Girls Like Us(22)

“Andrew Ginnis.” He answers on the first ring, startling me into momentary silence. I assumed it would go straight to voicemail. I was prepared to leave him a message. I’m not yet ready to talk.

“It’s Nell Flynn,” I say finally. My voice is flat and hard, like it’s him who called me and not the other way around. “I work with Sam Lightman at the BAU.”

“I remember. We met a few weeks ago.”

“I know I should’ve followed up with you. My father passed away. I’ve been in Long Island for the funeral.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve had a tough month.”

“People keep saying that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I take a sip of scotch before replying. “You mean now? Shouldn’t I set up an appointment first?”

“If you like. It’s up to you.”

I hesitate. A part of me wants to hang up, return to my scotch. But if I don’t talk to Ginnis today, I’ll just delay the inevitable. And there’s something oddly soothing about his voice. It’s warm, like he’s an old friend.

“Where do I start?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“We scattered his ashes yesterday. He was only fifty-two.”

“That’s sad. How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Motorcycle accident. He had been drinking. It was late and the road was wet. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe. I didn’t really know him. I haven’t been home in ten years. Even when I was home, we hardly spoke.”

“And your mother? Is she alive?”

“No. She died when I was young. It was just me and him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My father was a marine. A cop. The kind of man who woke up every day at five a.m. to go for a run. He’d run in the rain, in the snow. He ran when he was sick or if he hadn’t slept the night before. He was obsessively disciplined. Except for alcohol; that was his weakness. But he was tough as they come. And deeply principled. At least, I thought he was. Today I found out that he had money stashed in an offshore account. And he rented an apartment I didn’t know about, either. A woman lives there. His girlfriend, I guess.”

“Does it upset you that he was seeing someone?”

I take a gulp of scotch and consider the question. “It upsets me that I knew so little about his life.”

“Are you worried that he harmed himself?”

“Maybe. Or that someone harmed him.” I say this aloud for the first time. The words are strange, foreign. “I don’t know. It’s possible I’m being paranoid.”

“Why would someone harm him?”

“He was a homicide detective. He was investigating a case when he died. A young girl, an escort. She was murdered last summer. Today they found a second body. Another young girl, buried the same way as the first.”

Ginnis doesn’t reply. I realize that I’m rambling. My words are starting to run together. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. Maybe I’m tired. Probably both.

“You think I sound crazy, don’t you?” I ask, though it’s more of a statement than a question.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know how it sounds. He’s just a cop. It’s just a murder investigation.”

“Something about it troubles you.”

“I have a bad feeling.” I stand up and the blood rushes to my head. I sit back down, resting my head on the arm of the couch. The room spins a little, and then stops. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s why I’m here.”

“Can I ask you something? Off the record.”

“There is no record, Nell. Everything you and I discuss is confidential.”

“Except that you’re paid for by the Bureau.”

“That doesn’t mean they get to listen in on what we discuss. Doctor-patient privilege exists between us. I take that very seriously.”

“You have to write a report on me, don’t you? How can you do that and still maintain privilege?”

“I will write a report,” he says carefully, “about your mental fitness for your job. Not about what we discuss in session. Do you understand the difference?”

“It seems like a fine line.”

Ginnis sighs. I’m being difficult, and we both know it. “Don’t worry about the report. My job is to help you cope with trauma. Not to type up some form for the Office of Professional Responsibility.” The way he says it, with just a hint of disdain, makes me smile just a little.

“To be honest with you, the most traumatic thing that’s happened to me all month is coming back here. To Suffolk County.”

“A lot of people feel that way about returning home. Especially under such sad circumstances.”

“It’s brought up a lot of old memories. Some not so pleasant.”

“Do you want to talk about those memories?”

“I—I don’t know yet.”

“That’s fair.”

“If I were to tell you something that might implicate someone else in a crime, do you have to report it?”