Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  “Because it identifies her as the saboteur?”

  “Yes.”

  Gideon wanted to point out that it was absurd to view this woman’s actions as though they were living in an Agatha Christie novel, but tact was a better approach. “Is there any way to track her down? Through the artist, maybe?”

  “I spoke to the artist. She doesn’t know who bought the purse but promised to call me if she finds out. She seems spineless and wishy-washy though, so I doubt she’ll take the initiative to follow up with me. I’ll contact her myself later.”

  “Have you told any of this to the police?”

  “No.” Felicia went to stir the soup. “I can’t explain why, but it’s not a good idea to talk to them right now. I’ve only told you this much because you need to be on guard. You might be in danger.”

  “Me? In danger? Why would a killer target me?”

  With her back to him, she kept stirring the soup, her posture pillar-straight. She didn’t answer.

  Gideon picked up his glass, swished water around his dry mouth, and swallowed. This conversation had moved past improbable theory to bizarre paranoia. Time to get them back on a straight, level road instead of following Felicia on these hairpin curves. “We need to look at this logically. Is it possible that grief is leading you to jump to conclusions? Blaming a mysterious woman doesn’t make sense. There’s no evidence the accident was staged. It was just an accident. A horrible accident. We need to accept that.”

  She shut off the flames under the soup and pivoted to face him. “Do you think I came to this conclusion without good reasons? I know it isn’t rational to blame a stranger simply because she was there. That’s not why I suspect her. I know why she killed him.”

  Felicia spoke with such conviction that Gideon felt he’d clipped the guardrail, sending his car skidding out of control again. Was this more than grief? Had someone wanted his father dead?

  “Why would she kill him?” he asked. “What was her motive?”

  “Her motive was money, I assume.” Felicia opened the cupboard and took out a bowl. “But she wasn’t the one who wanted him dead; she was only doing a job.” She filled the bowl with soup, brought it to the table, and returned to her chair.

  “Who did want him dead?” Gideon half expected another “not for your ears” response, but her answer was solid and clear.

  “Robert Chapman,” she said.

  “Chapman! The multimillionaire guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he send someone after Dad? I didn’t know Dad had dealings with him besides the store lease.”

  “You don’t need to know the rest.”

  “He’s my father. Yes, I do.”

  “Knowing details wouldn’t change anything for you,” she said. “This is the only warning you need: be wary around anyone who has a connection with Chapman.”

  Gideon goggled at her. “Beware of the whole city?”

  “Not everyone is his puppet. But if someone works for him or has other connections with him, be cautious.”

  Baffled, Gideon mulled over the facts—tried to mull over the facts but couldn’t find any, except that his father was dead and Felicia was withholding information.

  “Eat your soup,” she said.

  “This is absolutely crazy. You have to tell me—”

  “If it would do any good, I’d tell you. It won’t; it would make things worse. Trust me to do what’s best.”

  “I trust you. I love you. Top-ranked stepmother in the galaxy. You brought my father a lot of happiness, and you were a godsend to a nerdy, motherless teenager who was blundering his way into adulthood. But trusting you doesn’t mean I agree with your keeping secrets about—”

  “There are private matters involved, factors that are none of your business.”

  Gideon had never been a tantrum-throwing teenager, but he was tempted to belatedly offer his stepmother some yelling and door slamming. “We’re talking about the possibility that my father was murdered. How can that not be my business?”

  She leaned her elbows on the table and peered into Gideon’s eyes. “You need to keep what I’ve told you completely confidential. Do you promise?”

  Gideon picked at the crust on one of the slices of bread, tearing it away until he had a ring of crust in his hand. “I’ve heard Chapman is eccentric, but I’ve never heard he’s deadly.”

  “He does things his own way, and not all those ways are harmless. He gets the media to present the image he wants to present, but don’t underestimate him. Be careful and don’t let on that you suspect anything. Agreed?”

  Gideon wanted to shout that he didn’t agree. He disagreed, to the nth degree. “Felicia—”

  “I want your agreement, Gideon.” Her stern voice made Gideon feel he’d time-traveled back to adolescence. “You won’t speak to anyone about anything I’ve told you. Not a word.”

