The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 5

I stood in a sea of black-suited strangers and listened to everyone talk about John as if he were a saint.

“It was Christmas Eve and he came into the pharmacy, just for me. Someone had stolen my bag at the gym, and I needed more heart medication . . .” The older woman put her hand over her large bosom, right next to a gold butterfly broach.

Oh, bless John and his heart medicine to the rescue. Honestly, it’s the nicest people you have to worry the most about. Ed Gein, the killer who famously created suits of women’s skin, was described as the nicest man in town. Dr. Harold Shipman, who murdered over two hundred patients, would make home visits and had a soothing and polite bedside manner. Part of the game, for many killers, is the con of the innocent, the hiding of the monster, the successful deception that proves to them that they are smarter and therefore superior.

“On the rainy days, John brought in my newspaper. Said he worried about me making it down my drive with my cane . . .” A younger man with braces on his legs spoke in a hushed tone, and I maneuvered around the group, beelining for the coffee station.

“You could just see the love they had. You know, it would have been their fifteen-year anniversary this year . . .” Another tight cluster of mourners, this discussion led by a woman with short-cropped hair that was a bright shade of magenta.

Sure, fifteen years of him hovering over her with a critical eye. Picking her apart for harmless conversations and friendships. In a year, I had barely scratched the surface of where John’s insecurities and control issues came from, but they seemed to swell and ebb around Brooke’s behavior.

They had been married fifteen years, but John’s complicated mix of emotions for his wife had only ramped into violent inclinations in the last year. He had first sought my help when an argument between them had led him to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until she fainted. The act had given him a rush of sexual endorphins and caused her to emotionally withdraw . . . which was akin to a child running from a large dog. Ears went up, tail twitched, chase time on.

John may have brought newspapers in for neighbors with disabilities and opened the pharmacy on the weekend for heart-medicine distribution, but he had also calculated medicine combinations that would kill his wife and mused about locking her in his car trunk on a hot summer day to “teach her a lesson” about loyalty and trust.

With the exception of his first choking incident, the rest of his fantasies we had controlled through regular sessions and prescribed medications, the latter of which he often skipped or ignored altogether.

I stopped at the end of a long receiving line. Ahead of us was a trio of family members. I watched their faces as the line shuffled forward, curious if any of them had seen the monster behind the man.

“Strangling her would be best. For my enjoyment, I mean. I like the idea of looking in her eyes. Of her understanding what is happening. Otherwise, I’m worried she’ll get distracted by the pain.”

I’d spent the last four days thinking over our sessions. Each night, I’d listened to the recordings of our appointments, focusing on the excited lilt of his voice as he had described the different ways he would hurt her. In hindsight, there were far too many signs, a gradual ramp-up of intensity between his first visit and last. I’d heard it and made notes, yet I’d been foolish enough to believe that the power of my counsel was enough to keep him in line. My ego, that was what had killed Brooke.

I paused in front of John’s sister, her mascara streaked down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her. I stepped to the side and repeated the routine with his brother. They were both thin and bookish—a marked contrast to John’s large frame.

“Mrs. Caldwell.” I nodded to Brooke’s mother, who was sagging in place, her face etched in deep lines of sorrow, all color faded from her skin.

I did this. I’m the reason she no longer has a daughter.

I could have broken my physician’s code of silence if I believed my patient was an imminent and violent threat to others.

I could have gone to the police. Shared everything John told me.

But then what? They would have questioned him. Questioned her. And then released him. You can’t arrest someone for thinking about killing someone. They would have let him go, she might have left him over the event, and he might have killed her then.

Justification.The problem with the initials after my name was that I could smell my own bullshit.

I snuck out early and ended up at a bar two blocks down from the funeral home. I claimed a booth in the back, one tucked behind a pool table and beside a crooked dartboard. It was quiet, the bar half-empty, and I slid into the plastic seat and pulled a metal bucket of dusty peanuts toward me.

The waitress was heavily pregnant and lumbered over with a disinterested yawn. I saved her a few extra trips by ordering a bucket of beer.

“Getting anything to eat?” Her gaze drifted over my black pantsuit with the sort of curiosity that indicated ironed outfits rarely made their way through the doors.

“Just the beer.” I forced a smile.

“You guys with some sort of convention?”

“Excuse me?”

She pointed toward the entrance. “You and him.”

I followed her direction and saw a man in a three-piece suit on a stool at the bar. “No.”

She shrugged. “Okay. If you need more peanuts, let me know.”

The jukebox started up, some twangy song about Amarillo in the morning. I eased down in the booth until my head rested against the cushion. I hadn’t been to a bar in a decade, which might be why I was still single. It was hard to find a boyfriend when you spent the bulk of your time surrounded by fellow shrinks and psychotic patients. The last time I’d stepped foot in a bar, the delicate sounds of a pianist played as hushed conversations were held beneath expensive light fixtures. I’d sipped a handcrafted drink garnished with spices and served in a smoked tumbler.

