The Inquisitor. Gayle Wilson
to have a stiff drink and a good dinner.
Maybe her last patient was a better therapist than she was. She picked up the phone and punched Sheila’s extension.
“I’m gone,” she said when the secretary answered. “Nothing at eight tomorrow, right?”
“And a cancellation at nine. You’re in luck.”
“Thanks, Sheila. Hold that thought.”
“I will, believe me. See you tomorrow.”
Jenna put the phone down and pushed her chair away from the desk. As she did, she turned to look out the expanse of glass behind her. Although she was an hour later than usual leaving, for some reason she was surprised to find that night had fallen with seasonal suddenness.
The anxiety she’d managed to hold at bay most of the day bubbled up again. She was no longer able to distinguish between the unease caused by the general hysteria that gripped the city and that created by her personal nemesis. All she knew was that she hadn’t had time to take care of the restraining order, and that she now faced the prospect of returning to her apartment to find him waiting for her again.
She thought about giving in and driving out to spend the night at her parents’ home. Only the knowledge of how isolated that big, empty house was made her decide that going back to her own apartment was the lesser of two evils. And if Sean Murphy was there again—
She would call the police. And this time she would keep calling until someone paid attention.
Head lowered against the wind, Jenna hurried across the parking deck, the sound of her heels echoing off the concrete. She had deliberately parked nearer the building this morning.
A good idea, she decided, since the staff lot was practically deserted. Of course, this close to Christmas everyone was eager to get away from the office as quickly as they could to take care of the hundred and one things that still needed to be done in preparation for the holiday.
She was going to have to learn to say no to additional appointments at the end of an already full day. It wasn’t good for her or for the client.
Tonight she had felt her patience unraveling as John Nolan droned on and on about not being able to please his mother. Normally that kind of thing wouldn’t have bothered her, but she’d had to fight the urge to tell him to get a grip.
Maybe that’s what she should have done, she thought as she fumbled in her bag to retrieve her keys. She had already punched the unlock command before she looked up.
The driver’s side of the dark blue Accord was directly in front of her. In the accumulation of road splatter from the last few rainy days, someone had written “Help me” on its side.
The H began on the left side of the door, the other letters tracking neatly across its length. She stopped, reading the words twice to make sure they said what she thought they did.
Help me? Why would someone write “Help me” on her car?
She glanced at the three remaining automobiles on this level. None of them bore a similar message.
Some kind of prank? Except this was a monitored area, used only by the staff. And they gained access to it with a card.
She was sure the words hadn’t been there this morning. Given their position, she would definitely have noticed.
“Something wrong?”
She turned to find Gary Evers, one of the other psychologists on staff, watching her. She shook her head, embarrassed to admit she’d been stopped in her tracks by some words scrawled in the road dirt on the side of her car.
“Just trying to figure out who’s been leaving me messages,” she said, nodding toward the Honda.
Gary looked at the door and then back at her. “Help me? The tradition where I come from is ‘wash me.’”
Jenna tried to remember where Gary was from, but all she knew was that it wasn’t anywhere in the South. Of course, the tradition here was the same as the one he’d quoted.
“That would make more sense.”
“Maybe it’s a message from someone who feels he can’t afford your services.” Gary’s smile invited her to share his amusement.
For some reason, she couldn’t see the humor in the situation. Maybe it was the result of the long hours she’d put in today. Or—more likely—the result of everything that had happened during the last three. Of second-guessing her own actions and reactions. Just as she was now.
Was this a staff member’s idea of a joke because she’d come across as sympathetic to the killer? Or had it been written in anger by someone else, someone who had taken her research-based explanation about the forces that created such a monster as a defense of his actions.
Someone like Sean Murphy?
However the words had been meant, she could find nothing the least bit amusing about them. “I don’t think that’s the proper avenue for someone seeking pro bono therapy. Or for a co-worker having a laugh at my expense.”
“You think someone here did that?” Gary’s eyes again touched on the scrawl.
“It is a secure lot.”
“Yeah, but…” Realizing she’d been serious, Gary shook his head. His smile had been replaced by a slightly quizzical expression. “You want me to wipe it off?”
Realizing that she was making herself ridiculous, Jenna forced a smile. “I have to get the car washed, anyway. Maybe that was the intent.”
“To get you to wash your car?” His tone had lightened in response to hers. “Think Paul’s been out here nosing around?”
Although Carlisle was a stickler for having the staff present their best faces to the world at all times, the thought of him prowling the parking deck looking for dirty cars was also ridiculous. Pointing that out was obviously Gary’s intent.
“If not Paul, then somebody,” she said. “I get the message.”
Gary laughed. “I’ll let you know tomorrow if I’ve got a similar inscription on mine. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going home to a long, hot bath and a tall drink.” Something that was getting to be a habit. “I have no idea why this…” She stopped, refusing to admit how much the writing had bothered her.
“Everybody’s on edge right now. With good reason. God, you weren’t thinking—” He stopped, realizing that was exactly what she’d been thinking. “Look, this is somebody’s idea of a joke. A stupid one, granted, but…You can’t really think he did this.”
“I think maybe someone who was angered or annoyed by what I said in the interview decided to mock what I do.”
“Why would anyone have been angered by your interview?”
“Did you hear it?”
“Just the part about the killer.”
The clip they’d played over and over. The one without her take on holiday depression.
“Did you think I came across as sympathetic?”
“You came across as a professional discussing someone who’s obviously mentally ill. And doing it in a reasoned manner.”
“And if you weren’t a psychologist? How would it have come across to you then?”
His hesitation was slight, but it was enough. “Look, I don’t—”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Jenna said, her words strained and flat. “Thanks for trying, though.”
“You can’t let yourself be held hostage to the morons of the world. If you do, then they win. You said nothing wrong, Jenna. Believe me, nobody here thinks so.”
That