  He needed to speak to someone. He needed outside input, an opinion from someone who wasn’t messed up with grief. Which both he and Felicia were.

  “Gideon!” Anger boiled in her voice. “Answer me!”

  “Uh . . . okay, agreed,” he said, unnerved at how rapidly she’d lost her composure. He didn’t want to agitate her. He needed to think about this, and he didn’t know whom to talk to right now anyway.

  “Thank you.” Her voice calmed. “You won’t have to be on guard forever. Things will resolve. But for your own safety, keep quiet.”

  “Mama Felicia.” He reached across the table and rested his hand on hers. “I’m worried about your safety. If there’s danger, let me help you. I’m good at helping. Good at defeating enemies and huge armies. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon and all that.”

  “I’m not a target. I’m not in danger.” She pulled her hand away. “It’s not something you can help with. The issues involved aren’t yours to deal with. Trust me.” She gestured at his bowl. “Eat your dinner, and tell me about the Main Street project.”

  Chapter 4

  A young woman—Lacey’s age, maybe? Late twenties? Early thirties?—smiled and held out her hand. She had friendly hazel eyes and sepia-brown hair that was cut so it didn’t quite reach her shoulders—shorter than Jonas had ever allowed Lacey to cut her hair. Her nose had a slight curve in the bridge. Aquiline. It was a strong nose; Lacey admired it.

  “Good morning,” the woman said. “I’m Natalie Marsh.”

  This was Dr. Marsh? Lacey had figured she was an assistant to the Frida Kahlo look-alike sitting behind the sliding-glass reception window—Frida Kahlo if she’d lived to reach her late fifties. Lacey had imagined Dr. Marsh as older. She’d also imagined her wearing a white coat, but psychologists probably didn’t do that. She was wearing a sunflower-gold cardigan over an ivory blouse and an ankle-length brown skirt with multiple angled layers. Lacey recognized that skirt: it was from MaryLisa’s. Shards of anxiety poked at her stomach as she thought of Felicia Radcliffe’s phone call demanding information about the purse Lacey had placed at that store.

  “Jonas Egan. This is my wife, Lacey.” Jonas shook Dr. Marsh’s hand, despite the fact that she’d been offering it to Lacey. He’d intervened because Lacey was gawking blankly at a skirt instead of responding to the greeting.

  As Jonas released Dr. Marsh’s hand, Lacey reached hurriedly to shake it. She needed to act like a normal person so she could convince Dr. Marsh she was fine.

  Dr. Marsh’s hand was firm and warm. She must have noticed immediately that Lacey’s hand was quivery and clammy. All of Lacey was quivery and clammy, her body a limp water plant that could move only with the currents.

  “Jonas, you’re welcome to have a seat.” Dr. Marsh gestured at the upholstered chairs in the empty waiting room.

  Lacey wished she could have a seat out here instead of going with Dr. Marsh. This was a pretty room, with pale-turquoise paint, light-gray Berber carpet, and Monet reproductions on the walls. In one corner sat a water dispenser and a small granite-topped table that held a coffee maker and baskets of te
as and coffees.

  No, she didn’t want a seat in a pretty waiting room. She wanted a seat in Jonas’s car as they drove home. Right now.

  No, not in Jonas’s car. She wanted to run out of here and sprint through the chilly September morning, escaping to . . . where? Jonas was all she had.

  Jonas rested his hand between Lacey’s shoulder blades. If she tried to leave, he’d grab her. She pictured him dragging her into Dr. Marsh’s office.

  “It would be better if I came in with Lacey,” he said.

  “Lacey and I need time to get to know each other. Help yourself to coffee or tea or water.”

  “Lacey’s nervous.” Jonas wrapped his arm around her. “She’ll feel safer if I come with her.”

  No, I won’t. Lacey’s heart was a blob of glass, heavy but ready to shatter. She didn’t want Jonas in there. He’d tell Dr. Marsh she was mentally ill.

  “I need to speak with her alone first,” Dr. Marsh said pleasantly.

  Jonas’s arm tightened, squeezing her shoulders. “She’s my wife. She’s had a tough life. She needs me.”

  “She knows you’re right here. Lacey, if you would come with me.”

  Jonas turned Lacey around and hugged her, squashing her against him. “See you in a few minutes, baby.”

