by Ellery Kane
“Is that my girl?” The joy in her voice is childlike, and her muddy eyes light when they meet mine. “How was school today?”
I don’t bother to correct her. “It was fine, Mom.”
“C’mon, Ava Marie. You can do better than fine.”
I sit on the bed next to her, and the mattress depresses slightly with my weight, my substance. Next to me, she’s a shell. A hollow husk. An in-between person. And I feel a sudden sadness rise like bile in my throat. “Actually, I had a really bad day, Mom.”
“Oh, honey.” I lean into her, and she wraps an arm—brittle as a bird bone—around my shoulder. The way she tries to comfort me, even now, breaks my heart. Even when she’s got nothing to give. I could never be that selfless. Maybe you’re not cut out to be a mom. Hadn’t Ian said that? Well, he’d been right. “Don’t cry. You’ll upset your father.”
“Dad’s not here right now,” I say, stopping my tears anyway out of habit.
She turns to me, bright-eyed again, and points to the television. The muted picture hits me hard and deep like a knife to the gut. “Look. That show I like is on.”
This she remembers.
I tap the button on the remote in her lap, and the music swells. Two figures walk hand in hand toward the camera, flashing their matching smiles. They wear starched white coats and an air of superiority. Even though they should know better. Neither is that kind of doctor.
“Welcome to Love Doctored,” Ian says, in the voice I’d known so well. The voice that had promised to have and to hold, for better and for worse, as long as we both shall live. “Where love is always the best medicine.”
I stare at the screen until their faces blur. “It’s a rerun.”
But she shushes me, transfixed.
****
Luke rubs my knee under the table and leaves his hand there, resting on my thigh. Like he knows it grounds me. And I need to be grounded, anchored to someone sturdy.
Because already I feel it. Even with Marianne’s famous lasagna steaming on my plate, the cheese bubbling at the center, and the scent of garlic still wafting from the oven. Even with the warmth of this house that’s become a comfort to me. Though I’d never admit to Luke how good it feels to belong, just for a while, to a family again. Even with Luke squeezing my leg, reminding me he’s here, I can’t shake it.
The death of the Love Doctors is spread like a pall, a shroud across the five of us. And despite the February gloom, there’s a spotlight boring into me, bright as the sun. Sweat beads under my hair. And I glance toward the mantle in the living room, the wooden sign there: WE BLEED BLUE. I don’t know why I thought I could do this.
Marianne and I exchange a tight smile. As if she’s saying it’s up to us. We’re in this together. To lighten the mood. To be the normal ones. If she only knew.
“So, Ava,” she begins, and my stomach flip-flops. “How were the retired CEOs? As dreadful as you feared?”
My laughter comes out tinny as a cymbal, prompting another squeeze from Luke. “They weren’t so bad. Babes and boredom, the usual complaints.” A laugh and a nod from Marianne, and I keep talking, afraid to stop now that I’ve started. Afraid of the silence and what will fill it. “You know Freud said love and work are the two things we all need to be happy. And having a lot of money, well, it can undermine both.”
“Touché.” Jack’s voice catches me off guard, the steady baritone of it. The kind of voice that’s accustomed to demanding answers. To getting them. “I’m no Freud, but thirty years in law enforcement, and the one thing I know for sure, money is the root of all evil.”
“Actually, it’s the love of money,” I say, taking a sudden interest in my plate, stabbing the edge of the lasagna and forking off a bite. Why am I correcting Jack? “I mean, that’s the line from the Bible. ‘The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.’”
I’m relieved when Luke chuckles. “Well, in that case, just give me the money. I promise not to love it.”
“That sounds familiar,” Cooper says, his dull voice hacking off the end of my laugh. It drops back in my throat, sticks there. “Isn’t that what you said when you tried to convince Mom and Dad to put your ass through law school?” In the silence of his purposeful pause, I can almost hear Cooper’s glee though his face looks ashen. “To work for the other side.”