This place was the polar opposite, the sort of establishment where mistakes were made and sorrows were drowned, which was exactly why I’d paused by the entrance and pushed open the door. If I could drink away the last two hours, maybe I could go to sleep without the vision of Brooke Abbott’s mother sobbing against the side of the casket.

“Here.” The waitress was back, heaving a metal pail full of Bud Light bottles onto the table. “If we fill up, you’ll have to move to the bar. The booths are for parties of two or more.”

I nodded. If they filled up, I’d be out the door and flagging down a taxi. I took a beer from the ice and twisted off the cap, chugging it until my brain flexed in response to the chill.

Two beers later, I returned from the bathroom and reclaimed my seat, my remaining bottles cockeyed and waiting in the ice. I picked up a sticky menu tent and reviewed the short list of offerings.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I made a vow a long time ago to stop any woman who was about to make a huge mistake.”

I looked up from the card and into a face that looked as tired as mine. He wore it better than I did, his handsomeness almost magnified by the deep lines in his brow. “What mistake is that?”

“You were thinking about the fish dip, right?” The corner of his mouth crooked up, revealing a hint of straight teeth. He was my age, late thirties, and I checked for a wedding band, my interest rising at the sight of his bare ring finger.

Not that a relationship was what I wanted. Right now, with guilt weighing down every thought, I just needed a mistake. One filthy, mind-numbing mistake. If it came wrapped in an expensive suit and bedroom eyes, even better.

“I was actually thinking about oysters.”

He winced. “As a man who’s spent the last hour sampling every item on that menu, I recommend the wings and nothing else.”

“Sold.” I set the tent card down and held out my hand. “I’m Gwen.”

“Robert.” He shook it firmly, but not to the point of dominance. “Bad day?”

“Bad week.” I gestured to the other side of the booth, inviting him to sit. “You?”

“Same.” He slid in, and his leg bumped against mine. “Want to talk about it?”

“Hell no.” I pulled out a bottle and offered it to him. “Beer?”

He took it. “I have to say, I’ve never seen a beautiful woman drink alone for so long without being approached.”

“I think I put off a pretty clear ‘Stay away’ vibe.” I glanced around. “Plus, there’s no one here.”

“Which is shocking, given the ambience,” he deadpanned.

I laughed. “Yeah. But I don’t know, it fits my mood.” I leaned forward and wrapped my hands around the bottle. “With this glass, rich and deep, we cradle all our sorrows to sleep.” I gave a wistful smile. “My dad used to say that. Though he was a scotch man, not Bud Light.”

He studied me. “What are you doing here? You seem like more of an uptown girl.”

I had to smile at the polite dig. “A snob,” I amended. “That’s what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying you carry hand sanitizer in your purse and played Taylor Swift on the jukebox,” he pointed out. “To say you don’t fit in here is putting it mildly.”

I warmed at the knowledge that he had been watching me, then immediately reminded myself of why I was there. Punishment. Atonement. Two people were dead on my watch. “I was in the neighborhood.” I caught the waitress’s eyes. “You?”

He grimaced. “Attending a funeral.”

I paused, surprised. “The Abbott funeral?”

He raised his brow. “Yeah. You?”

“Same.” I frowned. “I didn’t see you there.” Not that I’d been studying the crowd.

“I left pretty early. I don’t do well at funerals. Especially lately.” A shadow passed over his face. “It’s been a bad year for me with deaths.”

I didn’t need my psychiatry degree to know to avoid that minefield. The pain was radiating off him, and if it was from this funeral, my guilt was about to get worse. I gave a slight nod in response.

His eyebrows pinched together in thought. “Who were you a friend of? Brooke or John?”

A friend? I’d be lying either way. “Brooke,” I said, and wished it were true.

He nodded. “John was my pharmacist.”

“Wow.” I took a sip of my beer. “Good for you. I don’t even know mine’s name, much less would attend her funeral.”

“My son had diabetes,” he said quietly. “We were frequent customers.”

Ah. Had diabetes. A bad year for funerals. Unless someone recently found a cure for juvenile diabetes, I had an answer for the haunted look in his eyes.

“Well.” I lifted my beer. “To John and Brooke.”

“To John and Brooke.” He clinked bottles with me, then downed the rest of his without flinching.

The waitress paused by our table and pulled the empty bucket of ice toward the edge. “Did you want to order something?”

“Yes. A dozen wings, please. Mild.”