  He released her. Dr. Marsh opened a door that led to the back and smiled at Lacey. Lacey stepped gingerly through the open door. When it closed behind them, it sounded heavy. Reinforced.

  She followed Dr. Marsh along a corridor decorated in pastel hues. It was so quiet back here. Was she the only patient? Did they schedule them one at a time so no one else heard the screaming?

  Dr. Marsh opened a door and gestured Lacey inside. The room had a blonde oak desk, armchairs upholstered in a lavender and blue pattern that reminded her of the impressionist prints in the waiting room, and a blue couch—a regular couch, not the reclining couch she’d always seen in cartoons poking fun at shrinks. Was she supposed to lie on the couch?

  “Have a seat wherever you’re most comfortable.” Dr. Marsh closed the door.

  Would the door lock automatically, trapping her inside?

  Dr. Marsh stood waiting for Lacey to choose a seat. Lacey licked her lips and scanned the office. A water bottle, a closed laptop computer, and a notebook sat on the side table next to an armchair that was solid lavender instead of patterned. That must be Dr. Marsh’s spot. Lacey hurried to sit in one of the patterned chairs.

  Dr. Marsh sat in the lavender chair. Lacey edged backward so her shoulders touched the upholstery. The chair was comfortable, and for a moment, she wanted to slump in it and close her burning eyes. Jonas had forced a sleeping pill on her last night, but one night of rest wasn’t enough to make up for weeks of poor sleep, and even with the medication, she’d woken up at four and couldn’t get back to sleep.

  Dr. Marsh gave Lacey another smile. “Feel free to call me Natalie. Or if Dr. Marsh is more comfortable for you, you’re welcome to use that as well. Whatever you prefer. I answer to anything.”

  Lacey nodded. Calling her Natalie would make it sound like she was a friend, which she wasn’t; calling her Dr. Marsh would make her sound intimidating. Lacey didn’t want to call her anything. After today, she never wanted to see her again. What did Dr. Marsh know about her? Lacey had no idea what Jonas had written on that paperwork the office had e-mailed to them—e-mailed to her, but Jonas had filled it out. Had he written embarrassing things about her childhood? Theories of whatever he thought was wrong with her mind?

  “Have you ever been in therapy before, or is this a new experience for you?” Dr. Marsh hadn’t opened her notebook yet, but Lacey figured it would flap open at any second and that pen would be in her hand.

  “Um . . . it’s new.” When Jonas had rescued her from her miserable life, he’d told her many times that she should see a counselor, but she’d talked him out of it. “I don’t need a shrink. I just need you, you’re enough, you’re everything. I know I’m safe with you.”

  “Then let me give you an idea of what to expect,” Dr. Marsh said. “Today is a chance for me to get to know you a little and for us to talk about why you’re here and what you’d like to accomplish through therapy. I’ll be asking you a lot of questions, getting some background and learning more about you. Please feel free to ask me any questions you have as well.”

  Lacey nodded again. The only question she wanted to ask was “Can I leave now?”

  “You came with your husband,” Dr. Marsh said. “I see he’s interested in being involved in your therapy. How do you feel about that?”

  “Oh, he’s . . . always helpful. He takes good care of me. He’s . . . worried about me, but he doesn’t need to be because I’m fine. I don’t need to be here.”

  Dr. Marsh watched her with a patient, thoughtful gaze.

  Lacey fiddled with her wedding ring. “I . . . uh . . . I made the appointment because he wanted me to, but he worries too much.”

  “Why do you think he thought you needed help?”

  “Um . . . well . . .” Lacey wanted to say she didn’t know, but what if Dr. Marsh responded with, “I’ll ask him, then” and went to fetch Jonas? “Um, he thinks I’ve been absentminded lately. Not very productive. I’m an artist. He thinks I’ve been slow about finishing things.”

  “Why else?”

  Lacey traced her thumbnail over one knee of her gabardine dress pants. She’d tried to dress as professionally and sanely as possible. “Um, he thinks I’ve been . . . anxious or something.” Her cheeks felt cold. How could she tell this stranger that Jonas had brought her here because he thought she was keeping secrets?

  “Do you feel you’ve been anxious lately?” Dr. Marsh asked.

