Confidential(92)

She was eating manically, too, as if her chewing was keeping time with her racing thoughts. She kept talking about how we could get back at him, but it was all just wishful thinking, not planning. Even Flora must have known that he still had the upper hand; she just wasn’t the type to admit it.

I wondered if the conversation would have been different had Greer stayed. That woman could get shit done.

Also, two felt like so much fewer than three when it came to proving Michael’s wrongdoing. Greer seemed like the sanest of us. Maybe that was why she was the one to quit therapy. To quit Michael.

My stomach was ballooning outward, and the waistband of my jeans was probably leaving indentations. I felt worse and worse about myself with each bite, and still, I didn’t stop. It was punishment. I’d been so stupid. I was a little girl and Greer was a woman and Flora was—well, Flora. She’d always land on her feet like a cat. She was a survivor, and I was a jobless disaster.

Finally, the table was cleared, and we paid the check with Greer’s cash (it was way too much, and Flora divvied up the overflow and gave me half). If I’d told her I was unemployed, I probably could have gotten it all. But I didn’t like how any of this felt, the weight of the dirty money in my palm.

“Well,” I said, “it was nice to have met you.”

Flora laughed, and it was a natural, sweet sound. “You too. We’re in this together now.” She pulled me into a hug, and my body was rigid in her arms. There was so little touch in my life, now that Michael’s . . .

He didn’t know it was over. I was thinking that I just wouldn’t show up for my next session. I couldn’t have stood up to his questioning about why I was ending things. I’d get sucked back into his web because I had so little else.

But not nothing. Which was why I hit the pavement and texted my mother.

There were at least two others.

She texted back immediately, offering to come see me, to stay the night, to mother me. But even though I’d been the one to reach out, the thought of her being there brought up too much turmoil, too many memories. I turned off the phone, took some Benadryl, and fell asleep until morning.

That was when I saw Mom’s latest text: Have you heard? That pig is dead.





PRESENT DAY





CHAPTER 75

DETECTIVE GREGORY PLATH

“Boy, am I glad to see you.” I smile at Dr. Devers. Her name’s Marilyn, though she didn’t tell me to call her that. She’s a little haughty, but still, I am glad to see her. I’m desperate for a new lead.

I’ve hit a wall. The boss didn’t think that the contract between Michael Baylor and Greer was enough to officially declare Greer a suspect. He said he’d gotten a complaint from her already about my “strong-arm tactics” and a veiled threat that she’d be filing a lawsuit if I continued to “harass” her. He’d said that I couldn’t bring her back in until I had something ironclad, but how was I supposed to get something ironclad unless I brought her back in and made her crack?

That’s why I need Dr. Devers.

“I’m happy to cooperate,” she says. She’s an ash blonde in her early sixties in an expensive pantsuit. She looks a lot like Hillary Clinton. “I always go traveling for the month of August and I unplug completely, so I hadn’t heard about Michael.”

“I appreciate you coming in now.” I’ve checked her out, from her reputation to her alibi. She’s solid. She’s got nothing to gain by lying. And she shouldn’t be bound by patient-client privilege, since they weren’t her patients. “Could you tell me about your relationship to Dr. Baylor?”

“We consulted about cases. It was an informal arrangement. We generally met about once every month or two, more frequently if needed.”

“Who tended to need it?”

She stiffens, though I wasn’t meaning to offend. I thought since she was a fellow professional, I could leave off the kid gloves. But detectives and therapists aren’t really the same kind of professionals. “It’s a difficult line of work, Detective. Colleagues help you maintain perspective, keep you focused on the best interests of your clients.”

“Did you feel that Dr. Baylor acted in the best interests of his clients?”

“Yes. He genuinely cared about them. If anything, he cared too much.”

I’ll circle back to that, for sure. But kid gloves. “How long had you known him?”

“About fifteen years. We moved in the same professional circles. He was very highly regarded, as I’m sure you’ve uncovered in your investigation.”

I’m not touching that one. “Has he brought any unusual cases to your attention over the past year?”

“Several.”

“Could you say more?”

“Not about their identities.”

So much for cooperation. But I’ve got to keep the frustration out of my tone. “Is privilege in effect? They weren’t your clients.”

“That’s not it. I didn’t know their identities. Michael was very respectful of confidentiality, so much so that he always made up names for them.”

“If I ran a few names by you, could you tell me if any of them sound like the pseudonyms he was using?”

She pulls out a notebook she can consult. “I’m game.”