“And another bucket of beer.” Robert threw an arm over the back of the booth, and his jacket gaped open, revealing the expensive lines of his vest. A custom suit. The glint of a Rolex peeking out of the sleeve of his jacket. A comfort level in this atmosphere where he obviously didn’t fit, bred from pure confidence. A businessman or attorney. Probably the latter.

“I really shouldn’t have any more.” I turned my watch so I could see the dial. Seven thirty. It felt so much later.

“I’ll drink them all.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out two pills. Putting one in his mouth, he put the other on the bar napkin in front of me. “Take this. It’ll help with your hangover tomorrow.”

I looked at the round white tablet without touching it. “What is it?”

“B6. You’re supposed to take it prior to, during, and after drinking, but any of it helps.” He nodded to the pill. “Go ahead. It doesn’t bite.”

I slid the napkin toward him. “Not gonna happen. It’s all you.”

He chuckled. “You’re either anti-remedy, drinking to punish yourself for something, or you don’t trust me.”

“The last two.” I took a small sip of beer. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He picked up the pill and put it on his tongue, a flash of white teeth showing before it disappeared in his mouth. “What are you punishing yourself for?”

“I made a mistake at work.” I moved my beer in a small circle on the table, watching as it left a path of condensation.

“Must have been a big one.”

“It was.”

“Let me guess.” He tilted his head to one side and did an obvious up and down of my pantsuit. “Accountant.”

I curled my upper lip in distaste. “No.”

“Studio exec.”

I laughed, because in this town, everyone wanted to be in the movies. “No. Psychiatrist.”

“Ah. Definitely not anti-remedy, then.” He studied me. “Expensive watch and bag, and the freedom to be entering bars in questionable areas of town just in time for happy hour. You must have a private practice. Let me guess, housewives with inferiority complexes?”

“Private practice, yes. Housewives, no.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “If you’re a cop, you aren’t a great one.”

“Definitely not a cop. I sit on the other side of that courtroom.” He gave an unapologetic smirk. “Defense attorney.”

I sat up straighter, my interest piqued at the specialty. “White-collar crimes?”

“Mostly criminal.”

“Here in Los Angeles County?”

“And Orange.”

“Personal or property crime?”

He regarded me over the top of his beer. “You’re suddenly full of questions.”

“I’m called in for expert testimony a lot. I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed.”

“There are thousands of cases a year,” he said slowly. “I’d be surprised if they did. What’s your specialty?”

I was too drunk for this interview. I cleared my throat and attempted a mask of composure. “Personality disorders and violent compulsions.”

“You get more interesting with each moment, Dr. Gwen.”

“Wings?” A man in a cowboy hat stopped by our table, a basket in hand; they were really pushing the western-bar concept too far.

I raised my hand. “Those are mine.”

My house was closest, and I was laughing when I stumbled out of the taxi, my fingers latched through his as we made it across the dark stepping-stones and up the stacked-stone steps of my house. From the swing at the end of the porch, Clementine mewed. Robert stared into the darkness. “Nice kitty.”

I ignored him and got the door open. He followed me closely, his hands roaming as he peeled off my jacket and kissed the back of my neck. I dropped my head back, enjoying the soft press of his lips against the neglected spot, one that sent a tremor of need down my spine. My last sexual encounter had been the result of a blind date and had involved a half-hearted erection and lots of stifled yawns on my end as I’d eyed the clock and yearned for bed.

The foyer lamp was on, the light picking up the turquoise colors in the oil painting of Alcatraz Island. Robert pushed me against the navy wall, palming my breast through my shirt as his mouth settled on mine. He was a talented kisser, confident yet gentle, and I sank against the molding and let him take control. I kicked off one heel, then the other, dropping in height as he undid the top button of my blouse.

“Come on.” I pulled to one side, tugging on his hand as I led the way up the dark wooden stairs to my bedroom. Pushing open the door, I felt a wave of calm and reassurance at the perfectly made bed and orderly room. While I had chosen dramatic and dark colors for the living room and foyer, my bedroom was all crisp white, from the walls to the bedding to the soft, plush rug that stretched over the walnut floor. The only color came from the neat stack of novels and the fresh lilies on my bedside table and the large fireplace, which shimmered with inlaid mirror shards, set into brick. I’d paid a fortune for that fireplace, and it’d been worth every penny.

If he was impressed by the room, he said nothing, staying silent as I crawled onto the taut expanse of the white monogrammed duvet and turned to face him.

He pulled off his jacket slowly, then unbuttoned his shirt, giving me time to think, to analyze, to back out. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t been with a man in over a year, but there was no hesitation in me. I unbuttoned my pants and shimmied out of them.

The bed sank as he joined me on it, and I reached for him, greedy for the warmth of his skin and the reconnection of our kiss. The heat of our bodies joined, and it was exactly what I needed—a living connection in a day filled with death.