I Love You to Pieces

by Lori Flynn

  “Can I see him after I sign them?”

  “We already covered that. You have bigger concerns than Ben right now.”

  Olivia dropped her head and sighed heavily. “I owe him more of an explanation. I’m gonna lose him.”

  “Your job is to be calm and cooperate with Dr. Coffield. You’ll come to trust him in no time. Meanwhile, I’ll do my job.”

  “Thank you for coming to my rescue today.” Olivia extended her hand.

  Abigail accepted it, hating how this girl made her heart ache. She knew the importance of keeping a clear head. “Thank me later. Right now, the rules say I have to push the red button and summon your Stepford-nurse.” I’d face charges of my own if forced to spend time with Nurse Connie.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Dr. Coffield

  Dr. Sidney Coffield leaned back in his desk chair, anticipating his newest patient. He perused her growing file, smoothing down surviving strands of what remained of his hair, believing he had one for each of his sixty years. At a tap on the door, he rose to his six-foot height and pushed his hands deep in his pockets.

  “Welcome, Ms. Harding,” he greeted her warmly. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I’m Dr. Coffield. I’ll conduct your intensive evaluation tomorrow, something to look forward to. Please know my door’s always open. Is there anything I can do for you right now?”

  She stood motionless before him. “You could wave your magic wand and fill in my memory gaps. Clear all this up.”

  “It’s good you have a sense of humor. It’ll benefit you here. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Dr. Coffield?” Olivia rubbed her forehead while turning to follow Nurse Connie into the hall. “Have any idea how long this will take? Connie’s hung my clothes in the closet, stocked the bathroom with my toothbrush and favorite shampoo, and next to the bed, there’s a framed picture of my dogs.”

  “How’d that make you feel?”

  She swallowed hard. “Like I’m gonna rot here.”

  The doctor pursed his thin lips till they disappeared. “I assure you that won’t happen.”

  *

  Olivia’s state of mind was Dr. Coffield’s primary concern during the following week. Connie escorted her the short distance down the hall to his office twice a day. Olivia cooperated with the tedious evaluation, as much as her memory allowed.

  “Let’s start again from the beginning.” He watched her anxiety mount, and yet he pushed. “What’s the last thing you remember on the night of the gala?”

  “We’ve spoken for hours, Dr. Coffield. I haven’t seen a bit of progress. All we’ve agreed on is I suffer from debilitating migraines, as I am right now.”

  From behind his desk, Dr. Coffield looked on as Olivia collapsed into an overstuffed loveseat and released a long breath. She rubbed her temples, lowering her head to her knees. She was silent, perfectly still. Concerned for her welfare, he rose to go to her. She lifted her head.

  Shaking her hair from her face, she jumped to her feet. “Let me tell you, Doc. If you aren’t crazy when you get here, it won’t take long before you’re stark raving mad. And for the love of God, how many ways can you ask the same freaking questions?” Leaning over his desk, supported by her arms, she bellowed, “SHE DOESN’T KNOW.”

  Dr. Coffield swallowed hard, and then again, curbing his genuine amazement. The change in her mannerisms, tone of voice, and demeanor was complete. Witnessing it himself didn’t make it easier to believe. Should he shout it to the world, include his colleagues in a conference call, or keep it a treasured secret?

  “It’s nice to meet you, Delila, finally.” Dr. Coffield returned to the chair behind his desk.

  “That lawyer of ours is slick. You’re the real deal. How long have you known about me?” She lifted her chin and smiled.

  “I’ve had my suspicions.”

  Delila picked up the copy of her employment application from the desk. “I always knew that picture would come back to bite me in the ass, but Vivian insisted. We should talk about that night. It’s our only way out of here.”

  Dr. Coffield marveled that where Olivia anxiously paced the room while they talked, Delila worked it. He noticed confidence and self-awareness, contrary to Olivia’s apprehension and shyness. It wasn’t worry he saw in Delila’s eyes but suppressed rage. He hadn’t seen her rub her temples since she arrived.