“Here we go,” Luke mutters. And he’s right. I’ve heard this act before. The one where Cooper reminds Jack he’s the better son, because he’d never once considered any other fate—God forbid!—but cop-dom. And once Cooper gets rolling, he’s a boulder down a hillside, impossible to stop.
But today is different. Marianne shakes her head at him, and he averts his eyes and cowers. Stuffs a hunk of garlic bread in his smart mouth.
I risk a sideways glance at Luke, but he’s steady as ever. Though it must sting. Not Cooper’s sarcasm—his skin is calloused against that—but Jack’s tacit agreement. Luke had told me that back then his dad had said the only difference between a criminal defense attorney and a criminal was a suit. And as sick as I feel with my own sordid secrets, I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“I’m sure Luke would have paid back every penny and then some,” I say. “UC Berkeley Law is nothing to sniff at.”
Jack snuffs anyway, a smug shot of air burst from his nostrils. Funny how a sound so small can resonate. “Luckily, he came to his senses.”
At that, the room goes quiet, except for the occasional clink of silverware against Marianne’s porcelain plates. The thud of a glass against the maplewood table Jack had carved himself. And the air grows so tense between us all it practically hums.
“You went to UC Berkeley—right, Ava?”
Innocent enough, but I know better than to trust Cooper’s abrupt questions, the ones that come flying out of left field. Especially not now. Not today. Like the time he’d asked me why I moved back here. “Big city lost its charm?” Or the time he wondered how it felt to get paid to be someone’s friend. Or just two weeks ago, when he laid me bare: “You ever tell Luke a patient’s secret confessions? That’d be unethical, right?”
It’s the first he’s spoken to me since he took the seat directly across the table. Better him than Jack though. “Yes. That’s where I earned my psychology degree.”
“Summa cum laude,” Luke adds, nudging me with his elbow.
“So you knew him then?”
“Who?” I stuff in another mountainous bite, gulp down a mouthful of wine. And the Hydra laps it up. All of it. Because I know who.
“Ian Culpepper. I read in the paper he taught there a while back. You have any classes with the guy?”
The only part of me that isn’t numb is under Luke’s gentle fingertips. “Oh. I think I might have. It was a long time ago.”
Cooper doesn’t answer, but he meets my eyes with his own, a dreary blue. Tired and red-rimmed. On any other night, I’d wonder if this was his payback for my defending Luke. Or if he knew even more. And how he planned to use it against me. But he looks—I try to find the word for it—the way I’d describe it in a patient. Shell-shocked.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, eager to deflect. Turn that spotlight onto somebody else. “Luke said you were first to arrive. That can’t have been easy.”
“I’ll never forget my first one,” Jack pipes up, shaking his head. “We found her down at Hidden Beach, laid out on the shore like a piece of trash. Turns out she’d had a fight with her boyfriend. She came out there for some peace and quiet, and she got herself raped and strangled by some drifter. You never forget your first one. No sir.”
“Jack.”
“Sorry, honey. But it’s true. And if the boy’s ever gonna make detective, he’s got to get used to it.”
The scrape of Cooper’s chair on the hardwood makes a statement. It says what we both know. Already passed over three times, he’ll never make detective. He stalks out of the
dining room, and I hear the front door open and shut behind him.
Eyebrows raised, Marianne turns to her husband. “What are you thinking? Go after him.”
“I’ll go.” And just like that, Luke pulls up his anchor and leaves me.
Abandoned, I resort to nervous chatter. “This isn’t Cooper’s first murder, right?” And immediately I wish for a take back. “What I mean is, he’s been to other murder scenes before?”
“Of course,” Jack says, with a sage nod. “We had that gas station robbery-gone-wrong a couple months ago. And the banker that offed his wife a few years back. But this was the first one that got to him. He doesn’t usually get this worked up about a case. Though I don’t blame him. The brutality of a stabbing, that’ll shake anybody up. Takes a really rageful person to do something like that.”
What can I say to that? What can anyone say?
Nothing, apparently. But the silence I’d feared is a welcome respite. I chew and swallow, chew and swallow. Until my glass is drained and my plate empty. Not because I’m hungry, but because it keeps my mouth busy. And shut.
