“What do you like about what you do?”
“I like to help people understand themselves.”
“And the most challenging?”
“The process into a patient’s psyche and soul is a dark one. It’s takes guts, Jimmy. You have to trust that you can join a patient in his reality—sometimes it’s sick, evil, disturbing—and trust that you won’t go mad at the end of the session. I’ve had patients threaten me, point a gun at me, throw a paperweight at me. Practicing psychiatry can be risky.”
“Well, let’s move on. Many people don’t know that you collect brains.”
“That is correct. Post mortem, and all donated to science. It is an awful organ to waste.”
“How many do you have?”
“Eighty-five.”
“Okay, let’s veer off. I have to ask, John. Did you kill Anna Summers?”
“I didn’t.”
“What about the other victims? Six murdered girls that we know of. All American, natural blondes, late twenties, sexually assaulted before being strangled.”
“Very sad. Have they found the bodies yet?”
“John, you look very relaxed to me, sitting here. For someone who’s been charged with murder, rape, and kidnapping—how do you manage to stay calm?”
“Jedi mind tricks.” He laughs at his little joke. “I’m calm because I’m innocent.”
“Yes, there’s that. But you also don’t seem to flinch at the mention of dead women, sexual offenses, or heinous crimes.”
“Well, death doesn’t make me queasy.” He flashes his usual, wicked smile. “It’s life that is all the trouble.”
“Didn’t you love Anna Summers?”
“Oh, I had a great deal of affection for Anna. She got my mind off of things.”
“Doesn’t the thought of her dead upset you?”
“I can’t say it gives me joy.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing and anything. Nothing is certain and anything can happen.”
“John, refresh my memory. You broke out of prison because you were frightened of what other inmates could do to you.”
“That’s what it says in the papers.”
“Is it not true?”
“What part?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, Jimmy.” He shifts in his seat and crosses his other leg over his knee. “People form opinions as though this-and-that is true or not true facts, and that’s all there is to the story, but really, that’s just what you’re seeing. Here’s the thing. In logic, an interpretation is an attempt to understand something. It’s referential, a product of thinking, imagining, opining.”
“Are you deflecting my question?”
“Respectfully, Jimmy, I answered your question. It’s you who isn’t satisfied with the answer.”
“It’s not a million dollar answer, John. Even if it were, you’re a very smart man. I understand you have a PhD from Palo Alto. In any case, it’s a simple yes or no answer. All I ask is the truth about yourself.”
Again that damn smirk of a smile. “Oh, Jimmy. Nothing is a simple yes or no answer if broken down far enough. There are always variables in everything.”
“You say you didn’t kill Anna Summers, right?”
“True.”
“Then what other variable is there? You either killed someone or you didn’t. There is no in between.”
“I see tons of gray.”
“You definitely don’t kill someone just a little bit.”
“I agree. That is common sense.”
“So if you are not a murderer, just say no. If you are not a rapist, just say no. If you are not a kidnapper, just say no. Are you unable to face the truth of your own self?”
He exhales a dramatic sigh. “There was a brunette. Yvonne.”
“Pardon?”
“You said the six victims were natural blondes. Yvonne was a brunette. She dyed her hair.”
“And how would you know about that…unless you knew her up-close and personal?”
John chuckles.
“Did I say something funny?”
“I knew you were going to ask that question. The reason I know about Yvonne, or the other victims, is because I have been accused of raping and killing them. Don’t you think I want to read everything about them?”
Sophie turns the TV off. “I’m going to go make some coffee.” She says this simply, as if it is the usual thing to do after seeing her captor, once again, play out his charade on national television.
IT ISN’T UNTIL later—deep kisses, knocked down lamps, and sweaty sheets—that the feelings come. First, it’s the anticipation. The buildup. The delicious knowing of what awaits. Wanting the towel around his waist to drop. He’s fresh from the shower and she cannot take her eyes away. She knows as soon as it drops, she drops. That’s what makes her heart start to race. It only keeps going faster, faster, faster. Next, his towel comes off.
“Come and get it,” he entices, and everything flows forward from there.
Add a desperate kiss and any remaining control is effectively drowned. Sensitivity. Helplessness. Tingly electric contractions. Then, the astonishing climax. It’s seventh heaven. Lightning bolts so powerful shoot through her that she can almost see them. The name of God on her lips in a cry of joy. The more controlling and aggressive he is, the more her mind lets go. The problems, the worries, the disappointments—for a few precious minutes, Sophie lets it all go. It’s surrender. They become one—one mind with one purpose: succumb to the risky business of love.
Sophie can’t move. Brain function is at zero percent. She just lies on her back, heart pounding, complexly depleted. She temporarily forgets how to breathe. What is this? Her eyes start tearing up.
Oliver turns on his side to see her covering her face with her hands.
“Sophie, are you crying?”
She shakes her head, but doesn’t take her hands away.
“What happened? Did I hurt you?”
She shakes her head again. She is overwhelmed, vulnerable, and extremely emotional. They say emotions can be stored in the body just waiting to be attended. Oliver hit a nerve, thereby releasing something.