  “What’s the first thing you remember about the night of the gala?”

  “Let me clear this up. I remember every minute. It’s Olivia that has no idea what’s going on. It sounds cruel, Doc, but it’s for her own good. She can’t handle the rough stuff.”

  “Good to know. So, what happened that night? I’ve heard the gala was a huge success. Was it the storm that set Olivia off?”

  Delila narrowed her eyes. “No, Olivia took the storm in stride. She’s a Florida girl, born with sand between her toes. She did fine until Bunny used one of her buzzwords. She’s a sweet woman, just not too bright. What do you expect? She’s named after a fluffy animal.”

  “What did Ben’s mother say?”

  “She said Olivia’s perfect for her son. But Olivia sees herself as damaged goods—not worthy of someone as wonderful as Ben.”

  Dr. Coffield rested his chin on his hands. “What’s the trigger? When Olivia’s migraine becomes overpowering, she fades away, and it leaves a window for you?”

  “Not always. Sometimes she panics, and I need to come to the rescue without any warning at all. There are times when I get restless and push my way out, but that’s a bitch. On the night of the gala, I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did it anyway.”

  She hitched her hip onto his desk and leaned in close. “You don’t happen to have some pull with the cook, do you, Doc? I could get into some fettuccine for dinner. I could share, might be fun. Olivia eats like a damn bird.”

  He pushed back in his chair. “It’s important your story is heard, Delila. You’re the only one that can tell it. Fill in these blanks for me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  For the better part of an hour, Delila relayed the details of the most frightening night she’d ever endured: the terror when Howard Welker trapped her, her realization that he planned to kill her. She focused out the window and gave a graphic account of how she fought to live, how she escaped. Finally, she bowed her head and sighed.

  “Know what I think, Doc?” Delila asked. “That guy’s done this before, more than once. He had it all planned out like it had nothing to do with me. That bastard looked right through me with those cold, dead eyes. His rage came out of nowhere.”

  “Thank you, Delila. I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Doc—feed me.” She winked and headed back to her room with the ever-present Nurse Connie a half step behind.

  *

  The pending legal problems of his newest patient accelerated Dr. Coffield’s deadline. He’d received an urgent message from Abigail about her increasing challenge of keeping the police at bay. The demand prompted him to speak with Olivia, once again, before calling it a night.

  Dr. Coffield observed her enter his office, cowering inches behind the smiling Connie, confirming his conversation would be with Olivia rather than Delila. Dark hair surrounded her pale face, tumbling over her shoulders. Her grey eyes seemed heavy with worry.

  “Has something happened Dr. Coffield? We don’t normally meet this late in the day. Honestly, I don’t remember much about my last session,” Olivia said as she curled into the chair directly before his desk.

  “We accomplished great things the last time you were here, Olivia. What I’m about to tell you may horrify and confuse you at first but will answer all your questions. I want you to listen. Promise you’ll try.”

  “Of course, I’ll try. You’re scaring me.”

  “Olivia, you suffer from what is called Dissociative Identity Disorder. As far as I can tell, you’ve been living this way since early childhood. To oversimplify, it’s an extremely cre
ative way your psyche chooses to deal with severe psychological and physical trauma administered by your mother.”

  “My mother—are you sure, Dr. Coffield? I’m trying to keep an open mind, but I question how you came up with something this ridiculous after a handful of conversations,” Olivia said with a quick intake of breath.

  Dr. Coffield placed his hand on her chart. “Your extensive history of abuse is documented: every bruise, fracture. Blackouts, time loss, your headaches, along with the details of your present legal problem started me down this road.” He slid a single document across his desk.

  “Is this me?” She pointed at the picture on the bottom.

  “Stay with me, Olivia. I’ll help you through it.” Dr. Coffield leveled his voice.

