The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 11

The next day, I walked my four thirty appointment to the lobby and paused at the sight of Robert Kavin. The tall attorney was standing at Jacob’s desk, and I zeroed in on the thick file in his hand. I glanced back to my client, a Peeping Tom with unresolved mother issues. “I’ll see you next week, Jeff.”

Jeff Maven nodded, then beelined for the stairwell.

“Dr. Moore?” Robert ambled toward me with the confidence of an alpha male. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.” I held the heavy office door open and nodded to Jacob. “Please hold my calls.”

Robert passed into my office, and I caught the faint whiff of an expensive cologne. Inside the office, he paused, surveying the room. “Nice digs.”

“We got lucky with our lease. If we signed on today, we’d be paying triple net rent.” I took a seat in one of the low-slung leather chairs beside the love seat.

He noticed the breakfast bar in the corner of the room. “Mind if I get a cup of coffee?” He set the file folder on my desk.

“Not at all. In fact . . .” I leaned over and plucked my almost empty mug off the side table. “Can you top me off?”

“Sure.” He reached for the cup, and his fingers brushed mine. Our eyes met, and I let go of the ceramic handle.

He turned away and stopped in front of the coffeepot. “You’re a doctor, so I’m assuming our conversations are protected by doctor-patient confidentiality?”

An interesting question. “You’re hiring me, so yes. But, as I’m sure you’re well aware, that confidentiality is limited.”

“Oh yes, I’m aware.” He turned toward me, two cups in hand. “If a patient is an imminent danger to himself or others, you’re obligated to tell the authorities. Right?”

It was interesting, the way he delivered questions, as if every one was accusatory. A by-product of thousands of hours on the stand or—and just as likely—a deep-rooted inclination to suspect the worst in people. I skipped the urge to point out the psychological tic and nodded. “Yes. If a patient is likely to cause himself or someone else harm, we’re required to report it.”

“I have a feeling, given your clients, that you’ve bent that rule before.” He settled into the seat in front of me and lifted his cup to his lips.

Where was he going with this? I crossed my legs, but his gaze stayed on my face. Impressive focus, especially given the length of this skirt. It was one I rarely wore, and one that tiptoed on the edge of unprofessional, but it was a good card to pull out when I needed to test a man. Robert Kavin had passed. I ignored the comment and glanced at the file he’d placed on my desk. It was fat and red and had a rubber band around its midsection, pinning it closed.

“What’s with the confidentiality question?” I placed my notebook down on the table between us and relaxed in the seat, hoping the new body language would ease the tension from his shoulders.

It didn’t. If anything, his brow furrow deepened. “Just wondering if you’re trustworthy.”

I picked up the cup of coffee Robert had set before me. “It’s a necessity in my line of work. If clients couldn’t trust me, they wouldn’t talk about their problems.”

“They confess things they’ve done?”

I made a face, annoyed with the question, one I received frequently. “Their actions come out sometimes when we talk about guilt.” I cupped my hands around the mug, comforted by the warmth of the ceramic. “Each client is different. For some, it’s healing to talk.”

His jaw tightened, and I studied him closely, trying to read between his questions. Some evasiveness was to be expected in his line of work. But there was more than just curiosity in his tone. And more than distrust. There was also a tight edge of . . . anger. That was interesting.

I poked the emotion. “Why all the questions?”

In response, he gestured to the folder. “That’s Gabe’s file. Let me know if you have any questions.” He straightened the line of his tie but didn’t meet my eyes. With another client, I’d consider it a deceptive tell, but this I read as pain.

This was important to him. Important enough for him to drive through rush-hour traffic and be here in person, a stiff new copy of Gabe’s file in hand. I rose and went to it. Pulling the rubber band free, I opened the folder and ran my fingernail along the row of color-coded tabs that organized the contents. “How many psychologists have you given this to?”

“Shrinks? None.”

“We don’t really like that term,” I said mildly, flipping open the tab marked “Evidence.” There was a neat line of items, and my blood hummed with excitement.

“Sorry.”

“There are better ways to heal than obsessing over the killer.” I was dying to study the file, to read each page in detail, to find the hidden clues. I always loved clues, which was why I set down the file and turned my attention back to Robert. He was giving me clues—I just couldn’t seem to follow them.

“Healing isn’t my main objective.”

“Maybe it should be. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, this week’s arrest of your son’s killer is a major emotional event.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me. Just read his file and tell me what you think.”

I let out a half laugh. “Psychoanalyzing people is part of my job.”

His gaze hardened. “Not this job.”

“For a proper profile, I’d need more than just his file.” I settled back onto the couch, ignoring the silent scream of the folder. “You said you could get all the other victim files?”

“Yes. But look at his first and see if you have the stomach for it.”

I glanced at my watch, conscious of the fact that I had another appointment in fifteen minutes. “My stomach won’t be a problem, but my time is tight. I’ll need a few days to go through everything.”

“You told me the night we met that you specialize in clients with violent inclinations.”

“That’s right.”

His knee jiggled, a quick staccato beat that stilled when I looked at it. It was a tell, and I cataloged it beside the evasive eye contact and the bite of hostility in his tone. Frustration. Angst?

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, delivering the direct eye contact I wanted. It was invasive, a cross-examination level of confrontation, and I welcomed it. “Why spend your days with society’s most vile individuals?”

“I don’t see them as vile,” I answered truthfully. “I see them as human. We all battle demons. If they’re in my office, it’s because they’re trying to fix that part of them. I can relate to that. Can you?” I arched a brow at him in question.

He held my stare for a long moment, then rose, buttoning his suit jacket closed with a finality that came from years of practice. “I don’t need you to analyze me. Just read Gabe’s file and send me your initial thoughts, Gwen.”

“You know . . . I think I’ll pass.” I stayed in place. “You can take the file with you.”

It was a bitchy move and a gamble, given that I wanted the job as badly as anything in recent memory. Still, the risk was necessary. I had to see how much he really needed me. Because there were a lot of experts out there, but he was in my office, the file on my desk. Why?

He paused, and when he turned to face me, the frustration was evident. “I’m hiring you for a job. You’re refusing the work?”

“There’s a potential conflict of interest.”

“And that—” He cleared his throat and began again. “That is what?”

“We slept together,” I pointed out. “I’m not exactly an unbiased third party. You may put too much weight into my opinion, or it may be skewed on my end, based on our history.”

It was a valid and excellent point, one my conscience had raised as soon as I started to get excited about the potential project.

“It was one night.” He shrugged. “Not exactly history.”

My ego wilted a little, and I smiled to hide the hurt. “You’re also grieving.”

“So?”

“The death of a loved one can eat at you,” I said quietly. “Looking at crime scene photos . . . obsessing over his murderer . . . I just want to make sure it doesn’t devour you.”

A sardonic smile twisted across his lips. “Too late for that.” He strode forward and picked up the file. “But if you don’t want to do it, don’t. I’ll find another expert. The country’s full of them.”

He waited, and there was a long moment where we played a silent game of reverse psychology, and I lost.

I held out my hand. “Give me a few days, and any of the other case files you can get.”

He handed it over, and then, like a lion sauntering away from a carcass, he strolled out of the room.

I looked down at the folder, then glanced again at my watch. Eight minutes before my next appointment. Just enough time for a peek.