children deserve hard jail time and perhaps an untimely death at the end of a shank, you maintain the stance that these types of creeps can be cured with what? A few rounds of therapy and a weekly support group meeting? A couple of positive affirmations to fall back on when they find themselves alone with some helpless child?”
“Dean,” I interrupted, shaking my head at him.
“What? I’m genuinely interested in knowing if Noah’s therapy works, because from everything I’ve heard, there’s no hope for a man who gets off to a kid.”
“God, Dean, enough.” Kimberly was back to making her repulsed face. It was a good one. “This is not the kind of conversation I want to have over dinner.”
“I agree,” I said, wondering why I’d thought this double date was a good idea.
“What I do, it works.” Noah had set down the menu and was staring at Dean, expression calm, voice even. “It might not fit into the mold of traditional methods society has subscribed to for dealing with these types of individuals, but my methods work. And, I daresay, better than yours.”
Dean grunted, exchanging a look with me, but I wasn’t going to pick sides on this. There was a major conflict of interest for me.
“What’s better than spending as much time as possible in a glorified cage?” Dean pulled at the collar of his dress shirt as he reached for his wine. “They’re off the streets and can’t hurt anyone else while they’re locked up.”
“The flaw in that model is that it’s temporary. Criminals go to jail and come out better criminals—we’ve all seen the statistics to prove it.” Noah’s gaze drifted toward the doors. “I don’t count it a success unless the solution is permanent.”
Dean’s mouth was turned up more in a smirk than a smile. “And that’s what you focus on? Permanent results with kiddie rapists?”
Noah didn’t ruffle easily—came with the job. He’d also developed a skin so thick, it had become impenetrable by most standards. “My methods are more effective than throwing them into the prison system with other hardened criminals so that when they come out, they’re smarter, crueler, and less human than when they went in.” Noah’s head turned toward me. “No offense.”
Waving it off with one hand, I reached for my wine with the other.
“Well, next time we don’t get a conviction, I’ll send the baby fucker your way.” Dean leaned into the table, a vein pushing through his neck. “Let you fix him right up.”
Dean ignored both Kimberly’s and my mumble of disgust.
Noah nodded, fighting a yawn. “Please do.”
“What do you do for work?” I directed at Kimberly.
Her shoulders relaxed. “I’m an intern at KING 5. I’m hoping to one day slide into Natalie Baxter’s job and become the Morning Face of Seattle Weather.” She sung the last part in the same way the news played the catchy jingle.
“An intern.” I shot a pointed look across the table at Dean, realizing she was even younger than I’d guessed.
“I graduated from the U last summer,” she explained, tipping her wine glass in the air. “Go Alpha Delta Pi.”
Dean smiled into his lap when my look became more pointed. He was nearly two decades older than her—it was safe to say he probably hadn’t seen a future life partner when he first laid eyes on her.