Paranoid(60)

Therapist, in control: “Two. And you’re nearly awake.”

Patient: “There’s so much to tell him.” The patient’s still worried, but coming around.

Therapist: “One.”

The patient’s eyes open and blink, adjusting to the soft lighting and soothing music in the tiny room. A bit of incense tinges the air with oleander as the patient stirs and focuses on the therapist.

Therapist, smiling with relief, voice soft and steady: “And you’re back.”

Patient, breathless, still worried: “I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t get the chance.”

Therapist: “You will. Maybe in the next session.”

Patient, sighing: “Maybe. But I’ve been living with this for so long.”

Therapist: “It takes time.”

Patient, wryly: “And time wounds all heels, isn’t that what they say? Well, this wound, this pain has been around too long. It needs to go away.”

Therapist, taking a peek at the clock on the antique desk: “It will.”

The leather of the recliner creaks as the patient adjusts the chair to a sitting position. “I hope so.” The patient stands. “God, I hope so.”





CHAPTER 19


Over the years Rachel had learned that she had to pick her moments, so she waited until both of the kids were home from school Monday evening. Dinner was in the oven, lasagna; the security system had been reconnected; and they were settling in for homework.

Dylan hadn’t said much about his extra time at the school doing Mrs. Walsh’s bidding, just that it was “okay.” And Harper had spent a couple of hours working on some project at a friend’s house, supposedly studying.

Neither kid had asked Rachel how her day had gone, though if they had, she wouldn’t have told them about the front door. The new coat of black paint had dried, and she figured that threat could wait for another day.

Now, though, it was time for the truth about what her son had been up to.

Harper was already on her phone in her room, the door only slightly ajar, and Dylan was heading to his when she stopped him. “We need to talk,” she said. “In the living room.”

“About what?” He didn’t seem surprised and didn’t argue, just walked down the hall in his bare feet.

“This.” She pulled the sock with the money out of her pocket and noticed his jaw tense. Not surprise. Anger. She’d thought he would be shocked and he definitely wasn’t. “Sit.”

He dropped onto a corner of the couch.

“Want to explain?” she asked.

“No.” Rebellion flared in his eyes.

“Well, you’re going to or I’m going to expect the worst.” She emptied the sock and dropped it and the damning bills onto the coffee table. “Talk.”

“Geez, Mom, it’s not what you think.”

“Which is?”

“That I’m selling drugs, right? Isn’t that what you think, why you brought up the Xanax?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not that stupid.”

She resisted asking, “And just how stupid are you?” Instead she said as she sat in a nearby chair, “Convince me.”

He hesitated, looked out the window, and sighed through his nose as Reno trotted into the room to take his spot in the bed near the fireplace.

“You said you were broke, that you needed money to pay off the kid that was hassling you?”

“Schmidt,” Dylan supplied.

“Right. You borrowed a hundred dollars from me because you owed him some ‘gambling debt.’” For emphasis, she made air quotes.

“Yeah! And I’m paying it back! Geez, Mom, didn’t I help you with the security system? Didn’t I say I’d mow the lawn and do whatever stupid job you have?”

“But you already had money. More than enough. This money.” She pointed a finger at the uneven pile of small bills. “Where’d you get it and don’t . . . don’t even say anything about saving it from your birthday or whatever. Everything you take in goes to some kind of equipment for either your computer or your game system or something.”

“It’s my business.”

“And mine.” Trying to cool off a little, she said, “So what’s going on, Dylan? What’re you into?”

“Not drugs!” he yelled, then more calmly, “Okay?”

“Then what? And don’t try to convince me that you’re into some online betting, because I’m just not buying it.”

Arms folded, foot bouncing nervously, he didn’t answer.

“I’m not the enemy, you know,” she said.

“Then why are you acting like it? Interrogating me?”

“Because I’m scared, Dylan. You’re doing something behind my back, something you don’t want to talk about, something you want to keep hidden. So I’m worried that you’re in trouble.”

“I’m not.”

She hadn’t heard Harper come out of her room nor walk down the hall, but she showed up and stood half in the hallway, half in the living room. “Tell her,” Harper said, staring at her brother.

“What?” He was shaking his head, his eyes round.

“Tell her that you help kids on the side, y’know, with computer stuff.” She was staring directly at her brother. “Admit that you’re a geek, probably the best one in school.”