“I shouldn’t have used that canned tomato sauce.” Marianne pushes her plate away. “It tastes a little funny. Don’t you think? Like metal.”
“It was delicious,” I say. Because I’d scarfed it down so fast I barely noticed the taste at all. Just the red, red, red sauce, making me queasy. So I focus on the sound of Luke’s voice, barely audible from the porch. I can’t make out the words, only the tenor of it, calm as low tide.
“I usually make it myself, homemade. But I just didn’t—”
“He was the one who found the little girl too.” Jack stares ahead, talking to no one. And I’m glad he doesn’t look at me, because I’m crawling out of my skin. “We’d searched everywhere. Called out for her. But Coop went right to that bookcase, that hidden closet. And there she was. Shivering like a lost puppy.”
The door opens and shuts again, and I expel the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Enough shop talk, Jack. Anybody save room for dessert? I made cobbler.”
Cooper takes his seat across from me, pain wafting from him. As tangible as the cinnamon in Marianne’s apple cobbler. And I hate myself for being such a coward. For postponing the inevitable. For lying to all of them. Maybe I should just blurt it out.
I married Ian Culpepper.
“Actually, I—”
But I feel Luke’s hand from behind on my shoulder. Three solid squeezes. Our unspoken signal. I can’t believe I almost said it.
“Actually, I have an early patient tomorrow. We should probably head out.”
And I resist the urge to spring up from the table and run.
****
As soon as Luke pulls out of his parents’ driveway, we both groan. I put my head in my hands. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m so sorry. Now, I’ve outright lied to them.”
“No, I’m sorry. I led you straight into the lion’s den. Honestly, I didn’t even think Dad would show. He never comes to dinner when he’s working a case.”
Another groan from me, more hopeless this time. “That makes me feel worse. He probably was working the case. A little unscripted interview with his prime suspect. Seriously, Luke, do you think he knows? I mean, my name is Ava. How many Avas could there possibly be in Carmel?”
Luke slows, guides the truck to the shoulder. Because that’s the kind of man Luke is. Careful. “Don’t freak out. I’m sure Culpepper knew a lot of Avas. And the thing is, the writing on the mirror, it’s . . . messy.” I try not to picture it. “I guess what I’m saying is, I only knew because I know. Really, it could say anything.”
I am positive Luke is only saying the words he thinks will hold me together. But, still, I’m grateful.
“And you didn’t lie. Dad will understand.” That’s what you think. “He’s a private guy too.”
“A lie of omission is still a lie. And what’s with Cooper? Is he alright?”
Luke doesn’t speak for so long, I touch his arm to make sure he’s heard me.
“I don’t know. It was pretty gruesome in that house. And he’s like Dad. Keeps it all inside . . .” His voice fades, and he turns on the radio. Maybe he’s done talking. “I told him he needs to see a shrink. That you could give him a referral.”
I laugh in spite of the queasy churn in my stomach, guilt’s many heads chattering about the lies I’ve told. To cover other lies. “I’m sure that went over well.”
“Like a ton of bricks.”
****
The text comes before midnight. It’s from Luke, and I delete it right away. Mostly because I can’t stand to look at it. I’m not just Ava Lawson anymore. I’m the jaded ex-wife. The former Mrs. Culpepper. The one with her name inked in blood.
Dad got a message from Ian’s attorney. He knows.
Seducing a woman is a game of chess. You’ve got to think three moves ahead.
You need a strategy. Or you’ll lose every time.
—Ian Culpepper, Prescription for Love
Valentine’s Day
Nine Years Earlier
Ian in her bed was still a marvel. Ian in her bathroom, shirtless and shaving over the sink. Ian in the kitchen, sipping coffee from her Keep Talking, I’m Diagnosing You mug. Ian pressed between her thighs, his hands guiding her hips. And most of all, Ian saying those words, the ones no man had said to her, not since her father.
“I love you, Aves.” Now that was a marvel.
