The Good Lie

by Torre, A. R.

  It was good for Luke that he was an Attens, because any normal individual would be in jail after what had happened with his sister. It had taken a team of attorneys to convince a judge that the fire had been an “accident,” and another team of plastic surgeons to repair the damage from the fire. Even two years later, I could see the skin grafts along the edge of his jaw and the scar around his left eye. His sister, whom he had doused with gasoline prior to lighting the match, had it worse. I had never spoken to Laura, who had moved to Florida with her fiancé and taken out a restraining order against Luke, one he’d already broken twice.

  His breathing quieted, and I waited.

  We were already twenty-five minutes into the session. I was still ignorant of what inciting event had occurred, but hopefully it could be wrapped up and solved in our remaining thirty-five minutes.

  Another three minutes passed, and Luke wasn’t known for drawing things out. Any minute and he would—

  “You know this serial killer that was caught?”

  I looped my fingers together. “Yes.”

  “What’s your take on it?”

  I chose my next words carefully. “I don’t have a take. He’s in custody.”

  “He a client of yours?” His breathing was starting to get more labored, his eyes widening, and he was losing control. This wasn’t good, and it especially wasn’t good with someone like Luke.

  “No, he wasn’t a client of mine.” And still isn’t, I told myself. I was hired by Robert, not Randall.

  “You know, he was my teacher.” He sneered the word.

  I blinked. “He was? At Beverly High?”

  That wasn’t a huge surprise. All the rich kids went to Beverly High or Montbrier. Luke was a decade older than Scott, but Randall Thompson had taught science there for almost twenty years.

  Luke rose from his seat and moved toward me. I glanced through the glass walls of the conference room to find Jacob watching us. I held his gaze for a moment, then returned my attention to Luke.

  He stopped before me, the buckle of his belt scraping against the conference room table as he leaned in so close that I could smell the stale odor of his breath.

  “The receptionist said his name, so is he your patient?” he hissed, and spittle from his mouth peppered my jaw.

  Maybe I should have just let this guy hyperventilate to death.

  “Luke, you need to step away from me,” I said calmly.

  “That pervert,” he said coldly, “put his—”

  The door to the conference room swung open. “Everything okay?” Jacob asked. Luke turned toward him, and I took the opportunity to roll my seat back and stand.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Luke’s hands balled into fists. Escalation had begun, and while I didn’t think he would hurt me, Jacob was a different story.

  “Luke, let’s finish this up another day.” I walked around the end of the table, keeping it between me and Luke as I all but shoved Jacob into the hall.

  I glanced back at Luke and gave my best calm and comforting smile. “Call me if you need to continue this session today. You have my cell number, Luke.”

  An angry breath hissed through his lips, and I was reminded of the press coverage after the car fire. The video of his sister, screaming out from the stretcher. I turned and walked straight through the reception area, beelining for Meredith’s office and motioning Jacob along with me. She was on the phone, and I closed her door behind us and locked it.

  She immediately ended the call. “What’s wrong?”

  “Potentially nothing. Still, call security and send them up here.”

  She dialed the downstairs desk and relayed the message. I pressed my ear to the door and tried to hear what was happening in the hall. There was a shout and then the slam of wood. A door. I straightened, my alarm growing as I heard a louder crash. This one hadn’t been out in the lobby. It had been on the other side of Meredith’s wall.

  Luke was in my office.

  CHAPTER 24

  My first concern was for Matthew, our third partner. The tiny psychologist had the physical presence of a field mouse. I hissed at Meredith to call his cell and hoped the man was tucked inside his office, the door locked. Luke shouldn’t go after him. If anything, as soon as he saw my wall of BH Killer notes, he’d misunderstand them and come for me.

  “What’s wrong?” Meredith asked, coming to stand beside me. “I mean, aside from the obvious. You look pale.”

  “He’s in my office.”

  “So?”

  “He’s got something against Randall Thompson. Just now, he asked if I represented him.”

  “Which you don’t.”

  “Yeah, but—” I waved a hand in the direction of my office. “That’s not what he’s going to think when he sees all my work in there.” The victims’ names, in chalk on the wall. The columns. The notes. Crime scene photos, pinned up in a neat grid. It’d be impossible to miss. I lifted my head, listening. Luke was quiet, probably standing in place, staring at it all.

  What was taking security so long?

  “Do I want to know what this guy’s kink is?” Meredith asked softly.

  “I wish I had an easy answer for that.” In layman’s terms, Luke was a walking train wreck. In non-layman’s terms, he was best conceptualized as recurring patterns of covariant traits rather than a single diagnostic category.

  “But he’s violent?”

  “He has a temper, which he loses often.” But it wasn’t just a temper. There was premeditation behind his outbursts. The incident with his sister occurred after Luke bought two cans, filled them with gas, and then sat for two hours outside her work, waiting for her to get off. Two hours where his anger built and solidified into a firm and deadly resolution. “Yes,” I amended. “He’s violent.”

  A knock rattled against the door, and we both jumped. “Don’t say anything,” Meredith whispered.

