Talk to Me

by Stephanie Reid

  But someone was dead. And Mac was sorry.

  So many things bothered him about that incident, not the least of which was how young Swanson had been. But there’d been other disturbing evidence too—or rather a complete lack of evidence.

  Mitchell Swanson was a puzzle. A kid with no prior record, no record of school discipline, no evidence of anything at all that would have predicted he would hold up a store clerk. He was, by all accounts, a good kid who did a really stupid thing. And now he was dead. And it could never be undone.

  Mac lost track of time, reading the subpoena again and again and again until the words blended together and lost their meaning.

  Unsure how much time had passed, he glanced up to find Sean still there, sitting in the swivel chair across from him. His forehead creased with lines of worry.

  “You know what we need to do after shift’s over tonight?” Sean asked.

  “What?”

  “We need to leave this shit behind and get us some beers.”

  Letting out a sigh, Mac tossed the subpoenas onto the desk in front him. “Sounds like a plan to me, man.” Anything that helped him forget sounded like a good plan.

  * * *

  “Oh, my god, Emily, he threatened to kill you?” Sandra’s mouth dropped open, her green eyes wide.

  Emily looked at the surprised faces of Sandra and Asha, her supervisor and mentor, across the conference table. “Well, technically, yes. But he was distraught. He thought he was going to lose his son. He felt I was betraying his trust. Understandably, he was pretty upset.”

  “Yes, but I think we must take his words very seriously, Emily,” Asha said, her slight Indian accent somehow calming to Emily’s frazzled nerves.

  She usually enjoyed these debriefings at the end of the day. It was a great way to get another perspective on a client’s issue or vent the day’s frustrations before heading home. What she valued most, however, were Asha’s insights. Her supervisor often saw right to the core of a problem and was helpful in pointing out when Emily’s own personal hang-ups got in the way of her seeing her clients’ issues clearly.

  She gave Asha’s warning careful consideration. “I know Carl was very angry, and I think he wanted me to see that anger. Do I think he’d harm me, though? No, I really don’t.”

  “You are concerned for his son though, yes?” Asha’s dark eyebrows rose. “He has been physically violent toward him?”

  Her confidence in Carl slipped a few notches. “That’s a good point. He’s not hurt Nate that I’m aware of, but I believe there were some police reports filed against him by his ex-girlfriend—Nate’s mother—for domestic battery.”

  Sandra snorted. “Well, she oughta be up for mother of the year for leaving her son with this guy. I’m sorry, but if any guy laid a finger on me, I’d be out of there, and he’d damn well never see my kids again.”

  Asha studied Sandra for a moment, and Emily knew her perceptive mentor had detected a personal pain in Sandra’s response to the situation. Asha would no doubt want to speak with the intern privately to discuss how her past might impede her ability to counsel effectively. Asha had done exactly that with Emily not long ago.

  She’d seen how Emily had struggled with clients trying to work through grief, how emotionally drained and near tears Emily would become after a session with a client who’d lost a loved one. Asha had helped her work through her own grief, so that when the time came to help a client process a terrible loss, she could empathize without identifying so much with the pain that the session became about her needs instead of her client’s.

  Care-of-self was one of the most important lessons she had gained from Asha’s mentorship. A counselor was of little help to a client if she was unable to separate her own needs from theirs.

  Maybe she and Asha were due for another conversation or two. She had a few things she should probably discuss with her mentor. Namely, the apparent need to avoid her own life that had led to her unknowingly counseling her friends and family in addition to her clients. And perhaps also, the fear of losing someone that had her sprinting away from the first man to spark her interest in a long, long while.

  That was the thing about grief. It wasn’t something you worked through once. It was something you worked through over and over again. The effects of losing someone lasted a lifetime.

  “So, there is a history of physical violence,” Asha said. “This makes me very uneasy. Perhaps, a police report should be filed.”

  Emily yanked her thoughts away from her personal problems and returned her full attention to Carl’s threat. “I have a feeling that would do more harm than good.”

