Every Single Secret(39)

Such a tasteful room for spilling your nastiest secrets.

Cerny’s elegant marquetry inlaid desk was bare except for a sleek desktop computer, a black landline phone, and a tablet—an iPad, just like mine. Did the doctor keep his files on the iPad instead of on yellow pads? There were no file cabinets in the room. But he had to keep the personality assessments somewhere. All the interviews and the surveillance videos had to be kept somewhere too. When the avalanche of VHS cassettes fell on me up in the attic, I hadn’t noticed any tapes labeled Beck/Amos, even though, honestly, I hadn’t taken the time to really look. But surely he didn’t store them that way, not in this day and age.

I edged around the desk and swiped the screen of the tablet. The lock screen lit up. I sat and opened the one narrow desk drawer, revealing a mountain of envelopes and papers, sticky notes, and receipts. I bit my lip and plunged a hand into the pile, feeling around, and drew out a stack of business cards bound with a rubber band. A couple were Cerny’s, a few from a caterer, a lawyer, a limousine service. But it was the one at the bottom of the stack that stopped me.

JESSICA KYUNG, INVESTIGATOR

GEORGIA STATE BOARD OF EXAMINERS OF PSYCHOLOGISTS

I mentally calculated how much time I had before Cerny returned, then decided to chance it. I lifted the phone receiver and tapped in the number on the card.

“Jessica Kyung,” a woman said in a brusque voice—so quickly, in fact, that I had to gather myself.

“Hi, Jessica,” I stammered. “I was just, ah . . . vetting a particular therapist, and I wondered if you could verify his status with the board.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t discuss individual cases with the public. Who is this again?”

“I’d rather not tell you my name, if that’s okay.”

“It is.” She hesitated. “There is a license-verification database I can direct you to, if you’d like.”

“I don’t really have access to a computer where I am. And I think you might’ve met with him, at one point. Maybe given him your card?”

“I’m sorry. I’m really not—”

“It’s Matthew Cerny.”

There was a long silence, then she spoke again, her voice low. “I don’t mean to push, but it would really help if I knew your name.”

I cleared my throat. Time was running out, and I needed to wrap this up. “My name is Daphne Amos. I’m staying at Baskens Institute, in Dunfree, with my fiancé, for the week. I just want to know—is there any reason I should question Matthew Cerny’s ability to treat him?”

“Look,” she said evenly, “if you have any questions or concerns about a particular doctor, any licensed doctor in the state of Georgia, I would encourage you to go to our site. Since you aren’t near a computer, I can tell you that Dr. Matthew Cerny is a licensed psychologist, currently in good standing, in the state of Georgia.”

“Okay.”

“But . . .” She went quiet, and I glanced toward the door. Even if Cerny’s bowels were knotted tighter than a Boy Scout’s rope, the clock was running down.

“How about I just hang on to your card?” I suggested and she cleared her throat.

“Yes. Why don’t you do that.”

I hung up and tucked the card in my pocket. On the desk, the iPad screen had gone black, a reflection of my face staring out at me. Everything could be right here, right in front of me. A recording of my fiancé telling someone all the things he didn’t want to share with me. That he didn’t feel safe telling me. The real reason for his nightmares. His secrets. His obsessions.

And possibly some professional dirt on Cerny.

I swiped the home screen again. Tentatively tapped out a guess: C-E-R-N. The screen vibrated its rejection. I tried again, another miss, and again. Still nothing. I heard a noise then, the sound of the door banging against the wall. I clicked off the iPad and stepped away from the desk, back into the center of the room, just as Dr. Cerny entered. His sleeves were rolled up, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He smiled when he saw me.

“Daphne. What an unexpected surprise. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. What brings you here?”

I arranged my face into a careful neutral. “I was looking for Heath.”

“I imagine he’s gone back up to your room. For lunch. Isn’t it about that time?” He was moving toward me. His dad-smell filled the room: sweat, aftershave, wood chips. “You look well. Full of light and vitality and fresh air. The sun, the moon, the stars. What have you been doing with yourself, Daphne, while we damaged souls toil away in here, attempting to reclaim our sanity?”

“Wandering, I guess. Walking through the woods.”

“Pulling a Robert Frost, eh?” He went to the desk. Swiped the iPad. Tapped it a few times. “You go up the mountain or down to the creek today?”

“To the creek.”

“Good choice. Tell me, has Heath confided in you any more about our sessions?”

“No, not after the thing about his parents.”

“Interesting.” He leaned back in his chair. “You know, most people think the key to a successful relationship is communication. But it’s not. Communication doesn’t have some sort of magical ability to solve problems.” He laced his fingers and observed me. “Problems don’t disappear—most of them, anyway. Heath is who he is and you are who you are. Talking about it won’t change a thing.”