  “Dr. Moore? Dr. Blankner? It’s Bart, from the front desk.”

  I immediately flipped open the lock and cracked the door for the security guard. “Do you have him?”

  “They stopped him just off the elevators and have him at the desk.” Bart ran a hand over his smooth head, then scratched the back of it. “He’s saying he didn’t do anything wrong, other than breaking a lamp, which he said you can bill him for.”

  “Okay.” I straightened my blouse, a little embarrassed that we’d been cowering in the office like babies. “Dr. Reeker—our psychologist. Is he okay?”

  “I’m fine.” A sheepish Matthew peeked around the corner. “I was making contingency plans if Mr. Attens decided to break my door down. He didn’t.”

  “I almost wish he had,” Bart said, unclipping a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Then we could call the police and file an assault charge. As it is, we have to let him go.” He brought the radio up to his mouth and relayed the instructions.

  “That’s fine.” I hugged myself. “I just want him out of here. Can you keep him from coming back?”

  “Yeah, they’ll add him to the list now. Don’t worry, Doc. We’ll keep you guys safe.”

  We’ll keep you guys safe. That was impossible. Bart’s team was great, and their presence was why I’d chosen this building, but they could only do so much, and their protection ended at the building’s doors.

  “You okay?” Meredith asked as the security guard headed for the elevators.

  “Yeah.” Frustrated, I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t like putting any of you in danger.”

  “Meh.” She brushed it off. “You have to deal with my perverts checking you out from the waiting room, and we both have to suffer through Matthew’s mopey clients. You ever chatted one of them up in the elevator? I swear, their depression is contagious.”

  Perverts. I flashed back to Luke’s dark face. “That pervert,” he had seethed, “put his—”

  What had Randall done to him? Luke’s temper wasn’t a new behavior. It had been present his entire life. If Randall had molested him as a teenager, he woul
d have fought back.

  Meredith poked me, and I struggled to return to the conversation. “You’re right. Who cares about getting your throat slit when we have to deal with your clients using up all the hand lotion in the bathroom?”

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. “Exactly. See?”

  “I’m going to see how bad my office is.” I gave the group a grateful smile and left Meredith’s office, stepping into what I had previously thought of as my sanctuary.

  It was almost in order, aside from the rose gold–and–glass lamp that was now shattered beside my desk. Judging from the impact and outward spray of glass shards, it had been dropped straight down. Probably heaved over his head and toward the dark wood floors.

  I had loved that lamp. It had been a gift from my mother when I first moved into the office and would be impossible to replace. I crouched beside the exposed interior and cupped my hand, picking up the pieces and collecting them.

  “Here.” Jacob held out the small silver trash can that was normally by my coffee maker. “Why don’t you let me get that?”

  “No, no.” I dumped the handful into the trash can and took it from him. “I got it. You’ve got to get back to the desk.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. I continued the cleanup as best I could, leaving a small amount of glass powder for the maids to catch in their biweekly rounds. Rising to my feet, I did a slow 180, seeing the office through Luke’s eyes. The wall of details. The photos. The files spread out everywhere. A forgotten coffee cup by the chair I was sitting in. I moved behind my desk, examining the contents with a critical eye. My calendar was closed, computer locked and asleep. There was a legal pad filled with doodles and a few lines of notes that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me. By the phone, Robert’s business card was propped up against my paperweight. I frowned and picked it up. Had Luke seen it? If he had, would it have meant anything to him?

  Before I could second-guess the decision, I picked up the receiver and dialed Robert’s office line.

  “Cluster and Kavin.”

  “Mr. Kavin, please.”

  “May I ask what it’s regarding?”

  “It’s Dr. Gwen Moore, about Randall Thompson.”

  “Please hold.”

  A gentle cadence played, and I pulled my chair up to the desk and sat down. Closing my eyes, I let out a slow breath, reminding myself of the same things I had told Luke. Breathe from my stomach. Relax. He wasn’t the first client who had lost his temper with me, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  “Hey.”

  Robert’s familiar greeting did something foolish in my chest. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re busy.”

  “It’s no bother. What’s up?”

  “This is probably nothing, but I wanted to mention it to you just in case. A client just left my office. His name is Luke Attens. He’s a little fixated on the Randall Thompson arrest. He asked me a lot of questions, wanted to know if he was a client of mine.” I paused.

  “He’s not. He’s my client. You’re a consultant for me,” he responded.

  “I know. I didn’t go into that with him, I just denied it. He pressed the issue, didn’t believe me, and got a little heated.”

  “Is he a violent individual?” Robert’s tone was calm, his words measured and almost deadly cool.

  “He has been in the past.” I twisted the coil of the phone cord around my finger. “He forced his way into my office and saw my notes and files. Just briefly, but if he suspected Randall of being my client before, I’m sure he’s convinced of the fact now.”

  “Are you worried he’ll come after you again?”

  “I had your business card on my desk. I’m worried he saw it and might come to your office next. If you put me in touch with your building’s security desk, I can give them a physical description of him.”