  At Asha’s questioning glance, Emily explained, “I could report it, but it’s not like the police have the resources to have someone play bodyguard. I’d file a report, and it would do absolutely nothing to keep Carl away from me. Maybe they’d arrest him for the threat, but he’d post bail and be on his merry high-seeking way.” She sighed and leaned over the conference table. “More importantly, it would completely shatter any trust that Carl has left in me. As it stands, I don’t know if he’ll come back for his next session. If he does, it will be to appease his parole officer. But, if he does return, I want to be able to help him, to start to rebuild our counseling relationship.”

  Asha nodded. “Your commitment to his counseling needs is admirable. I will respect your decision not to take this to the authorities, but Emily, do be careful. If you believe that you are in harm’s way, then confidentiality takes a back seat, yes?”

  “Absolutely,” Emily agreed.

  Asha blew out a long breath, as if trying to exhale the tension from the room. “Now, is there anything else that we need to discuss tonight?”

  Sandra and Emily shook their heads.

  “No? Okay, then let’s be done. I’m sure you young ladies have places to go and people to see.”

  Sandra chuckled, standing up from the conference table and packing her writing tablet into her messenger bag. “Oh yeah, I’ve got big plans tonight. I have a date with my DVR. It will be a steamy night with McDreamy from Grey’s Anatomy.”

  Asha smiled and held the door open for Sandra and Emily to exit. “And how about you Emily? Any plans tonight?”

  Emily smiled, hoping they couldn’t see the nervousness she was trying so hard to contain. “As a matter of fact, I also have a date tonight. But not with my DVR.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Damn, that’s good,” Sean said, holding his beer bottle in front of his face and squinting at the label of the new import Mac had ordered for both of them.

  “Definitely better than that cheap domestic swill you usually drink.” Mac set his bottle down on the polished mahogany bar with a thunk and savored his first swig, letting the brew wander back and forth over his tongue before swallowing. The dark English stout with its roasted barley flavor went down smooth and had an immediate effect on his stress level. He took a second swallow and the tension in his shoulders began to ease.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got three kids to put through college on a cop’s salary, so unfortunately, I can only indulge in fancy imported beer when it’s your round to buy.”

  Mac smiled at Sean’s quip, but inside he felt a twinge of something that felt suspiciously like envy. But that wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be jealous that Sean had a family to provide for. That was idiotic. A family wasn’t in Mac’s future. Ever. And that was just the way he wanted it. Just what he deserved.

  “So, listen. I’m sorry about the other night. With Emily.”

  Startled by Sean’s change in subject, Mac turned to look at his friend.

  Sean wore the same expression as when he questioned suspects. Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, Mac gave silent thanks that Sean couldn’t see what just the mention of her name did to his vitals. His pulse quickened, and his brain—completely against his will—produced a visual of her curvy body, fair skin, and big blue eyes.

  Forcing his brain to pull together a coherent thought, Mac asked, “S
orry for what?”

  “Oh, you know. I’m sure you felt a little ambushed. Like we’d planned for the two of you to meet.”

  “And by ‘we’ you mean…”

  “Julie and me.”

  Mac nodded. As he’d suspected, Emily had been blind-sided as well.

  “Emily had no idea you were going to be there that night either,” Sean said, and again, Mac felt exposed. Like Sean was reading him a little too closely. “She was pretty pissed at me. Basically told me to butt-out.”

  Mac raised a brow. “And will you?”

  “That depends.”

  Sean paused to take another long draw from his beer, and Mac couldn’t disguise the impatience in his voice. “On what?”

  “On whether or not you want me to butt-out.”

  Mac wanted to say, Of course I want you to butt-out. I’m not interested in a relationship and certainly not one with your sister. No offense to you. Or your sister. But the words formed a bottleneck in his throat, and he couldn’t force them out. He took a long swallow of beer, hoping some lubrication would smooth the way for the words jammed inside. But still, no sound came out. Instead, he settled for glaring at Sean, willing his expression to communicate something close to get bent.

