The Good Lie by A.R. Torre
CHAPTER 4
“You know, most killers start with a close family member or friend.”
This fact was delivered by Lela Grant, who wore a bright-yellow dress with a white cardigan and had a designer purse tucked between her turquoise-blue heels. In the first thirty minutes of our appointment, she had complained about her husband, chattered enthusiastically about the addition of a salad bar to her country club’s lunch hour, and shown me photos of two chaise lounge options she was considering for her lanai. After we made the excruciating choice to go with the white-and-green-cushioned bamboo chaise, we finally circled around to why I was treating her: her violent fantasies toward her husband’s sister.
“Yes, I’m aware of that statistic.” I drew a small line of roses along the top of my notepad and made a mental reminder to order a funeral spray for John and Brooke’s service.
“The problem is that she lives so close. He’s going to want to go to her house for Christmas dinner, and what can I say? I have no good excuse. Sarah’s house is bigger than ours, her kids haven’t seen him in months, and she makes some lemon pie he won’t shut up about. I mean, it’s lemon pie. How spectacular could it be?”
I shrugged. “I don’t like pie.”
“Well, a pie is a pie. I told him that, and he got offended. Let me tell you, I’ve made a hundred pies for that man, and he’s never raved about any of them. I should be the one who’s offended. Honestly, Gwen—I don’t think I can sit at her table and watch her waltz in with that dessert and not turn violent. Do you realize how many knives are going to be at that table?” Her cheeks sucked in with worry, an act that further ballooned her injected lips. Her forehead, defying all natural odds, remained perfectly smooth.
“You’re not going to pick up a knife and stab her,” I said patiently.
“I think I am. You don’t know how often I’ve seen it in my head.” An almost dreamy calm came over Lela’s face as she worked through the bloodshed in her mind. Her lids snapped open. “Can’t you give me a doctor’s note? Something to get me out of this?”
“We have two months until Christmas,” I pointed out. “Let’s take things one at a time.” I moved the conversation in a better direction. “I’d like you to tell me something nice about Sarah.”
“What do you mean?”
“Share something that you like about her. A redeeming quality.”
She looked at me as if I were insane. I waited patiently, my hands folded over each other on the pad. Lela wasn’t a killer, though she certainly wanted to be. She was bored, had watched too many female-murderer documentaries on TV, and hated her sister-in-law. Who didn’t hate someone? I had a list of at least three people I’d rather do without. Would I grab a turkey knife and go for their jugular? No. But neither would Lela. She just liked the idea of being interesting, and the thought that she had a secret and underlying homicidal inclination was a rainy-day fantasy she had embraced with maniacal vigor.
“I’m going to give you some homework.” I picked up my pen. “Before next week’s appointment, come up with three things that you like or admire about Sarah.” I held up my hand to stop her objection. “Don’t tell me you can’t come up with three things. Figure it out, or postpone our next appointment until you do.”
She twisted her watermelon-colored lips into a grimace.
I gave her a reassuring smile and stood. “I think we made good progress today.”
She reached down and gripped the handles of her purse. “I hate this homework.”
I stifled a laugh, then threw her an emotional crutch. “If we’re going to keep your impulses in check, we have to retrain the way your brain looks at Sarah. Trust me, this is important to your treatment.” And your marriage, I added silently.
“Fine.” She huffed to her feet. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Of course.” I rose and swallowed the new and foreign swell of insecurity that was rising in my chest. I’d been wrong to believe that Brooke Abbott was safe from her husband.
Was I missing the mark on Lela Grant, too?