The Golden Couple(19)
In all the months—or years, in many cases—that I’d spent treating other clients, I’d never witnessed such a radical transformation.
I thought about all the times I’d forced myself to quash my instincts, often waiting in vain for my clients to find the path that was so clearly visible to me. Ever since I’d violated the code of my profession to uphold my personal morals, I’d been sleeping better, too.
I looked at Finley and made a snap decision. “Ready to change the rest of your life?”
We met seven more times. By the end of the last session, our tenth, Finley had decided to apply for a new job at a think tank, severed ties with the “friend” who kept flirting with her boyfriend, had the difficult conversation with her father that she’d been avoiding for years, and stopped biting her nails.
I had a new career path, and it was all based on what I’d learned from Finley, my first ten-session patient.
I’d also gained a powerful new enemy.
The pharmaceutical company must have cultivated a mole inside the FDA, because after my supposedly anonymous phone call, Acelia began sending me messages, loud and clear: they knew exactly who I was, and where I lived.
None of this made it into the Post article, which ran several months after I terminated the lease on my Dupont Circle space and set up shop in my home office. The piece focused on my academic credentials, my controversial method, the loss of my license and my subsequent successes, and anecdotes from clients who agreed to speak on the record.
The Post reporter who sat in my living room didn’t ask about the security bars on my windows or the alarm code pad by my front door. He was so focused on his article that he didn’t express curiosity when I asked to see his identification before allowing him into my home.
He missed the bigger story.
The first signal that Acelia was after me came one night when I returned home following an immersive session at a client’s party and thought I detected the faint leathery scent of a man’s cologne in the air. My doors and windows were still locked, and otherwise everything was exactly as I’d left it: a pair of running shoes splayed out next to my closet, the still-damp towel from my shower hanging from the hook on the back of my bathroom door, the book I’d been reading on my nightstand next to my water glass.
When I got ready for bed, I discovered one thing was amiss, however. A bottle of medicine stood on my dresser, partially hidden by a lamp.
I hadn’t left it there. The drug was Synthroid, which I take daily to support my thyroid function. I always keep the bottle inside the medicine cabinet next to my moisturizer, since I swallow the pills first thing in the morning right after I wake up and brush my teeth. Synthroid is a prescription drug, the only one I possess. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why the pharmaceutical company whose plans to release a new medicine that could be torpedoed by my knowledge had chosen to highlight the Synthroid’s presence.
Acelia was letting me know they knew who I was and what I’d done. And that they could get inside my home without leaving a trace.
What they didn’t know was who told me about the deadly trials in India. Acelia has tens of thousands of employees around the globe; I had no doubt they wanted to extract the name of the one they were seeking from me.
I began making sure every one of my doors and windows was locked, even the tiny windows in my attic, even when I ran out for a quick errand.
A few days later, while I was walking down my street on an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon, gearing up for a run, a good-looking guy approached me with a wide smile. It was broad daylight. I could see my neighbor on his front porch. I felt completely safe. So I smiled back.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” the man began, and for a moment I expected him to ask directions. “I’m thinking about buying a house nearby, but I heard there were some breakins in the neighborhood.”
He moved closer and put a hand on my arm. I stiffened and pushed it off.
“Do you really think it’s safe?” he whispered.
“Get the hell away from me.”
“All we need is a name.”
Before I could scream or spray him with my can of Mace, he walked away.
I haven’t seen that man since, but I know Acelia won’t stop. They must be afraid that whoever told me could share the information about the faulty trial with others. And they’re probably even more concerned that individual could be continuing to gather destructive information about Acelia.
I still went for my run that day; Acelia wasn’t going to take that from me.
But as soon as I got home, I called the security company that sent me Derrick.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARISSA
MARISSA PULLS THE PLUG from the drain and steps out of the bathtub. She towels herself off and massages a rich, buttery lotion—new to her store—into her damp skin. She slips on her terry-cloth robe and leans forward to wipe the condensation from the mirror. Matthew prefers her like this, with her hair pulled back and no makeup adorning her face. Perhaps it reminds him of the teenager he fell in love with, even though tonight she feels older than her thirty-eight years. She dots retinol cream onto her faint crow’s-feet and smooths balm onto her lips.
She walks into the bedroom and pulls open a dresser drawer. Her hand hovers above her favorite soft cotton pajamas. Beside them rests a midnight-blue silky nightgown. It’s Matthew’s favorite. She slips that on instead, even though the lace itches the sensitive area beneath her collarbones.