  And then he glared at his beer, staring into the dark brown glass. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t just say he didn’t want to be involved with Emily Simon?

  * * *

  Resting her chin on her hand—a posture she knew suggested boredom but was sure her date was oblivious to—Emily pushed the last few bites of shepherd’s pie around her plate with her fork. She glanced around Muldoon’s Pub and noted the late evening rush had begun, the dinner crowd on its way out and a much more boisterous clientele on its way in. With its dark wood floors, brick walls and antique copper ceiling, the Irish pub was a favorite of Northwestern students and locals alike.

  Despite the growing noise—laughter, loud conversation, beer bottles clinking as waitresses scooped up four or more at a time—she tried hard to stifle another yawn, the effort of holding it back making her eyes water. She dabbed at the moisture with her napkin.

  “I know. I know. It makes me emotional too.”

  Apparently, her date misinterpreted the reason for her watery eyes. Now, if only she could remember what the hell he’d been yammering on about for the last forty-five minutes. At least then she would know what she was supposedly getting misty-eyed over.

  Earlier in the evening, she’d tried to join the conversation, but after a few failed attempts, she’d realized it was not to be a dialogue, but instead, a soliloquy delivered in a sleep-inducing monotone that would have put a hypnotist to shame.

  His current silence, so completely out of character from the constant drone she’d been experiencing all night, caught Emily’s attention. Frank—who’d increased in years and girth since the time his profile picture was taken—was staring at her, waiting for her to respond.

  Along with another bite of shepherd’s pie, she swallowed the sarcastic retort ready to dive off her tongue. Oh, you mean I actually get to talk on this date? And instead, covered her inattentiveness by saying, “Tell me more about that, Frank. When you say ‘it makes me emotional too,’ what emotions do you feel?” Good God! Could she have sounded any more like a stereotypical counselor? Frank didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He was happy to continue his one-man show.

  “It’s just…when I think about how misunderstood I’ve been all my life…it makes me so…angry…and sad. People just don’t seem to get me. But Emily—when I noticed you tearing up when I talked about my mother and how tense our relationship is, how I’ve felt so unloved and rejected by the one woman who is supposed to love me most—well…for the first time in my life, I felt like I was really connecting with someone.”

  He reached across the table, taking her hand, and Emily cringed when his clammy, plump fingers grasped hers. She mentally counted to three—not wanting to sting him with her immediate rejection—before she slowly withdrew her hand from his hold.

  “Listen. Frank. I’m flattered that you feel this connection with me, but I’m afraid—”

  “Oh, don’t be afraid, Emily.” He got up from the table and slid into her side of the booth, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. His face was too close, and she leaned as far away from him as she could, feeling trapped between him and the window—the window which teased her with its view of the outside and freedom.

  As she’d guessed earlier, he lacked the ability to read body language, and he pressed on, his speech running together to form one long desperate word. “Don’t be afraid of our connection Emily. This was meant to be. We were meant to find each other online. Our souls were meant to become entwined.”

  Though it was nice to know that he was capable of expressing himself in something other than the monotone hypnotist voice, his newfound intensity disturbed her.

  His lips parted, his eyes focusing on her mouth, and he leaned closer until she could smell his oniony breath. Realizing he was leaning in to kiss her, she tasted bile in the back of her throat.

  She placed her hand on his chest and pushed him back. “Frank, please. We’re in a restaurant. Let’s just dial it back a little bit.”

  He looked around, scanning the room as if seeing it for the first time.

  She had specifically picked Muldoon’s for its public aspects. At this hour of the night, with the interior lights on, every person walking past on the sidewalk outside would be able to see them. And with a guaranteed crowd on Friday night, she’d hoped such an environment would provide a safe public meeting place for her blind date. But with Frank pressing himself against her, she realized the safety was an illusion.

