“It’s okay,” I assure her, making myself comfortable. “You look different today.” Based on my conversation with Kace, I expected her to be more distressed and a lot less put together.
She glances down at her white lace shirt and fiddles with the buttons on her three-quarter-sleeve jean jacket before resting her fingers at the base of her neck, just above her breasts. “Does it look okay?”
I scrunch my brows in confusion, a bit surprised by her question.
She reads me and explains, “I’m going to try to get Kace back.” She points to her face, more specifically, the toned-down reddish hue of her lips.
“What do you mean ‘back’?” I reach to the side of my chair, in the pocket, and pull out a leather folder to take notes.
“He left me.” Her voice cracks as she fidgets around, trying to get comfortable.
I don’t offer any information otherwise. “Why do you say that?”
Her eyes cut to me sharply. “Because he took his bag and walked out the door after saying he should have left a long time ago.”
“Does that bother you? That he said that?”
“It sounded so definite, like he couldn’t stand me anymore, and maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time to be the woman I was before all this happened. It felt good to be her yesterday.”
“Perhaps,” I offer and use the cap of my pen to point at her. “Is that why you’re dressed up?”
She scoffs and cocks her head. “I used to care what I looked like.”
“Do you not anymore?”
She rubs her hands on her thighs and returns a half-hearted smile in response. “Is it weird if I say I care if it will bring him back?”
“No, but I’d like to explore that a little.”
She nods.
“So what happened?”
“We fought and cried, then he kissed me. I felt so guilty for loving the way his lips felt on mine; our bodies recognized each other, as if time didn’t exist at all. It’s been months, aside from a few touches here and there, without any kind of physical contact.”
Interesting. I jot down the lack of human connection and ask, “Guilt aside, how did it make you feel? Him touching you?”
“Amazing.” Her face contorts in disgust, and she adjusts her comment. “That sounds awful. It hasn’t even been that long.”
“Do you think there’s a set grieving period for losing a child?”
“What do you mean?”
“In some cultures, the amount of time someone wears black, in mourning, is directly dependent on the degree of separation from the deceased. While others believe when a child dies at a young age, tears and dark colors will weight the soul.” She purses her lips at the idea, so I continue, “Grief is often quantified in order for someone to surpass a loss. I advise my patients not to fall into this grief trap.”
“Time is subjective?”
“There’s no right or wrong here. I’m simply curious as to where these emotions of guilt come from. Is it from moving on, from something you didn’t do, or for surviving?”
She rests her hand on her chin and glances at the coffee table. “All of them. That’s why I want to find out who did this and put an end to it. I thought Kace would help me.”
“Help you how?”
She swallows and blushes. This wasn’t a trap. If it were, the shame crossing her features wouldn’t be so genuine.
Tears fill her eyes, and she swats the lone ones as she explains, “I wanted to get the Bullet Man to help me solve the case. Kace didn’t like the idea.”
“Do you think the idea didn’t warrant any backlash?”
She shrugs. “It sounds stupid, I know it does, but he had just told me how hard it was to lose Tyler. He said he’d do anything.” She pauses there, the pain she felt transparent on her face.
“You think he’s lying?”
“It hurts a mother more.” She glances up at me and uses both hands to forcefully swipe the tears away. “I created that heart; my body molded it until it had fingers and toes. Premature babies can survive at seven months… he wasn’t born, but he was in this world. I don’t think men will ever understand what it feels like to create life. To exist in the same moment and experience something at the same time for months.” She sniffs and asks, “Do you have children?”
“No,” I reply. “I’ve never been much for small children.” I reverse the conversation back to her. “Do you think you have more of a right to grieve then he does?”
“No!” she shouts back, slightly offended. “Maybe I loved Tyler more because of it, though?”
I nod and place the ledger on my lap. “When my patients begin to speak, and words like ‘more’ or ‘enough’ come up in conversation, I like to point out the slope they are heading down.”
“What slope?”
“Though some believe it can be done through neuronal mapping and concentrations of neurotransmitters—and even then, environmental factors must be considered—quantifying emotion, or rather measuring emotion, isn’t something we can do on a daily basis, much less on an hourly basis. At least not accurately. What you’re doing is putting limits—expectations for people to measure up to.”
“Is that so bad?” She knows it is, but her brain rationalizes her actions.
“It is when those limits keep increasing. Eventually, not even you can meet your own expectations. It’s a hard cycle, and one our society is hard-pressed on continuing. Numbers are understandable … One is one. Two is two…. Words, with their multiple definitions and various usages and the thoughts behind them, are open to too much interpretation.”
“That makes sense.”
Of course, it does; it’s part of what she should already knows.
“So, you’re saying it’s not that Kace didn’t love Tyler, it’s that he loved him differently than I did. My connection was different, but the loss was the same.”
“Yes,” I nod.
She runs her hand through her perfectly straightened hair. “Maybe I need patience, and going back to work will be the best thing for me. I won’t be obsessing every day. Work can help distract me from my own head.”
“Getting inside a criminal’s head can be quite addicting.”
She smirks. “I normally try to think how they think, but this one is different.”
“How so?”
“He’s smart,” she says deadpan.
The pronoun rings in my ears. Does she not know of the prime suspect, or am I the prime suspect?
She doesn’t look at me, which means she doesn’t suspect me.
“Does that surprise you? From my studies, I can tell you a lot of criminals are smart. And their method of killing can be related to their IQ.”
“That’s why I think he can help me.”
“Well, I heard he’s at the precinct.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “What? They caught him?”
“Yes, Detective Dalton called to ask about scheduling couples therapy, and he mentioned it.”
“He didn’t tell me anything.” She smiles softly, at both reasons, and grabs her bag. “I should go.”