Before something absolutely prohibited happened, she would be wise to tell John Bowie that she wasn’t the therapist Mitch needed after all and recommend a reliable colleague.
But on a personal level, she wanted to see Mitch through this. If she turned him away, he might refuse therapy, despite Bowie’s mandate, and continue along his path of self-destruction. Could she live with the guilt of having failed a patient because of her sexual attraction to him? She didn’t think so.
Giving up now wouldn’t be unfair to Mitch solely, but to herself as well. In the wake of George’s death, she’d had to work diligently to get her life back on an even keel and under control.
She liked her life just the way it was, without drama and chaos. Her highs were moderate, her lows not too deep. She couldn’t allow Mitch Haskell, the man, to interrupt her carefully reconstructed life.
At their next session, she would lay down some guidelines that he could not cross. She would make clear to him that if he so much as tested the boundaries, he would face serious repercussions from both her and John Bowie. As for herself, she could resist a grin, for heaven’s sake.
She would.
She must.
Roland Malone made one last circuit around the main dining room, bidding good night to the last of his customers as they straggled out into what had become a rainy night. For a Monday evening, Ristorante Italiano had catered to a satisfactory crowd.
But crowd size was irrelevant except for show. It waswhocame in on any given night, nothow many. Tonight, deals had been made, plans laid, payoffs collected. The safe in his office contained more cash than it had earlier in the evening. Oz would be pleased.
As soon as all the customers were gone, work lights came on and staff began cleaning up and laying place settings for tomorrow’s lunch crowd. Roland was headed for the kitchen to discuss tomorrow’s seafood specials with the chef when he got a call.
He took his phone from his pocket and saw that it was the call he’d been anticipating all day. His mole in the Auclair PD had come through late last night by texting him the list of proposed therapists for Mitch Haskell. He hadn’t heard anything since.
He answered with, “Talk to me.”
“Mitch Haskell and John Bowie had another quarrel this afternoon over Haskell going to therapy.”
“Did he go or not?”
“Did.”
“Which therapist?”
“Her name is Dylan Reede.”
Roland went very still, then began turning his ring around his finger. “If he went, what was the quarrel about?”
“I think Haskell thought it would be a one-and-done, but Bowie insisted he keep his next appointment, which is scheduled for Thursday. Haskell dropped an eff bomb and stalked out.”
“Then it probably was a one-and-done.”
“Just the opposite. He didn’t wait till Thursday. He went tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“They met alone in her office after hours.”
Roland pulled a chair from beneath the nearest dining table and sat down to think over this unexpected development and its possible implications. He didn’t like any of them.
He knew his informant at the other end of this call would be gauging his reaction, so he was careful to conceal it. He had instilled a fear of reprisal if ever there was a screwup in their delicate arrangement. He didn’t want to reduce the potency of that fear factor by giving off any sign of weakness, indecision, or doubt.
He asked, “Any scuttlebutt as to why Haskell chose that particular therapist?”
“He told Bowie he had picked her at random, sight unseen.”
Maybe,Roland thought.But maybe not. Maybe not would be worrisome. “Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.”
He disconnected but remained seated at the table, rotating his ring around his finger, lost in thought, until one of his custodial employees came near him with a vacuum cleaner.
