“I lived,” I said simply. And that was the crux of it. I was the only one of us left alive to be angry. It only made sense that I exercise that privilege on her behalf.
“Do you wish you hadn’t?”
“Of course not.” My answer, though instantaneous, wasn’t accurate. Some days, very occasionally, I wished more than anything that I’d died instead of her. But I knew that was the guilt talking.
“Do you feel like it was your fault that she died?”
My heart stopped, and a distinct coldness washed over me. I’d voiced that sentiment aloud only twice since it’d happened; once to my sister and once to Allison. I didn’t generally enjoy talking about it, for obvious reasons.
I clutched the arms of the chair and tried to force myself to feel calm. Or at the very least, to appear not so visibly upset. “It was my fault she died.”
He sat back up and made a brief notation on my file. “Let me ask you something. Are you at all familiar with the phenomenon of survivor’s guilt?”
“I have a master’s degree in psychology.” I blushed when I realized how condescending I sounded. I hadn’t meant to come across that way. I’d just resented his inference. I worked to deliberately soften my tone. “Yes. I know what survivor’s guilt is.”
If my attitude put him off, he didn’t show it. Instead, he said, “Good. Then I won’t need to waste either of our time explaining it to you. Is it safe to assume, then, that you have a valid reason for rejecting that theory?”
“I do. I reject it because it really was my fault that she died.”
“How so?”
My stomach tried to physically force its way up into my rib cage. The pressure against my heart was maddening. I clasped my hands together in my lap and ran my thumbnails against one another.
The quiet that settled between us was heavy and oppressive. It reminded me of the sensation that humid summer air created, like it was actually sitting on your shoulders, weighing you down, which was an odd notion. Air tends to be weightless.
“She wouldn’t have been in the line of fire if it weren’t for me,” I said finally.
“I see.” He resumed watching me then, as though he knew there was more to the story than what that one sentence revealed.
“She was mad at me for something I’d done. Something that hurt her. She’d come to yell at me for it. And if she hadn’t, if she’d stayed at the front of the motorcade with her car, she’d still be alive.”
“Ah.”
I hesitated again as I tried to determine how or even whether to explain the rest. I fidgeted in my seat. “And when she decided to take her anger out on me in a more physical way, she ended up saving my life. And losing hers in the process.”
The doctor appeared to mull that statement for a time, during which I glanced around the room, looking at anything except him. Tears prickled at the backs of my eyes, scalding and sharp, and I tried to blink them away. The last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of a complete stranger. Especially one who was evaluating my emotional state.
“Rationally, I know it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t hire the person who pulled the trigger. I get that in a perfect world she would’ve come to the PI car, yelled at me, and been on her merry way. When I consider just the facts, when I examine the situation on a purely intellectual level, I recognize that I had nothing to do with her death. But I can’t see the situation purely intellectually. And on a gut level, I can’t help but feel guilty.”
A small smile stole over the doctor’s lips. “I’d be worried about you if you didn’t.”
A sliver of a smile touched my lips as well. “No need to worry. I have enough guilt to last a lifetime.”
“Tell me something. When you dream of the incident, what do you dream about? I mean, specifically.”
I took mental note of the fact that he’d phrased his question in the present tense despite my having deliberately avoided confirming that I did still dream about what’d happened that day. I sighed as I considered how best to respond.
“I dream about gunshots I can’t tell the origins of. A hotel I can’t navigate. And Lucia. Dying. Always.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Different things. Sometimes other people are there with me. Only one or two, but I’m not always alone. They never hear the gunshots, though. And they never take my desire to discover their origins seriously.”
“And Lucia? You said she’s always there. Does she speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“In every dream?”
“Yes.”
“What does she say?”
“In the beginning, she kept telling me I was missing something that she needed me to see.”
“Interesting. And what do you think she needed you to see?”
I’d thought a lot about that question the past few weeks and had managed to form a loose working theory. “I think she needed me to see that something was off about the shooting. I think my subconscious was trying to call attention to the little details that pointed to me being the intended target. Details I should’ve noticed right off the bat but that got lost under the landslide of emotions I’d ended up buried under.”
“That’s extremely likely. And now that you have it all worked out, what does she say to you?”
I tucked a stray lock of hair back behind my ear as I stalled. My feelings on the subject of Lucia and her death were layered, at best. They were also very personal and very private. I hadn’t taken anyone’s advice to go seek counseling voluntarily so I could work through them. I definitely wasn’t keen on getting into the weeds on this because I was being forced to.
The doctor sat and watched me patiently, his face impassive with the barest hint of sympathetic undertones. He seemed content to let me get wherever I was going on my own. I appreciated his consideration.
“She says different things to me,” I said finally, my voice so soft that if there’d been any other ambient noise in the room whatsoever he might’ve missed it. “None of them nice.”
“I see. So, in your dreams she’s still mad at you?”