“Sophie.”
She sniffles. “I’m sorry. This is embarrassing.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says with a smile. “Just let me see you.” He gently pries her fingers from her face. “Hey,” he says softly, brushing his thumbs along her wet cheeks. “You don’t need to hide. Everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” is all she can manage.
Tonight, she is aware of everything. The softness of the sheets, the depth of the pillow, the glisten of their skin, the sound of his breathing, the chill and heat of everything flowing around her.
“I’ve never felt this before.”
He folds her into his arms and she nuzzles into him. “Felt what?”
Something too important, too everything. “The word hasn’t been invented yet.”
He looks confused.
“Every time I look at you, I don’t know exactly what happened or how it happened. I just know that since it did, nothing in my life has been the same.” It’s then she realizes how much she truly loves him. Oliver Black is a magnificent man, but making love to him is almost too much stimulation for the senses. It’s aphrodisiac, heart-stopping, liberating. With him, she is free enough to let her guard down. She finally understands why the French call it la petite mort. You do die a little death. You forget everything and everyone else. So many feelings—ecstasy, bemusement, revelation, fatigue—take over your body all at the same time. And in that little death, in that powerful feeling, you come alive.
T W E N T Y - S I X
* * *
Unexpected
SOPHIE AWAKENS TO find Oliver sopping wet.
“Oliver.” She leans forward and puts her hand on his forehead. Her eyes grow wide with fright.
The sensation of her cold hand wakes him up.
“You’re burning up
and covered in sweat.”
“I didn’t realize you were a nurse,” he croaks with a smile. Half awake and in a fever, he still jokes.
“This isn’t funny. Should I call Dr. Wu? I think you’ve got a temperature.”
“That’s because you’re here.”
“Oliver, I’m serious. You don’t look at all well. I’ll get you water.”
She drags herself out of the blankets and pours a glass from the water pitcher in the bedroom. Oliver rises from the bed with unsteady legs and heads for the bathroom. As he leans over the faucet to splash water on his face, there’s a shooting pain in his neck again.
“Here you go.” Sophie hands him the glass.
He chugs the drink.
“Oliver.”
He smiles, knowing she cares. “I’ll be fine. I’m just tired.”
“You’re never tired.”
“Well, I’m tired now.”
“You might be coming down with something.” She feels his forehead again. “You feel really hot.”
“It could be raging hormones.”
“Oliver, what if something is wrong?”
“Doubtful. I don’t get sick. Not since 2007. One ear infection in 2001. Vomit-free since 1999. Haven’t had a cold or flu in fifteen years.”
Sophie wants to say, ‘you’re allergic to peanuts, and there was that one time with the kidney stones in the hospital,’ but nobody likes a nitpicker.
“You know what would make me feel better?” He smirks. This is his way, always flirting and seducing.
“A stuffed calzone?”
“If by stuffed calzone you mean you and me in bed, then yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind.”
“Babe, please, just get checked out. Better safe than sorry.” She puts a dab of paste on a toothbrush and starts brushing.
Oliver sighs and leans forward, putting his hands on the marble countertop. “Speaking of people who need to get checked out, the groundskeeper heard you throwing up in the gym.”
She spits and rinses. “Of course he did, because there is no privacy anymore.”
“You had one too many lobster tacos in Mexico. Could be food poisoning.”
“Food poisoning? Okay, so I ate those tacos of questionable origin with mucho gusto, but no one else is throwing up since the trip.”
“You know what the other suggestion is…” He faces her completely, trying not to move his head or neck. “How late are you?”
“What?”
“With your period.”
“How do you know I’m late?” she says, sullen.
“I can count, Sophie,” he shoots back.
She rubs her forehead. God, her brain is going into overload. “Okay,” she says, looking at him. “Periods can be late for many different reasons. Lack of sleep. Stress. Changes in exercise. Trauma. Let me see, check, check, check, check. Well, half check on the last one, but still. What’s wrong with your neck? You’re moving funny.”
Oliver huffs a long sigh. “You have to take a pregnancy test. Don’t worry about my neck, I’ll be fine.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Sophie.”
“What? Yes. Jesus. I will.” she says. “And, Oliver? Go to the damn doctor.”
MOST FEARS TURN weaker as you grow older, but being able to pay your bills, the faithfulness of your partner, success or failure, death, an impromptu pregnancy…those fears you grow into. Sophie is seven days late. The fact of the matter: this is no time to bring a child into the world. Not her world. Too much stress and beer fills her gut, not safe for a baby to swim around in. Does she even want to have kids?
And then there’s Sarah—a big, sick, baby-child, and it’s like she will never grow up.
As Sophie walks down the hall in Stacey’s apartment building, she dwells on the big picture, which looks horribly petrifying. Stacey is the friend you need to call (even if you don’t want to) when you don’t have your shit together. She can handle any crisis. Chipped a nail? No problem! Auto correct spelled your word wrong? It’s nothing! Store ran out of coke bottles with your name on the label? Easy does it! She’ll sit you down, slap you in the face, and then probably throw back a beer…or five with you. She can get herself in trouble for being so straightforward with people, and though at times she can be challenging and downright obnoxious, at the end of the day, it wouldn’t be the same without her.
