“C’mon,” I prompt.
“I don’t know, maybe you can give me a little advice, too?”
I shrug. “I can try. What’s going on?”
“It’s my sister. She’s been dating this guy for a while now. I think he’s bad news.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been picking up signs that he’s not the great person everyone thinks he is … and I’m worried about her.”
“Anything specific?”
“I’ve got my suspicions, but nothing I can verify. Do you think I should say anything to her?”
“That’s tricky. Shoot the messenger is a popular expression for a reason. She might resent you, even if you’re pointing out what she subconsciously knows already. On the flip side, if what you’re saying is accurate, something inside her will recognize it as truth. She won’t be able to unhear your words.”
Skip leans toward me, his expression intent, his half-eaten spring roll seemingly forgotten on his plate.
“It’s a risk,” I continue. “Your relationship might never be the same. Or you two might become closer.”
He nods slowly. “Thanks. You’re right, it is complicated.”
He looks down at his plate, then back up at me. “Have you ever treated patients like that?”
“Like what? Your sister and her boyfriend?”
“I guess I’m grasping at straws.” He gives a little laugh. “I was just wondering if you’d seen that dynamic before and how it played out.”
I shrug. “Sure. Power struggles are common in relationships, but attempts at control raise that dynamic to a whole new level. Remember that woman I told you about who was living with a controlling husband?”
It wasn’t a woman—it was Cameron. I’d shared the broad outlines of his case with Skip one night when we’d been trading stories about our lives. We’d also talked about my marriage to Paul, and Skip told me his real name was Steven, and that he’d earned his nickname as a boy because he’d been obsessed with sailing—Skip for “skipper.”
Skip nods and takes a sip of wine. “Right, she’s the one who was in IT?”
I’m impressed by his memory for detail. Skip’s a smart guy, I think, watching his strong-looking fingers set down my delicate wineglass. I recall his telling me he’d gone to Dartmouth on a full academic scholarship after a friend’s father had urged him to apply. Without him I might not even have gone to college, Skip had said modestly. We’d argued about whose college was better—Northwestern or Dartmouth—until I threw a cocktail napkin at him and he leaned in to silence me with a kiss.
I’d enjoyed kissing Skip.
“You said after ten sessions she was living on her own and was going to hire a divorce lawyer?” Skip prompts me.
“Yes. So even if your sister has been with this guy for a while, it’s never too late to break free.”
Skip nods and a faraway look comes into his eyes. We finish up our meals, but there’s a shift in the air. Maybe he’s more worried about his sister than he let on, because Skip isn’t making as much eye contact as he was earlier, and he seems lost in thought.
I’m taking my last bite of panang when Skip begins to rub his temples.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just a headache. Sometimes it happens when I drink red wine.”
“Oh? That’s a bummer. I remember you always preferred red over white?”
“It’s recent. I’m hoping it’s just a phase.”
I get up to refill his water. “Want some Advil?”
“Uh, sure, that would be great. Then I should probably get going. I have a ridiculously early meeting.”
“Be right back.” I head upstairs, feeling a tinge of disappointment with Romeo trotting behind me.
I can’t help imagining what would have happened if Skip didn’t have a headache and an early appointment, and the bottle of wine had turned into two, and we’d moved our conversation to the couch. I grab the bottle of painkillers out of my medicine cabinet and peek in the mirror, running my hand through my hair to smooth it. As I walk down the stairs, I wonder if I should invite Skip back in a week or two to see Romeo again. I wasn’t ready for a relationship when Skip and I first connected, and he didn’t seem to be either, but maybe things could be different now.
I reach the landing of the staircase, which affords me a full view of the entryway of my home, including my office.
Skip is no longer sitting at the banquet. He’s stepping out of my office and closing the door behind him.
He looks up at me and freezes.
“What are you doing in there?” I can’t restrain the indignation in my voice.
“Sorry—I was looking for the bathroom.” The line rolls off his tongue, smooth and believable.
But the hairs on my arms stand up.
“The bathroom is just off the living room.” I descend the final steps slowly, keeping my eyes locked on his.
My office is a sacred space. The only people who ever go in there besides me are my clients. My professional files are stored alphabetically in two tall cabinets. I keep all my financial information in my desk. A built-in safe contains my birth certificate, Social Security card, passport, engagement and wedding rings, and Finley’s folder. It also holds my .38 pistol.
Skip has been to my house once before, when he stopped by after a day of meetings in Bethesda before we went to a concert at the Wolf Trap. I’m not 100 percent sure, but I’m reasonably certain he even used the bathroom on this level.
“Oh, yeah, right. Now I remember.” He doubles back, heading toward it.
If Skip had merely opened the door and peeked in, he would instantly have noticed he was in the wrong room. But he went inside. What was he doing?
I peer into my office. Nothing looks out of place, and he couldn’t have been in there for more than a minute, but I’m going to check more closely after he leaves.
Now I’m glad Skip provided the excuse for ending our evening early. I want him out of here.
When Skip exits the bathroom, I’m waiting with his coat. He shrugs it on, then leans down and tries to pat Romeo, who shrinks away. “Bye, buddy.” Skip straightens and faces me. “I had a really nice night. We should do it again sometime soon. And don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any more dog questions.”
“Sure,” I say lightly. I escort him to the front door, and before he’s even off the front porch, I’ve closed and double-locked the door behind him. I turn and begin to walk toward my office, then I whip around again, this time to set the house alarm.
Maybe Skip’s appearance—and sudden reappearance—in my life isn’t a simple coincidence. I met Skip after I called the FDA and relayed the information Finley had overheard.
I step back into my office and riffle through my files, but they appear untouched. I check my other drawers, including the ones in my desk. Nothing seems to have been moved.
I glance at my safe, but there’s no way Skip could have cracked the code; it’s fingerprint activated. My laptop is in my bedroom, so he couldn’t have installed spyware on it. I stand in the middle of the room and circle around slowly, considering the possibility that Skip had really been searching for the bathroom after all, then I spy the appointment calendar I keep on top of my desk. I log appointments on my phone, too, but I like having the physical reference as a backup. A striped ribbon that had been neatly nestled between the book’s pages marking the current day is now askew, as if someone had flipped through the pages.