  “Delila Jennings—Gretchen and Abigail mentioned that name. The police were interested. Am I Delila? Oh God, did I murder that man?” Olivia asked, cradling her stomach.

  “You’re not guilty of murder. Whatever happened was done to preserve your life.”

  “No, wait, this is impossible.” She raked her hands through her hair.

  “I know because I’ve spoken with Delila. She was here when you left earlier today and filled in the missing details we’ve been searching for. The conversation’s on tape. We’ll listen to it when you’re a little stronger.”

  His shocking words made her gasp, throw her hands over her face. “You want me to believe I’m Delila Jennings, yet I have no memories of her or any of this? Does she know about me?”

  “She knows all about you. Delila is your coping mechanism. Somewhere along the way, the feelings and memories in your subconscious created a persona, a personality. When you can comprehend that, you’ll understand why you’re kept in the dark while she protects you.”

  “Is she responsible for that strong perfume that makes me gag, the pink toenail polish, for the lacey handwriting that turns up now and then, not to mention all those blasted shoplifting episodes?”

  “I would think so, but we’ll have to ask her.”

  “What’s this application for?” Olivia lifted the paper from the desk to get a closer look. “Who’s Vivian?”

  Dr. Coffield hesitated. He knew what came next would prove difficult for his anxious patient. “Vivian is Delila’s employer. She runs a small escort agency about sixty miles from here.”

  “Oh my God,” Olivia crumbled further into the chair. “Delila’s an escort? She used my body like a whore? I always knew something wasn’t right, those UTIs and bruises I couldn’t explain away. I never imagined it this repulsive.” She hugged her knees and sobbed.

  “We won’t know what she was involved in until we let her explain it in her own words,” Dr. Coffield intervened.

  “What difference will the details make?” she cried out. “I’ve been making myself sick thinking I’ve lost Ben because I went crazy. When he hears this, he’ll never come near me again. Who could blame him? The thought of me will disgust him.”

  “You’re not crazy, Olivia; you’re creative.”

  “I stand corrected!” She cut him off, her words short, breathy. “He’ll never want to see me again because I went creative.”

  “You have to look at the big picture. Something tremendous happened here today—a new start to your life. It may look bleak now, but things will improve. I promise you.” Dr. Coffield watched Olivia pull further away.

  “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face as she doubled over the trash can and retched. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Everything I cared about in my life is over.”

  Dr. Coffield prepared and administered a sedative into Olivia’s right arm. “This will help you rest. We’ll speak again in the morning. You have a future, a bright one.”

  “No future,” he heard her mumble as he and Connie helped her to her room. They’d removed the nail file and crystal picture frame that surrounded her dogs and secured light restraints as per the suicide watch protocol.

  “They’re all better off without me,” she said, unquestionably clear as he left the room.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Abigail

  Hyped on caffeine, Abigail Matthews entered the law offices of Tate, Shapiro, and Thornton on a mission to win Ben over. She felt good, confident. If you use it right and pay enough, Spandex can be a fifty-year-old’s best friend. Her power-suit sucked her in in all the right places. Even her hair cooperated, with her curls relaxed and grey removed. I have to stay away from open flames.

  She’d fought to shield Olivia from charges highlighted by capital murder. She needed help. Hoped she’d come to the right place to get it.

  “Good morning, Ms. Matthews. Mr. Thornton’s in his office.” The smile from the attractive blonde, as Abigail exited the elevator, seemed genuine.

  Abigail tapped the door and nudged it open. This wasn’t her first visit to the sizeable corner office, yet the view of the city from the wall-length picture window took her breath away. Ben, seated behind his antique cherry wood desk, ended his call as she entered. Dark hair framed his impressive, brooding face.

  “Tell me good news,” Ben said.

  “Come walk with me. You’re missing a gorgeous day. Late fall in southern Florida, when the temperature drops just enough to see the license plates change colors.”

  “Go outside? Maybe you haven’t noticed. I have a private office we can talk in right here.”