  “I just pulled him up online. There’s a photo. Is this right? He lit his sister on fire?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” I cleared my throat. “He said Randall was his teacher—”

  “This isn’t a secure line,” he cut me off. “Let’s continue this conversation tomorrow, at our two o’clock.”

  I glanced down at the floor and stilled, catching sight of my purse in its spot against the leg of my desk. The neck of it was open, and I reached down and plucked it off the floor.

  I’d never been a big purse stuffer. I don’t carry Band-Aids and medicines, checkbooks or phone chargers. My purse mimicked my house—the bare necessities, in neat order. Inside the Chanel bag were my lipstick, powder, a travel-size Kleenex pack, a pen, and a small tin of peppermints.

  My wallet was missing, as were my keys.

  I didn’t have to retrace my steps or figure out if I had forgotten my wallet. I hadn’t. And I’d used my keys to unlock my office this morning. If they both weren’t in here, they’d been taken. I thought of my driver’s license, with my home address on it.

  “Gwen? Are you there?”

  “I have to go,” I said faintly.

  “What happened?”

  “He took my wallet and keys. I need to go.” I’d need to change my locks. Was he headed there now? If so, why? I thought of him shaking out a can of gasoline on his sister, of his obsession with fires. He brought it up frequently. My beautiful house. All the pieces I worked so hard to collect. Clem was inside, the lock on her cat door securely in place. “I’ll talk to you later.” I stood and grabbed my purse, then realized I didn’t have my car keys.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “I’ve got my cat at home. If he goes in—”

  “My office is closer. I’m leaving now. Call the police and meet me there.”

  He hung up before I could respond.

  CHAPTER 25

  In my driveway, a squad car was next to Robert’s sleek Mercedes. The knot of anxiety in my chest relaxed as Jacob’s car pulled up to the curb to let me out. He stared through the windshield at the two men who stood on my lawn. “That the lawyer?”

  “Yeah.” I unbuckled my seat belt. “That’s him.”

  “Handsome guy.”

  It was the first time Jacob had ever commented on a man, and I swallowed my surprise. “Yes, he is.”

  “You want me to come in?”

  I reached over and squeezed his forearm. “You’ve done more than enough today. Go home, and I want you to take tomorrow off. I’ll email my appointments and cancel them. Meredith and Matthew can handle themselves for a day.”

  “Nah,” he protested. “I’m okay.”

  “No. Seriously. Take it off and enjoy a three-day weekend.” I opened my door and stared at him until he relented.

  “Okay, okay.” He grinned. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Thanks for the ride.” I stepped out of the dented Toyota and closed the door. Checking the road for oncoming traffic, I crossed the street and climbed the small incline of my lawn.

  “Hey.” I nodded to the cop and Robert. “I’m Gwen Moore, the homeowner.”

  “Officer Kitt.” He offered his hand, and I shook it. “We did a perimeter sweep, but the doors are locked. No sign of anyone.”

  “Thank you. I have a hidden key. If you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate it if you came inside with me and checked the house.”

  “Of course.” The cop nodded, as did Robert. I met his concerned look and gave him a grateful smile, moving past them and up the drive to the side entrance.

  Robert followed me closely. “Are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”

  “I’m fine. Just a crazy afternoon.” I paused by the side door. “Turn away.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want you seeing where I hide my key. Turn away.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s a pretty small porch. I could just figure it out.”

  Under the weight of the stress, there was a crack—one that allowed a brief moment of levity. “I’m a master key hider. You would not figure it out.”

  He held up his hands in surrende
r and turned, waiting as I pulled the key from the top of the porch light and unlocked the door. The cop, who had been on his radio in the carport, stepped forward, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. “Let me check the house first, Ms. Moore.”

  “Sure.”

  Clem streaked out the door and into the yard. I relaxed in relief as she skidded to a stop and examined a new tulip bud sprouting in the carport planter. “That’s my cat,” I said. “There shouldn’t be anyone else in the house.” The officer nodded and stepped inside.

  An awkward silence fell, and I leaned against the pillar. “You didn’t have to come here.”

  “It’s my fault he went after you.” He threaded the watch’s band through its clasp. “I feel responsible.”

  I snorted. “Don’t. I have high-risk clients. Sometimes they’re triggered by obscure things.”

  He took the opposite column and smoothed his hand down the front of his tie. “How did you end up with that specialty? It seems a bit . . .” He glanced at the house, searching for the right word. “Macabre.”

  I watched as Clem stalked after a lizard. “People have always fascinated me. Their motivations. Decisions. I like figuring out how their brains work.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “You could figure out a normal person’s brain. Why focus on violent individuals?”

  “Why defend criminals?”

  He gave a humorless smile. “Gwen.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “It’s not a short answer.”

  “I can respect that.” He met my eyes. “Why don’t you tell it to me over dinner?”

  “Ahh . . .” I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t know. Given everything that we’re working on, maybe we should maintain a line of professional boundaries.”

  “Maybe I want to jump over that line.”

  I smiled. “Another night, maybe.”

  The rejection bounced off him like rubber. “I won’t give up.”