A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(29)

For an instant she was seven again. The cold, hard muzzle of a gun pressing against her temple. The phone in her hand. Moses Wilcox’s soft voice saying, “Tell them.”

And then, huddled in the back of the patrol car with Eden and Isaac. Flames flickering in the dark. A man’s voice. “So many of them. This is terrible.”

Pauline strode over with a tray. She let out a string of nonsensical syllables as she placed their dishes in front of them and marched away. Abby carefully picked up her burger with both hands and took a large bite. The juicy hamburger tasted like heaven. She chewed twice, swallowed, and took another bite, hardly stopping to breathe.

After finishing about a third of her burger, she said, “I’m not starving anymore. Can we please do the simulation now?”

“Abby, hang on—”

“I don’t want to talk about me and Eden. Not right now. I need some time, okay?”

Will mulled it over. “Okay.”

“Thanks.” Abby smiled at him. “Onward to the simulation.”

Will sighed and picked up a fry, then dipped it in ketchup. “Sure. What’s the conversation about?”

“I told you. Ben’s birthday. I have a party all organized, and now Steve wants to take Ben and his friends to the science museum on the same date.”

“Uh-huh. And I assume you want me to be Steve, and you’ll be Abby?”

Abby blinked. “That would be the logical way to do it.”

“You might get more by being Steve,” Will suggested. “Get into his brain.”

“I don’t want to be Steve. You be Steve, and I’ll be Abby.”

“And the negotiation goal?”

“To beat him into submission.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Which in this case means convincing him to cancel the museum or change the date.”

Abby shrugged and picked up her burger to take another bite.

“I’ll start,” Will said, putting his hand to his ear as if mimicking a phone call. “A-bbyyyyyy.”

Abby slammed her burger down on the plate, sprinkling a handful of fries all over the table. “Do you have to do the voice?”

“Last time you told me to do the voice. You said it’s important. Are you sure you’re not hungry? Maybe you should finish that burger first.”

“Ugh, no, I’m fine. I wasn’t prepared. Okay, let’s start again.” She plucked a french fry from her plate.

“A-bbyyyyyyy.”

“Hi, Steve,” Abby said, holding the fry to her ear. “I wanted to talk about Ben’s—”

“You want to talk about the science museum thing, right?” Will asked.

After years of training, Will could do Steve almost better than Steve himself. Interrupting her, using that infuriating patronizing tone, mansplaining things that needed no explanation. Abby was impressed by Will’s ability to channel her ex, but she also suspected he enjoyed this much more than he should.

“The museum thing, that’s right.” She mirrored his words, injecting a pleasant, upbeat tone into her voice.

“I know you wanted to have that little party for him,” Will said. “But you and I both know Ben really would prefer a day at the museum with his friends. And I already cleared my schedule for that day.”

“You cleared your schedule.” She tried to maintain the same cheerful tone, but it was diminishing, replaced by that scraping, cold, furious tone she retained for her ex. She grabbed the burger and took a quick bite for moral support.

“That’s right,” Will said brightly. “And I’m sure you can postpone your neat little party to a different date; your job is much more flexible, and besides—”

“My job isn’t more flexible, you pompous asshole,” she snapped at him. “And I can’t postpone the party because it’s scheduled with another boy. Not to mention I’ve been planning it for weeks, and I was about to tell you about it, so don’t get all offended. Also, both you and I know you don’t give a shit about what Ben would prefer; you’re doing this to make it seem as if you’re the better parent. And you’re not fooling anyone. So you can take your schedule with all the appointments with students you’re sleeping with, and shove it up your ass!” She squeezed her burger with rage, and a large dollop of ketchup dripped on her collar.

“Feeling better?” Will asked.

“Well, I have ketchup on my shirt, so not really,” she muttered, wiping the stain with a napkin.

Will turned to look at the aghast patrons staring at them. “Don’t worry, everyone. She’s just pretending to hate my guts.”

He had suggested the Steve simulations four years before, after Abby repeatedly showed up in the morning fuming as a result of an argument with her ex. Will had pointed out that they simulated events with jonesing drug addicts, suicidal drunks, armed men with multiple hostages. They spent hours every week honing their craft so that when the real crisis occurred, they were ready. Surely they could do the same with Abby’s ex, which was, in a way, an ongoing, never-ending crisis.

At first Abby liked the idea because she thought it would help to prepare her better. But it turned out it was also useful as a venting venue so that later, when she talked to Steve, she wouldn’t lose her cool.

“I’d say maybe a bit more tactical empathy and active listening,” Will suggested. “And maybe a little less calling him names and listing items he can shove up his ass.”