Ian pecked her forehead and slung the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. She knew he’d be late, but she latched onto his tie anyway, bringing his mouth to hers. Coffee and toothpaste and Frosted Flakes. He moaned a little and deepened the kiss. Nearly a year and he couldn’t stop kissing her. For once, she’d done something right.
“Don’t let him get away, Ava.” That’s what her mother had said after Ian charmed her at Christmas, making her forget Ian’s age—a full twelve years older than her baby girl. He’s a keeper. All Ava heard: “Don’t screw this up.”
“Are we still on for tonight?” she asked, checking her lipstick in the hallway mirror. Smoothing her blouse, ruffled by Ian’s wandering hands.
“Pizza and beer? I wouldn’t miss our anti-Valentine’s for the world.”
“And maybe . . .” She watched his face for signs of disapproval, but he turned toward the door, giving her the broad blankness of his back. “I can stay over at your place for a change.”
He glanced back at her, and she felt relieved to see him smile. “You know I like it here. It makes me feel like a student again. My place is too big and stuffy.”
She pushed out her lip in an exaggerated pout to hide her annoyance, her disappointment. With the way Ian could fill her up, then take a pin to her like nothing. Bursting her balloon.
“Maybe,” he said, pausing for a moment. And just like that, she turned bright and buoyant and hopeful again. “And don’t let that prick, Whitlock, get to you. Okay?”
She nodded, playing along as if she didn’t notice he’d changed the subject. Pop.
****
Ava sat across from the prick himself, Dr. Chuck Whitlock, her clinical supervisor at New Beginnings Inc.
“So, Doctor Lawson, how are things?” He always began supervision with the same inane question. The same tug on his beard. The same infuriating smirk.
“Good. I think I’m making real progress with Ms. Williams. We’ve been discussing her history of sexual abuse and the way she masked her feelings of shame with methamphetamine. She read the Bradshaw book you recommended.”
Dr. Whitlock looked impressed. With himself, no doubt. “I trust she found it useful. In my ten years of experience working with this population . . .”
Ava tuned out, letting her mind drift to the morning. To Ian. Where else? She’d driven by his house again on the way here, even though
Claremont Avenue was ten minutes out of her way. A two-story, modern white stucco with a small patch of manicured grass in front. Ian had never told her his address, but she’d found it with ease. Thank you, Google.
“I’ll give you a chance to look it over now, if you’d like.” Dr. Whitlock waved a packet of papers in her face, oblivious to her mind-wandering.
“Uh, alright.”
A quick look at the heading told her what she’d missed. And her stomach clenched. Six-Month Intern Performance Review. She flipped to the second page where Dr. Whitlock had rated her skills one to five and written a short appraisal of her work. Her eyes skimmed the ratings—all fives, all exemplary—and snagged on the lone three circled next to the word professionalism.
As she read on, Ava felt the flush creep up her neck until her cheeks burned. Dr. Lawson left her internship early on a number of occasions without my permission and without notifying staff. An astute clinician with flashes of brilliance, her commitment to her coworkers and place of employment is simply average.
She couldn’t look at him, so she stared at his words instead. In her head, her father’s hypocritical voice played like the soundtrack to a movie she wished she hadn’t seen. You can do better, Ava Marie. I didn’t raise you to be mediocre. If you can’t be the best, why bother?
Dr. Whitlock cleared his throat. Still, she avoided his heavy brows, his owl-like eyes magnified behind his glasses. “Questions?”
“I only left because my work was done. I’d seen all my clients and finished my notes. I didn’t think anyone would mind.” Her voice broke at the end, and her father was right there. Don’t think those crocodile tears will get you out of this.
“Overall, you’ve shown real promise as a therapist. The clients respond to you. That’s half the battle. But, if I can be completely honest, you’re not a team player. You’re too insular. Too aloof. If you finish your work, there’s plenty to be done around here. Plenty to learn. Remember that.”
She forced her chin up, even though it trembled. And he regarded her the way she would a crying patient. Empathy from a distance. What would it be like to say how she really felt? Not to fall on the grenade but to launch it instead. To watch somebody else burn.