  Lacey wanted to say no but suspected she looked petrified, and the lie would sound so silly that Dr. Marsh would run for Jonas to find out what was truly going on.

  Dr. Marsh waited for her to speak, but it was a gentle silence; she didn’t look irritated by Lacey’s hesitation. The tired stinging in Lacey’s eyes became the wet stinging of tears. No. Oh no, you stupid girl, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. She blinked, but that wasn’t enough; tears kept rising, and she had no idea how to hide them. They fell down her cheeks, dribbles of weakness.

  “There are tissues on the table to your left, if you need them.” Dr. Marsh didn’t sound bothered. Apparently, weeping didn’t faze her.

  Lacey grabbed a tissue from the box. “I’m . . . a little wound up, but I don’t think it’s anything I need a psychologist for. Jonas is overreacting.”

  “Do you feel that anxiety is interfering with your life?”

  Difficulty planning projects, difficulty concentrating on them, difficulty finishing them. Hiding everything from Jonas, wanting to flee from him and wanting to cling to him, making stupid cinnamon apples twice a week. Shadowing Camille Moretti, unable to stop even after she’d scared Camille. Liking that she’d scared Camille.

  More tears waterfalled down her face. She snatched a second tissue. “I’m . . . just . . . I’m just tired.” She was sobbing. Sobbing in front of a stranger.

  Dr. Marsh rose to her feet and switched chairs so she was sitting next to Lacey. “Can you tell me what’s upsetting you right now?”

  She wasn’t buying Lacey’s excuse of exhaustion. “Please don’t . . . tell . . . my husband I was crying. He’ll think I’m . . . falling apart. I’m not.”

  “Are you worried that what you say in here will be shared with him?”

  “He . . . Yes . . . He’ll want to know everything.”

  “Lacey, you’re my client. I won’t tell your husband anything at all without your permission—your written permission, in fact. And he won’t come in here without your permission. These sessions are confidential. You set the boundaries of what he finds out.”

  This surprised Lacey. “He thinks he’ll be involved in it all.”

  “He’ll only be as involved as you want him to be.”

  “He’ll ask you about everything. When we go ou
t there.”

  “I won’t tell him anything without your permission.”

  Lacey swabbed her face. “You won’t tell him anything?”

  “No. I’m ethically bound to keep what we discuss private.”

  “He’ll ask you. He’ll push you.”

  “He can push, but I won’t tell him anything without your approval.”

  Lacey sniffled. “He won’t learn anything I say in here?”

  “Not unless you want him to know.”

  “I don’t . . . really want to say anything in here. I want to get out of here. I’m sorry. You seem really nice, and I’m sure you’re a good psychologist . . .”

  “I’m not offended. This is about you, not me. You feel you’re fine, then? The anxiety your husband is worried about is not something you want to seek help with? This is your choice.”

  Her choice. How was it her choice? Jonas wouldn’t let her squirm out of this. “I’m not crazy,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean by crazy?”

  “Crazy! Insane, lunatic. Like I should . . . be locked up.”

  “Do you think you need to be crazy to talk to a psychologist?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think Jonas thinks you’re crazy?”

  Lacey pressed a tissue against her closed eyelids. “I’m not sure. He didn’t say that.”

  Dr. Marsh’s voice tapped softly on Lacey’s eardrums. “I’m not implying that anything is going on, but this is a question I ask all new clients. Are you experiencing abuse in any of your relationships? Do you have any reason to fear for your safety?”

  “No.” Lacey lowered the tissue. “Jonas would never hit me. He . . . protects me.”

  “Okay. Lacey, therapy can be helpful for anyone. It’s not reserved for people so disturbed that they can’t function. Seeking help is a wise, courageous thing to do for yourself, and the earlier the better. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

  Lacey nodded, though that didn’t make sense to her. If her brain wasn’t sick, why would she need an expert to fix it?

  “But therapy is only effective if we work together, and you’ll be doing most of the work,” Dr. Marsh said. “I’m not a medical doctor giving a shot of antibiotics to cure an infection while my client waits passively to feel better. If you don’t want to be here—if you’re only here because you feel pressured into it and you’re not willing to participate in therapy—you’re wasting your money. If you like, I can tell that to your husband.”