Lana clears her throat. “After my dad got sick, we set him up in there. Then…”
Her voice closes up; she can’t complete her sentence and tell Greg about the rest. Greg reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze, and we sit in silence for a moment. I break it to ask if either of them wants more tea.
“No, thanks.” Greg says.
Lana quickly shakes her head, too.
We chat awhile longer, then Lana says they need to get going.
Romeo and I walk them to the door and I hand them their coats. Greg holds out Lana’s for her to slip into as she smiles up at him. He seems like a decent guy and clearly cares for her. At least she seems to have chosen well this time.
I give them both a quick hug and stand on my porch, watching as they walk hand in hand towards Lana’s Honda.
As Lana starts to unlock the door, I notice a woman with dark hair approach them. I can’t make out what they are saying, but I assume she’s asking for directions.
Then I recognize her.
I fly off my porch and race down the front walk, surprise and anger roaring through me.
The woman who is mere inches away from my stepdaughter wears jeans and a parka, rather than a blue hospital gown. She looks fit and healthy now that she isn’t propped up against a pillow with an IV dripping fluids into her system.
It’s Cameron’s ex-wife.
I thrust my body between hers and Lana’s. “Skylar, what are you doing here?”
Skylar smiles, and I notice the ease of her transformation—from a demanding ex-wife to a seemingly friendly acquaintance.
“Avery! Oh, my goodness, what a small world. Do you live nearby?”
Lana edges around from behind me. “You two know each other? So funny!”
“We sure do.” Skylar laughs. “Turns out Avery treated my husband. He’s almost like a different person now.”
“That’s great,” Lana replies as Greg nods in agreement. They’re oblivious of the undercurrent running through this encounter. Although Lana knows I lost my license a few months ago because I’d changed my therapeutic methods, she has no idea that the woman standing in front of her is the one who reported me.
“I wish we had time to chat,” I say pointedly.
Skylar ignores my rebuff. “I’ve always loved this street. I was just telling your”—a crease forms in her brow as she looks from me to Lana—“niece, is it? Or—”
“I’m her bonus daughter, Lana.”
Stop talking! I think.
“And this is Greg, my boy—”
“It’s nice to see you again, Skylar,” I interject. “Unfortunately they need to get going.”
Lana finally seems to pick up on the edge in my voice. “Oh, right, I’ve got to run—I’m working a pirate pottery party at four o’clock!”
“A pirate party?” Skylar repeats.
Before Lana gives Skylar any more information, I reach out and pull open the car door, nudging her inside. Greg walks around to the passenger side and hesitates, looking at me over the roof, before he slides in.
Without a coat or thick sweater, the cold is seeping through my body. I suppress a shiver. “Why are you really here?” I say over the sound of Lana’s Honda starting up.
I take in her features, studying her thin eyebrows and lined lips, as the friendly mask drops from her face.
From behind me, Lana toots her horn once as she drives off, and I instinctively flinch.
Skylar grins—a different smile from the one she displayed moments ago. “You know so much about me. I guess I wanted to learn more about you. Your daughter seems sweet.”
Skylar doesn’t scare me, but I don’t like her knowing about Lana’s existence. I’ve never mentioned Lana in any interview or to any of my clients, even before my work began to earn me dangerous enemies.
I take a slow step toward Skylar, until I’m so close I can see the pores beneath her foundation. I barely recognize my own voice as I bite off the words: “Do not ever go near her again.”
My hands are nearly numb, but I’m prepared to wait her out on the sidewalk until she’s the first one to walk away.
Then Skylar makes a move I don’t expect.
She reaches into her purse. I stare at her hand fumbling in her large leather bag, then slowly beginning to slide back out. Adrenaline surges through my veins as my mind spins through scenarios: Could she be reaching for a weapon?
Then I see a flash of white.
She’s pulling out a pack of tissues.
“Your nose is dripping and it’s disgusting.” She offers me one.
I ignore it.
She shrugs and tucks the packet back in her purse. “I’m parked just around the corner.” Skylar begins to walk away. “See you around.”
I remain on the sidewalk, staring after her, until she turns the corner and disappears.
* * *
I’m still trying to push aside the strange encounter with Skylar when I meet with Marissa and Matthew for our third session. Romeo is crated in my bedroom with toys and acoustic rock music playing—hopefully far enough away that my clients won’t hear if he decides to complain about the situation.
Fifteen minutes in, my legal pad contains the following notes: On the couch—close enough to touch again … Mon Ami Gabi: wine, mussels, steak au poivre … I could maybe walk you home … More eye contact; relaxed body language … Marissa almost touches his arm, then withdraws her hand … Overturned canoe, turkey sandwiches floating in the water.
I watch as Matthew captures his wife’s hand just before it returns to her lap. Their fingers twine together.
I add one more note on my legal pad: It can’t be this easy.
“Sounds like everything went flawlessly…?” I put down my pen and let my voice trail off so one of them will fill in the blanks. Neither has mentioned Matthew’s tardiness, or that they drove to the restaurant in separate cars.
“Look, I’ll be honest,” Matthew says. “Initially I didn’t think I could do it. But”—he twists to face his wife—“I’m really glad I did.”
“Me, too.” Marissa’s eyes are soft.
We could easily fill the remaining thirty minutes stretching out their loving reminiscences, rebuilding the foundation of their marriage on the blocks of their past shared happiness.
That doesn’t interest me, and as important, it’s not an efficient use of our limited time.
Marissa and Matthew walked through my door with a presenting problem: Why did a seemingly perfect relationship fall apart?
Their marriage is a mystery, and my job is to piece together the clues.
But something more is at stake here than simply a relationship in trouble; I just don’t know what yet.
I put down my legal pad and lean back in my chair.
The third session is Escalation. The basic blueprint is the same for all clients, but I change up my methods based on what I sense will provoke my clients at a fundamental level. Matthew is private; I can already tell he’s used to operating on a superficial level, leading with his charm.
I need to strip off that veneer. “Is that why you were late to dinner, Matthew? Because you planned not to go?”
“Wait—what?” Matthew’s eyes narrow and he withdraws his hand from Marissa’s. He recovers quickly from being surprised, which I mentally note but don’t write down. “How do you know that? Were you spying on us?” He’s good at shifting the focus, too, but I’m not going to let him derail my questions.