  “I love your office. I’d prefer having this conversation away from pointy objects and projectiles.” She guided Ben’s rigid shoulders from his chair and led him to the door.

  “Implying I have a temper?” He scowled but followed.

  “Your assistant came just short of offering me a flak jacket. If you want the truth, I need room to run if you try to kill the messenger when I tell you what I’m here to tell you.”

  Ben’s face puckered further. “So I haven’t been in the best of moods lately. Did you come all this way to report something or just piss me off?” He pushed ahead and led the way from the building.

  “Thanks for expediting Olivia’s medical and family history records to Palm Haven. Detectives Baker and Spazioso use every opportunity to try to pull her out of there so they can arrest her.”

  “Just tell me. It can’t be as bad as what I’ve been thinking.” Ben snarled.

  It’s your worst nightmare, squared. Abigail laced her arm through his. “Olivia suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder. She has two distinct identities or personalities that I know of. Dr. Coffield may know more. He believes she’s been this way since early childhood.”

  “What? Wait, slow down. How did this happen?”

  “Abuse,” Abigail answered. “Her mother.”

  Ben shook his head, exhaled.

  Abigail strengthened the hold on his arm. “Her alternate, Delila Jennings, is nothing like Olivia. She works about sixty miles from here—as an escort. Olivia didn’t know.”

  Ben gasped and ran his hands through his hair. “Since I’ve known her? She’s been an escort—this entire time?”

  “Dr. Coffield said he’d meet with you, answer your questions. I’m sure he’ll explain better than I did. I’ll give you his card.” It didn’t appear hearing the truth had made it easier than the imagined on any level. The pain on Ben’s face was palpable.

  “What spin could he possibly put on this to make it better?” His voice shook.

  “You know, on some level, Olivia isn’t at fault here. She’s as devastated as you are—more. She’s on suicide watch.”

  He stepped back as if she’d hit him. “This is easy for you, Abigail. It’s not you who has to be tested for the next six months. You’re not the one who’s been…”

  “I’ll let you take the moral high ground I know you’re capable of and not make you finish that sentence.”

  Ben’s long strides quickened, making Abigail break into a light jog. She’d never heard silence roar so loud. Finally, he turned and confronted her.

  “Wh
at’ll happen now?” Ben asked, low and slow.

  “I could use your help. With the aid of this diagnosis, I believe I can stop them from charging her with capital murder. But there’s a Macy’s Parade of other charges, just as lethal, marching behind it, because of the situation with her memory. What I need is a closet with a shit-load of skeletons on our alleged victim, Howard Welker.”

  The corners of Ben’s mouth twisted. “I don’t see how some unpaid parking tickets or overdue library books on the dead guy could help Olivia.”

  She covered his fists with her hands and explained. “It has to be something more substantial than that. Delila felt our guy had done this before. I’ve collected his contact information from the hotel along with a copy of his driver’s license. Do you still retain that private investigator you used on the Bradley case? You said he’s worth his weight in gold.”

  “Yes, but don’t you think Baker and Spazioso have had Welker checked out by now?”

  “I’m sure they have, but their interest begins and ends with proving Olivia’s responsible for his death. We’re proving her innocence. Are you with us, Ben?”

  “I’ll give him a call when we get back.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Dr. Coffield

  Dr. Coffield cleared his evening schedule so he could take his wife for a late dinner. He hadn’t left Palm Haven’s grounds for days. As he straightened his desk, placating her on the phone, he jumped when his door abruptly opened.

  “I’m sorry to intrude at this late hour without an appointment. But we need to speak right away.”

  The doctor studied the woman hovering in the doorway, dressed in white, her dark hair pulled tight at the nape of her neck. Why was she wearing reading glasses? Wire-rimmed, they perched on the tip of her nose. Behind them were pleading grey eyes asking for help. He couldn’t sense Olivia’s warmth or Delila’s confidence.

  “Honey, I’ve got to go,” he said into the phone.