The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 17

In my last decade of counseling, I’d given out over a thousand business cards. Never had any been such a pain as this one. I stared down at the business card from John Abbott’s wallet, which had made it back onto my desk, still in its evidence bag. Underneath it, and without a protective sleeve, was the one thing I really hated to see. A warrant.

“What’s with the coffee? It got mint in it?” Detective Saxe peered down into a pale-blue mug, which must have been poured by Jacob.

“If it’s from the lobby, yes. You can dump it out if you don’t like it.” I flipped over the top page of the warrant and scanned the appropriate sections, hoping for a miracle in the short and precise descriptions. According to the warrant, I was required to answer questions about Mr. Abbott’s state of mind and any criminal activity I was aware of, but I didn’t have to surrender his client file. Thank God.

“Nah. It’s fine. Not bad, actually.” He pulled one of my chairs loose of its cluster and faced it toward my desk. “You can keep that warrant. It’s your copy.”

“Thanks,” I said smartly.

He sat down and opened his notepad. “We’ve been looking a little more closely into John Abbott.” He glanced at me. “Interesting guy.”

“In what way?”

He grinned. “Come on now, Doc. Let’s not play games. I got your warrant. Now let’s talk openly, okay? I got a lot of bad guys out there I still need to catch.”

Yes, and I had a business I needed to protect. If Brooke Abbott’s family sued me for negligence, I could be ruined, both financially and professionally.

“I don’t want to play games,” I said. “But you can’t make a random observation and just expect me to gush information. Ask me a question and I’ll answer it.”

His expression soured. “We have three Peeping Tom reports that were filed against Mr. Abbott. What can you tell me about his sexual perversions?”

“What?” If it was possible for a jaw to drop open, mine did. Twelve months of sessions, and this was an absolute surprise. “Who was he spying on?”

“Various wealthy women. Was caught on security cameras most of the time. Are you telling me you didn’t know anything about this?”

I raised my hands in innocence. “I’d swear to it in court. And to be honest, it shocks me. I—” I paused, not wanting to violate John’s privacy any more than I had to.

“What?”

“Are you certain it was him?”

“Three separate reports from three different women over seven years?” He nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

I grimaced. “It just doesn’t match his personality type. John was a very precise, organized individual. He thought things through, sometimes obsessively. And sexually? First of all, this warrant is focused on the deaths of Brooke and John Abbott, so I don’t see how an outside sexual obsession or deviance would be relevant, but I don’t mind answering the question, because the answer is simple. John Abbott didn’t have sexual perversions, as you put it. At least, none that he shared with me.”

“Never hit on you? Said anything inappropriate? Made you feel uncomfortable?”

I shook my head. “I’m shocked that he was stalking women. If anything, his focus was completely on his wife. He was practically asexual toward me.”

“Did you ever feel unsafe around him? Get the sense he was taking an unnatural interest in your personal life?”

“Absolutely not.”

“So, no sexual perversions.” He eyed me as if he didn’t believe it.

I spread my hands in ignorance. “Not that I had any knowledge or hint of.” I kept my voice mild and the rest of my opinion to myself. In John’s continual suspicions of his wife and other men, I’d often suspected a latent homo- or bisexuality. But that was pure speculation on my part, and would never hold up in court. It would be both easy and reckless to say that a man who wanted to kill his wife was doing so out of a growing frustration of his own inability to be attracted to or sexually perform with her. To share that hypothesis now would do a disservice to John, as well as Detective Saxe’s investigation, which still seemed muddy in scope and focus.

I dipped a toe into dangerous waters. “What exactly are you investigating?”

He studied me. “I’m not entirely sure. Something’s off. With the scene in the kitchen, with him receiving psychological treatment . . . and then the other stuff.”

I frowned. “What other stuff?”

He shrugged, and it was his turn to skirt the question. “I’ve got one last question, at least for now.”

Here it was. The moment it would all fall apart. The beginning of the end. I forced myself not to stiffen or flinch.

“Last time I was here, I asked if I should look at this as anything other than a suicide.” He glanced at me. “And you said, and I quote, ‘Not that I’m aware of.’”

I nodded. “Right.”

“You’d still stand by that statement?”

“Of course.” Was he still hung up on this? Questioning John Abbott’s death and ignoring Brooke’s supposed heart attack?

“Let me change the question a bit. If I told you that John Abbott was found dead of a knife wound, would you have suspected a suicide?”

Well, that was an interesting question. I smiled at him, enjoying the mental game. “His wife was dead beside him, right?”

“Ignoring that.”

I scoffed. “You can’t exactly ignore that.”

“Most husbands, when their wife dies of a heart attack, don’t kill themselves.”

Excellent point. “To clarify,” I countered, “most emotionally stable husbands don’t kill themselves when their wife dies.” Unless he was the one who killed her.“But John Abbott wasn’t emotionally stable. I’m not saying he was a sexual predator,” I hastened to clarify, “but he wasn’t emotionally . . .” I paused. “Maybe stable isn’t the right word. Let me return to your question. If you told me that John Abbott was found dead of a knife wound, my first inclination would be what anyone’s would be—that someone stabbed him.” I leaned forward. “But if you told me that Brooke Abbott died first, I would immediately suspect suicide. One hundred percent, without hesitation.”

I leaned forward and put my forearms on my desk, appreciating the hypothetical exercise. “For one, because what scenario could exist? Brooke died and then a random person showed up and murdered John?” I made a skeptical face. “Not likely. But also, and what you should really care about”—I chose my next words carefully—“is that John had an unhealthy emotional connection with Brooke. Her death would affect him differently than a normal husband. I agree, the standard response for a husband wouldn’t be to kill himself. But with John?” I sat back in the chair. “Absolutely likely.”

“Huh.”

All that brilliant insight, that complex chess game of words and delivery, and he responded with a word that was one step above a grunt. Not that I expected a standing ovation and a round of cheers, but come on.

“Let me toss something crazy in your lap.” He set down the coffee cup.

I waited, my pulse spiking.

“Brooke kills John, then has a heart attack.”

I let out an awkward laugh. “No.”

“No?” He raised one dark brow.

“No.” I shook my head, then paused, making sure that the knee-jerk reaction was valid. Was it possible that John told her about his dark fantasies, or he tried to kill her and she fought back and killed him in self-defense?

It was a mild possibility, but faint in the face of the much more certain truth—John had poisoned her and then killed himself. And there was no way I would allow them to drag a dead Brooke Abbott’s name through the mud. I’d break John’s confidence and risk my own reputation if need be. I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Okay.” He rose. “Like I said, it was just a crazy theory. Thanks. I’ll be back in touch if I have any more questions.”

I plucked up my business card, still in the plastic baggie, and held it out to him. “Here.”

He took it, then extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Moore.”

“Anytime.”

I watched him exit and silently begged him not to come back.