Stacey flings open her door with a dramatic flair. “What?” Her blonde mane is certainly an interesting style, up in a wild bun on the top of her head.
“I need you to go somewhere with me,” Sophie says, marching inside.
“Hello, Stacey. How are you, Stacey? What have you—?”
Sophie cuts her off. “There’s no time for hellos. I need your help.”
“Oh, sure!” is her sarcastic response. “Breeze right in. Make yourself at home.” She waves a purple sex toy in the air. “It’s not like I was in the middle of something.”
“Can you put that away?”
“What this?” She holds it up. “Sure.”
“Great.”
She disappears into her room and comes back into the kitchen seconds later. “So what’s the problem?”
“Why do you assume there’s a problem?”
“You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t,” she replies tartly, opening her fridge. “Want a beer?”
“Yes.” She feels a bang of jangly nerves, a reminder of a possible pregnancy. “No.”
“Yes or no? It’s not a life changing decision. It’s just a fucking beer.”
“I don’t want one.”
“All right.” She kicks the door shut and pops the cap off a Bud Light.
Sophie hops on a stool, faintly dangling her legs, and looks around the apartment. “Is your roommate here?”
“Nope. She’s probably somewhere winning the fucking Nobel Hippie Prize.”
Stacey whips out her phone, taking a swig of beer. “Tinder must be broken. All my matches are Chinese.”
“Did you and Luke break up?”
“Like I’m letting that one go.”
“Then why are you even on Tinder?”
“Don’t be such a goody-goody. Just because I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good Tinder swoon. Anyway, you haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“Somewhere.”
“Somewhere is a little vague. We could be going anywhere. Should I go change? I’m wearing horizontal stripes.”
“And?”
“And they’re not flattering to my figure.”
“Stacey, who cares? It’s just this thing I have to do. You look fine. Come on, let’s go.”
Stacey quickly downs her beer.
The girls leave the apartment building and a dark-suited Reed discreetly ushers them inside his Mercedes. He speeds down busy West Houston Street honking at cars, then pulls to a stop in front of a drug store.
“Just this thing I have to do? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Come on, Stace. You know I can’t go out there. If anyone so much as catches a whiff of my perfume, I’ll be on the internet in a second.”
“I’m freaking out right now.”
“You’re freaking out? I’m not sitting under a palm tree sipping Tequila Sunrises over here.”
She groans, shaking her head.
“Why are you making such a big deal, Stace? You of all people should not be making such a big deal.”
“Sophie, you might be pregnant. What the hell do you expect from me?”
“I might also be Maria Sharapova in a nail-biting semi-final tennis match. ‘Might’ can mean anything. So calm down, all right? This discussion is merely speculative. Yes. I might be pregnant. I’m pretty sure I’m not, because, well, reasons. But I might. I just need to know. So please, Stace, go into the store and get me a pregnancy test.”
She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Why me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re pretty much my only friend.”
“That’s fucking
sad.”
“Meh, you’re not that bad.”
“What about Jess?”
Sophie sighs heavily. “I told her about Eric and the kiss.”
“Good for you. How’d she take it?”
“Well, she hasn’t texted me back or answered any of my calls, so I’m guessing great. How do you think she took it?”
“I don’t understand why you’re not going to Oliver with this.”
“Because,” Sophie inhales a deep breath for strength, “Oliver knows everything about everything. If I’m having a baby, I want to know about it first, Goddammit. I want to let it stew and ferment on my own terms. Is that too much to ask for?”
Stacey blows a deep sigh, gets out of the car, and goes inside the drug store.
Back in Stacey’s apartment, Sophie fans her face with an old copy of People from the back of the toilet tank. She feels like she might pass out any moment and the cold tile floor looks almost comfortable. She sits on the edge of tub and reads “ninety-nine percent accurate” from the label on the packaging while waiting for the stick to give her a reading.
“How’s it going in there?” Stacey calls through the bathroom door.
“Just give me a minute.”
Stacey barges in. “Give me that.” She snatches the stick from Sophie’s hand. “What do you want it to say?”
Sophie looks up at her, on the verge of losing her remaining lucid neurons. “What kind of question is that? You know what I want it to say. I don’t want to be pregnant. What does it say?”
Stacey faces the stick toward Sophie. “Only one pink line. You’re not pregnant.”
“Oh.” Is this what people say when they find out they’re not having a baby they weren’t even sure they wanted?
“Soph, this is good news.”
“Yeah, of course it is.”
She searches Sophie’s face for her true reaction. “Dude.”
“No, I mean. You’re right. Last week, I ate a ketchup sandwich for dinner because I was too lazy to cook a real meal. I can’t even feed myself. I’m too immature.” And yet, for some odd reason, in her head she saw an itsy-bitsy baby Oliver, sparkly blue eyes and all, goo-gooing as she played with him in her arms.
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