Confidential(80)

But I could get better.

Michael had given her money. Now whether she blackmailed him or he just offered so that she’d make her complaint go away, I had no idea. But he’d been sleeping with her, I was sure of that. Nasty underground websites aside, women didn’t lie about sexual abuse. They could, however, be persuaded to go silent about it—with money, or because of the humiliation of the investigation, or both.

Wednesday night. The slot before the blonde giraffe seemed to be available. The self-assured brunette in the flowing clothes hadn’t been coming. I had a little time to grab a falafel and strategize.

I positioned myself inside the building (the code hadn’t changed, fortunately). Right near the door, beside the stairs, in a small vestibule. We’d have to talk close, which worked for me. Michael’s sound machines would be going full blast upstairs. He’d never hear us, unless the giraffe screamed.

Since my fight with Michael last night, I’d been piecing things together, realizing how calculating he’d been, how far back it went. I recalled the time during Kate’s visit when I stormed into his office, and he headed me off in the waiting room with all those words of love, so many promises. But then by the time I saw him later that night, he had already confronted Kate, which allowed him to renege on everything he’d said. I couldn’t push for us to go public anymore because now I was groveling.

His sweet talk had been the most efficient way to get me out of his office. I didn’t know who’d been behind his door, and he didn’t want me to. That’s who he was protecting. Her, and his relationship with her. And his reputation. Everyone had to think he was the greatest therapist around.

He’d said what he needed to say, and then later, he got to tell me what he really thought, directly. He could vent his anger and take back control. But it was all a game to him. He must have already suspected that I’d told Kate long ago; he just kept that in his back pocket until it was time to deploy it for his own ends. He shouldn’t have been a therapist; he should have been a general. He was Machiavellian. And he was going to pay for what he’d done to me, and to Kate, and to whomever else. I just needed ammunition.

The door opened. Nope, not her. I turned away, no need for anyone to recognize my face, and the man clomped upstairs to his own therapist.

Then it was her. “I’m Flora,” I said gently. “I should have introduced myself sooner. I think we have a few things to talk about.”

Her eyes widened. She’d already looked distraught, and now she added a top note of fright. When I last saw her up close, I had been struck by how pretty she was. Now I was struck by how fragile. Her formerly perfect skin had one perfectly round pink pimple, and there were bluish circles under her eyes. Her hair was always a little flyaway, but today it was running amok. Not only had it not seen a comb, I didn’t think it had seen shampoo. Conditioner was a distant memory.

He’d done this to her, I knew it.

“I have an appointment,” she nearly whispered. None of her bravado from our previous interactions was in evidence.

I wasn’t the most empathetic person, but this little giraffe could break your heart. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know that I wasn’t the nicest when we spoke before. I’m here to warn you, but I feel like you already know everything I’m about to say.”

“I don’t want to be late.”

She was loyal to him. She still thought he was helping her. “I’ll pay for your session. Just let me talk to you, please. Now, or we can meet somewhere later.”

“You don’t need to pay for the session.”

“Where should we meet?”

She looked down at the floor. A strand of hair worked its way into her mouth, and she didn’t even reach up to remove it. She was just wrecked. And so young. How could Michael have done this to her? He was probably done with picking strong women like me.

“Just tell me now,” she said.

“I was Michael’s client a little more than two years ago. I went to see him with my husband. The whole time he was supposedly ‘helping’ us, he was systematically exposing my husband’s weaknesses and getting me to focus on his—Michael’s—strengths. Getting me to want him.” I squirmed a little. “I let him in, and he used me. He told me he loved me, but now I know it was all a game to him, and he plays it with a lot of his clients. There are at least two others that I know of. They filed complaints against him.” I tried to catch her eyes, but it was impossible; they were still on the floor. The hair was still in her mouth. “Are there at least three?”

She didn’t answer, but she heard me. Her discomfort had ratcheted up.

“Has he been sleeping with you or grooming you to sleep with him in the future? Like, in two years?”

Her blue eyes suddenly met mine. “Why two years?”

“In the ethics of his profession, he can get romantically involved with a former client after two years. He’s kept me hidden for all that time. But we’ve been together I don’t even know how many times. Just no one is supposed to know about it. I was his dirty secret.”

Something in that last phrase resonated with her. The eyes dropped again. “He’s not grooming me,” she said.

“You’re already sleeping together.” She didn’t answer, which meant yes. “He’s abusing you. He’s abusing his power over you.”