I nodded miserably and cleared my throat in an attempt to dislodge the lump that’d settled there. It didn’t work. “Yes.”
“Do you think that has something to do with the guilt you feel over her death?”
“I’m sure it does. But knowing that doesn’t make it go away. I still feel guilty, and in my dreams, she’s still angry with me.”
“Is there any chance you’re angry with her?”
I tensed. We were wading into some dangerous waters, waters I’d rather we left uncharted. “Is this relevant to my being declared fit for duty? Because if it’s not, I’d really rather just skip it.”
He studied me for a moment before making a notation in my file. “No. It isn’t relevant per se. But I do think it’s something you need to work through at some point. These feelings you’re having won’t simply vanish because you’re good at pretending they aren’t there.”
I stopped myself from laughing out loud, but only just. The mere idea that I was even remotely skilled at pretending my feelings didn’t exist was hilarious, especially considering when I felt like all I did lately was wallow. But instead of answering him, I nodded as though I were taking what he’d just told me under advisement.
“I’d like it if you’d go talk to someone in New York.”
“Is that an order?”
“It’s a strongly worded suggestion.”
“Okay. I’ll consider it. Anything else?”
“If I prescribed you something to help you sleep, would you take it?”
“Probably not.”
He smiled a little. “I figured as much. So I’ll just say this: you need to remember that you carry a gun. As a result, the consequences of sleep deprivation have the potential to be that much more catastrophic. I can see you’re taking Lucia’s death to heart, so I’m sure I don’t need to point out to you that you don’t want anyone else’s demise on your conscience because
you had a lapse in judgment due to those consequences. If you won’t take something, then you need to find some other way to ensure you get the proper amount of rest.”
I couldn’t argue with him there. I nodded, relieved that he seemed to be okay with wrapping this up. “You got it.”
He fixed me with a very deliberate look. “I’m not kidding, Ryan. The last thing you need is to get into a shooting and have it come out that you’re sleep-deprived. Any attorney worth their salt would crucify you for that. And the press would have a field day. And while we’re on the subject, how do you feel about the way this situation has played out publicly? It’s garnered a great deal of media attention.”
Damn. So close. I scowled. “Don’t remind me.”
“I take it you’re not too thrilled with being in the spotlight.”
I shook my head. “No. I hate being the center of attention. It’s worse that it’s because of something like this.”
“Do members of the general public recognize you on the street?”
“Sometimes. But it’s pretty rare. And I don’t go out much.”
“What do people say to you?”
I narrowed my eyes and gazed at the ceiling. “Not many people say things to me. More often, they say things about me and just assume I can’t hear them.”
“What do they say?”
“Pretty much what you’d expect. ‘There’s that Secret Service chick.’” I presented the statement in the kind of exaggerated whisper I’d heard many times.
“Does that bother you?”
I shrugged. “Not overly. Not in the way you’d think. I’m used to it. People tended to talk about me like that before I was shot. They do it with all of us. During almost every protection assignment I’ve ever been on, someone has nudged whoever they were with, gestured to me, and whispered, ‘There’s Secret Service.’ They either think we can’t hear them or we’re not paying attention.”
The doctor appeared amused. “And what about your coworkers? Do they treat you any differently?”
I tensed before I was able to stop myself, which I’m sure instantly clued him in on the fact that he’d just broached a very sore subject. I tried for an air of nonchalance. “Some of them. Not all.”
“That bothers you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Wouldn’t it bother you?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, it bothers me.”
“What about it bothers you?”
I paused for a moment as I reflected on the conversation I’d had with Rory less than twenty-four hours ago about reputation and perception and how both could be altered in less time than it took to blink and mar your career forever.
“I don’t like the idea of the guys thinking I can’t do my job.”
“And you’re afraid they do.”
“I know some of them do. And the longer I’m on light duty, the more their suspicions are confirmed.”
“Reputation means a lot to you, does it?”
“In this line of work, it’s all you have.”
“I see.” He scribbled for a bit before he asked his next question. “Since we’re on the subject of your coworkers, let’s change direction for a moment. How do you feel about Mark Jennings?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I’m curious to hear what you think about him. You haven’t mentioned him.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because I don’t really think there’s much to say.”
“Humor me.”
I wrinkled my nose in distaste. “My feelings about Mark are…complex.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“What do you want me to say?” My tone clearly evinced my irritation and frustration. I tried hard to tamp down on my anger, recognizing that it definitely wouldn’t help me achieve my current goal, but it was a lost cause. “He got into some shit he had no business being into, and because of his selfishness, Lucia died.”
“You see his motivations for what he did as selfish?”
“Maybe that’s not exactly the right word. He thought he was protecting his family, which I can understand, but the way he went about it was unconscionable. He decided my life was an acceptable trade for theirs.” When I thought about that, it made me furious, so I tried to avoid that line of thinking as best I could. I had nothing to gain by being angry. It wouldn’t change anything.