  Evidently sensing her physical retreat from him, Frank tightened his grip on her shoulder and turned back to face her. “Do you know this guy coming toward us?”

  Emily peered around Frank’s rather large noggin and her body sighed with relief at what—or rather who—she saw.

  Striding toward them, with his dark brown eyes trained on Frank, was Mac McAvoy. And he looked pissed.

  * * *

  Mac flexed his hands and focused his energy on resisting the urge to yank the tubby, balding schmuck pawing at Emily out of the booth by his shirt collar and drag him outside for an ass kicking.

  In typical police modus operandi, he and Sean had chosen stools at the end of the bar where they could easily view the entire restaurant and all of its entrances. He’d spotted Emily and her corpulent companion when the hostess had seated them at the window booth, at the opposite end of the bar, almost an hour ago.

  After he’d taken a moment to make sure his brain wasn’t once again involuntarily conjuring images of Emily, he’d asked Sean, “Hey, isn’t that your sister over there?”

  “Huh, I’ll be damned. Wonder who she’s with.”

  “You mean, you don’t know that guy?”

  “No. Think we shoul’ go o’er and say hello?”

  Mac slapped Sean on the back and chuckled. “No, buddy. Judging by your slurred speech, I don’t think you want to be talking to your sister and her…” Who was this guy to Emily? Hopefully not her date. Though why he should care, he didn’t know. “…friend. You’re liable to embarrass her.”

  “Embarrass her? Firssss of all, it’s my God-given right as her brother to embarrass her whenever I get the chance.” Sean pointed his beer bottle at Mac like an extension of his finger, used for emphasis. “And secon’ of all, I’m not drunk. This is only my second beer.”

  “It’s your third actually, and it’s real beer, not the horse piss you usually drink, so keep that in mind.”

  “Whatever. Bartender! Another of these. And put it on his tab.”

  Sean had become absorbed in the Cubs’ last regular season game, playing on the TV behind the bar, and Mac had become absorbed in watching Emily and her…friend. Her demeanor had been open and friendly in the beginning, but it was obvious that every time she’d opened her
mouth to talk, Sir Talksalot had shut her down. Her expression became increasingly distant as the night went on, and Mac noticed that she’d creatively hidden her yawns behind her wine glass, behind her napkin, and then advanced to an impressive closed-mouth yawn that—judging by the way she’d daintily used the corner of her napkin to dab at her eye—had made her eyes water.

  When Talksalot shimmied into Emily’s booth, and Mac saw the unmistakable way she tried to fend off his advance, he’d seen red. He told himself not to get involved, but the wires from his brain to his legs were evidently crossed, and before he knew what was happening, he was stalking purposefully toward their table.

  Now, Emily looked at him with unconcealed relief, and he had to fight the dual urges to pummel the fiend or sweep Emily into his arms and march out of the pub like King Arthur reclaiming Guinevere from Sir Talksalot. Obviously, he needed to have his head examined.

  “Can I help you with something?” Talksalot’s voice had an annoying belligerence, reminding Mac of a street thug refusing to cooperate during questioning.

  He wanted to tell Talksalot he could “help” by running himself through with his own sword, but unlike Sean, Mac didn’t want to embarrass Emily. And since this guy could be her boss for all he knew, he decided to proceed with caution.

  He ignored Talksalot’s question and addressed Emily instead. “Uh…Emily…I’m sorry, but there’s a bit of a situation with your brother.”

  Her eyes went wide, genuinely panicked, and Mac rushed to clarify. “I mean, he’s fine. He just…had a bit too much to drink and…um…maybe you could come over…and help me convince him that it’s time to leave.” He really should have planned this out before he’d charged over here. He sounded like a friggin’ idiot.

  “Too much to drink? That’s not like Sean.”

  She craned her neck around Frank’s giant bean to get a view of her brother, perched at the far end of the bar, shouting at the TV. “Jesus H. Christ! I could throw a fasssball better ’n that clown.”