“I’ll come and get it,” I call as I stand up.
The mailman hands me a few envelopes and a catalog, which I tuck under my arm as I head back up the steps, my mind still considering and discarding potential connections.
I sit down, placing the mail beside me on the side table, and reach for my notebook again. I stare at the jumble of words, my eyes flitting across the page—Coco, Polly, yellow roses, anonymous note, attack …
Clearly Polly didn’t carry out the assault. She isn’t strong enough to overpower Matthew; besides, he is certain the perpetrator was a man, Marissa told me.
But Polly’s presence near Matthew’s office just a few hours before the incident is more than strange. It’s highly significant. I just don’t know how yet.
I stretch out my foot and absently rub it against Romeo, who rolls onto his back, his tail thwacking against the wood porch floor.
The biggest question in my mind is the identity of the man who hurt Matthew.
Marissa mentioned that both she and Matthew suspected the assault could have been conducted by a disgruntled employee, and they’d relayed their suspicion to the police. I imagine the parking garage has video cameras, too, which could aid in identification.
I rub my temples and stand up, bringing my empty coffee mug and the stack of mail into the kitchen. Maybe caffeine will help.
While my coffee brews, I flip through the mail: catalog, bill, junk, bill … and an envelope with the return address for LifeLine, the agency that handled Paul’s life insurance policy. Probably just a follow-up, since they already sent Lana the generous settlement. I slide my finger under the seal and remove the letter.
I scan the document quickly at first, then my eyes widen: medical fraud … investigation … misrepresentation …
My hand begins shaking and I almost drop the sheet of paper.
It sounds as if the insurance company thinks I had something to do with Paul’s death.
I sink onto a counter stool, rereading the letter, this time more closely.
Then I reach for my cell phone and call my lawyer.
* * *
I expected the Bishops to cancel their session tonight; after all, Matthew was released from the hospital only this morning.
I was hoping they’d reschedule. My lawyer, Sylvia McColaugh, did a little digging after I scanned the letter from LifeLine and sent it to her. She scheduled a Zoom call with me for 5:00 P.M., right after I’d gone for a long hike with Romeo, hoping to simultaneously burn off some of my physical stress and shake loose some new ideas in my mind.
But any relief I’d found during my walk through Rock Creek Park evaporated the moment I saw Sylvia’s frowning face on my phone screen, her big green eyes further magnified by her glasses and her white curls a halo around her head.
It’s not great, she’d said, forgoing pleasantries and cutting to the chase, which is one of the reasons why she keeps my business. They’re opening an investigation into Paul’s death.
Before I could ask why, she told me, They received an anonymous tip that you euthanized Paul.
An anonymous tip.
The irony isn’t lost on me. My call to the FDA whistle-blower hotline was supposed to be anonymous, but it wasn’t. Neither is this one to LifeLine.
Acelia is demonstrating that they can swing a sledgehammer and aim it at any chinks in my life.
Sylvia told me to sit tight, and that she’ll circle back when she has more information. You get any more letters or calls, a cop comes to your door, anything—you phone me immediately. Don’t let them in, don’t say a word.
After I hung up, I filed away Lifeline’s letter, then popped a CBD gummy and soaked in a hot bath while I listened to Joan Armatrading on my AirPods. But I couldn’t stop seeing images of Paul during his final weeks, especially this one: me sliding into his bed and cradling him in my arms while he took his final breaths. He was so frail by that point; he barely weighed more than a child. I held him for a long time, until his body was no longer warm. As the sun rose, I dialed Lana’s number so she could come over and say goodbye. Then I set into motion the arrangements Paul and I had discussed: a cremation, a celebration of his life at a local pub with the music and food and drinks Paul loved best, and toasts given by Lana and his closest friends. I mingled for a few minutes, then hid in a back room. I couldn’t give a toast, for the same reason why I couldn’t read the sympathy cards and letters.
I don’t care what all those people will think if they learn the insurance company is investigating me, but I am concerned about Lana’s reaction. What if she believed the claims? It would break her heart and possibly destroy our relationship.
And what if I’m found guilty?
I cast aside the worry for now, pulling myself out of the bath to get dressed in anticipation of Marissa and Matthew’s arrival.
This, our fifth session, is Devastation, the point at which my clients reach rock bottom and fear they won’t succeed. But in this case, I’m the one who is beginning to worry they won’t succeed. The Bishops’ case is outside the lines; so many unseen forces are competing with my techniques and conspiring to harm them, too. I can’t repair their marriage until I uncover the truth—about each of them and their motivations, as well as the complicated people in their orbit.
My doorbell chimes at 7:00 P.M. sharp, and I welcome them into my office. Marissa looks pale and exhausted and seems so jittery I’m tempted to offer her a gummy from my stash. Matthew, by contrast, appears robust and intently focused. If it weren’t for the bandage on his forehead, I’d never know he’d been brutally attacked less than twenty-four hours ago. He keeps his arm around Marissa as they sit side-by-side on the couch, as if he wants to protect her from whatever their future holds.
I begin, “It’s been quite a twenty-four hours, hasn’t it?”
They both assume I’m referring to theirs, which is my intention.
“So, I think Marissa filled you in on everything,” Matthew says. “The only new information is that the employee I had to let go—the guy who tried to get into the building with a gun last year—had a clear alibi. And the police reviewed the footage from the garage, but the attack happened in a blind corner. They saw a guy hanging around the garage before I was hit, but they couldn’t see anything else.”
“I see.” I ask for the fired employee’s name, which Matthew freely gives, and I jot it down in my pad. “Do either of you have any other thoughts on who would want to hurt Matthew?”
Marissa fixes her gaze to the floor and fiddles with her wedding band.
Matthew shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking about that all day. Must’ve been a random attack. Maybe he thought he heard someone coming and didn’t have time to rob me.”
Marissa’s eyes rise, and I can read the raw fear in them. We’re both wondering if the man she slept with, the one who can’t let go so easily, is behind it. She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, her expression pleading.
I can almost hear her thoughts: It wasn’t him.… He’s out of town.… Don’t say anything.…
I’m not going to break the promise I made to her by letting Matthew know she slept with one of his old friends, but I am planning to pull Marissa aside after the session. I can’t wait until Monday to start checking this guy out; I need a name.