“Do you think you could ever forgive him?”
“Not as long as I have breath in my body,” I answered without missing a beat. “I’m simply not that good.”
Chapter Eight
No one was more surprised than I when, despite my outbursts, the doctor cleared me for full duty. Needless to say, I tried to keep a lid on my shock, and I didn’t ask a whole lot of questions. I simply thanked him and got out of there as fast as my little legs would carry me. Which, after that hellish race, wasn’t very.
I sat at my desk my first day back to work drumming my fingers against my blotter as I waited for my sister to call to let me know she was waiting for me down in the lobby. Since I’d basically ditched her two nights ago in favor of accepting Allison’s offer of a thorough rub-down, we’d decided to have lunch together today to properly celebrate my reinstatement.
Unfortunately, she was running late, and I was getting hungry and restless. We’d agreed to meet for lunch well over ninety minutes ago, and I still hadn’t heard from her. If she’d gotten caught up in some crazy surgery and forgotten to call, she was going to get it. I hated it when she did that. I didn’t care that stuff came up and life got in the way—no one understood that better than me—but I at least wanted to be granted the common courtesy of a phone call.
I eyed my cell phone cagily as I attempted to decide whether I should just call her or give up and grab something to eat on my own. Hmm. I’d better call her. The way my luck was running, she’d show up the second I’d finished whatever I’d picked up for myself, and she’d expect me to eat lunch twice.
I’d just started scrolling through my phone’s contact list looking for her number when I was unceremoniously sidelined.
“There she is,” Rico exclaimed from the hallway just outside my door, loudly enough to draw the attention of every hearing person within a hundred-mile radius. “All hail the conquering hero.”
I snapped my head up to stare at him. “Something’s seriously wrong with you, you know that?”
Rico ignored the jibe and made himself at home in my office. He settled himself in the chair opposite my desk and started chaining my paperclips together one by one.
“So?” he prompted after a long moment. He glanced up from his arts-and-crafts project expectantly.
“So, what?”
“Is it true?”
“Is what true? That I’m finally off light duty? Yes, it’s true.” I patted the bulge my newly reacquired weapon made under my suit jacket for emphasis.
“Don’t play coy with me. You’re all anybody’s been talking about. I just want to separate the myth from the legend, so to speak.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Rico.”
“I heard that you told the SAIC of PPD to go fuck himself at the race the other day. True or false?”
I laughed at what I assumed had to be some kind of a joke, but the good humor died in my throat when his expression never changed. I gaped at him. “You’re kidding.”
Rico shook his head. “Afraid not. And if the rumors are to be believed, your language was extremely graphic and colorfully descriptive when you instructed him on exactly how to do the deed.” He regarded me for a moment. “That part I could believe. You always did have a mouth like a sailor.”
“Wait. Slow down. People are seriously saying that I told off the SAIC of PPD?”
“In front of the entire eighth floor, from what I heard. Although I had my doubts the director was actually present. I can’t imagine even you would be that foolish.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m concerned about the
state of the information-sharing network of this agency. If our rumor mill is that far off base, I don’t even want to know what the majority of our investigations look like.”
Rico appeared disappointed. “So, it isn’t true.”
“No, it isn’t true!” I cried. “Of course it isn’t true. Do you really think I’d do something like that?”
Rico shrugged. “If it was warranted, sure.”
“Good heavens,” I muttered under my breath, aghast.
“What did happen?”
“I had a little chat with one of the ATs from PPD. That’s all.”
“And knowing you and your tendency to downplay everything, it was less of a little chat and more of a downright nuclear explosion.”
I hesitated. “Well, I may’ve asked him what the hell was wrong with him.”
“That was just stupidity on your part. You never ask a question like that when you’re pressed for time. You have no way of knowing how long the answer may be.”
“Where were you with this wisdom yesterday? I could’ve used your expert advice. Maybe then I wouldn’t have ended up making that stupid bet.”
“Aha! So, the part about the bet was true.”
“That depends. What’d you hear? We had a bet. Whether the terms were accurately reported to the masses remains to be seen.”
“Ten thousand dollars, a favor to be named later, and the loser had to tattoo the winner’s name somewhere on their body.”
I stared at him. Was he joking? It was impossible to tell. “No. None of that is even close.”
“Oh.” He seemed let down. “At least tell me this. Was a tattoo involved at any stage of the game?”
“No! There were no tattoos. Listen, it—”
“Hey, Ryan?” PJ Clarke barreled into my office, half out of breath and looking thoroughly tickled about something. “Oh, good. You’re here. Hey, Rico.”
“Hey, PJ,” I drawled, raising one eyebrow. “What’s up?”
“You’re never in a million years going to guess who I just got off the phone with.”
Rico and I exchanged a glance. “You’re probably right. Who?”
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