He tossed his leather satchel onto the floor and sat backwards on the desk in front of her own, facing her. It was strange being this close to him, with no lectern between them. And she could see everything. The pinkish tone of his freshly shaved skin. The cool blue of his eyes, which warmed when he looked at her. And the single thread that had begun to unravel from the top button of his dress shirt. It was endearing, that thread. Evidence of imperfection.
“So tell me, Ms. Lawson, what do you like so much about my class?”
Ava shrugged, as if she really hadn’t thought about it much. The truth couldn’t be said aloud, but it writhed under her skin. “Psychopharmacology has always been an interest of mine. I’d like to understand why so many people believe all their problems can be solved with a pill. You can’t medicate unhappiness.”
“Tell that to the pharmaceutical companies.” His laugh was both prod and salve to the anger that burned so close to the surface. Even now. Especially now.
“Oh, I intend to,” she blurted, surprising herself. “I mean, I hope my dissertation will establish that pharmacological therapy is not a panacea. In fact, drugs can do more harm than good in some cases.” Like my father’s.
Her diatribe warranted a raise of the professorial eyebrows. Shit. “I’m sorry, Doctor Culpepper. I don’t usually do this.” I never do this.
“And by this you mean—?”
She sucked in a breath. “Ramble, proselytize, get up on my soapbox, so to speak.”
“That’s a shame,” he said. “It suits you. You should do it more often. And please, call me Ian.”
She cast her eyes to the Zenith, touched it with her fingers as if it was a grounding rod, and opened her mouth to speak. To tell him something. Maybe everything. For once, she didn’t plan it. “Ian,” she began, and her heart fluttered in her chest as if it had grown wings. She wondered when she’d turned into a back-row girl. “I need to—”
He held up his hand to stop her. “I apologize for keeping you. You must have somewhere to be. Someone to meet, now that you have a free evening. A valentine, perhaps?”
She imagined how her face must look to him. Blank as a chalkboard. Her stutter, the twitter of a nervous child caught in a lie. “No,” she managed to say. “There’s no one.” And there won’t be unless you loosen up a little. Hadn’t her mom said exactly that?
“You forgot, didn’t you? About Valentine’s Day?”
She nodded without meeting his eyes.
“Well, Ms. Lawson . . . Ava . . .” His voice softened. “That just might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. And I’m a widowed couples’ therapist.”
Widowed. She winced at the word, and her mouth hung open a little. Gaping at him. She shut it fast. And tried to act normal. She’d never met anyone with a story worse than her own. “That’s awful.”
He stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder. “So, that settles it. We’re both sad sacks. Want to drown your sorrow in a slice of pizza? We’ll call it an anti-Valentine’s.”
****
“Extra large, extra garlic,” the waitress announced, setting the pizza on the table between them.
Ian smirked at Ava as he served her the first slice. The blazer he’d lent her on the walk over hung on the chair behind her, and each time it brushed her bare skin, it felt like his arm around her shoulder. She leaned back, reveling in its secret caress.
“It doesn’t get any more anti-Valentine’s than extra garlic, right?” he asked.
She took a small, careful bite and smiled back at him. “You know, I would’ve guessed a couples’ therapist might be a little more pro-valentine. After all, is it not the holiday of love?”
Ian scoffed, just as she figured he would. Ava knew cynical when she saw it. And she saw it every morning in the mirror, staring back at her through her own jaundiced gaze.
“It’s the absolute worst. Too much pressure. Too many expectations. Do you know how many emergency sessions I’ve had to schedule over the years? All because some poor sap bought flowers from the grocery store. Or heaven forbid, only signed his name at the bottom of a card. I mean, how many chocolates does it take to say I love you?”
Ava laughed, hard. And the knot in her stomach—how long had it been there?—loosened a little. Take that, Mom.
“No, seriously,” he said. “How many chocolates?”
“Seriously? Hmm . . . it depends. What sort of chocolate are we talking about? Hershey’s or Godiva? It makes a difference. And a caramel center is worth more than coconut.”
There was no misreading Ian’s crooked smile—he liked her—and she realized she’d gone too far. Way too far. Flirting with her professor. Might as well head straight for the back row next time. But that’s what happens when you let one string loose. The whole of you comes undone.
“I knew it,” he said. “There is a number.”
She flattened her smile, took another delicate bite, and changed the subject, stoking the coals of her disdain instead. “Do you typically prescribe medication for your patients?”
Her voice sounded cold, her question way out of left field. But Ian kept smiling. Oh God, she thought, I’ve already started calling him Ian in my mind. “Sometimes. But, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I’m really not a pill pusher. Despite that stupid joke I made the first day of class.”
“So what do you think of the CDC’s black-box warning? Have you seen increased suicidal ideation with antidepressants?”
He studied her for a moment, then tapped the stem of his fork like a microphone. “Is this thing on?”
Stone-faced, she waited, thinking of her father. And the blue pills he’d washed down with a swig of orange juice every morning for one week. Until the coroner carted him away. “Well?”
“Okay, Barbara Walters. Are you sure you picked the right degree? You know, Berkeley has a great journalism program. And the law school is next door. It’s not too late for a career change.”
“No pressure. I’m just curious. And you are the expert on psychotropic medication, right?”
He cocked his head at her, his face grim. “It’s obvious you’re not here for casual conversation. What do you really want to know?” It happened so fast, the way his mood darkened. Like the rare LA thunderstorms that had sent her running for her father back when she still could. The cloudbursts and the lightning flashes changing the world within minutes. “Did Julie’s family put you up to this?”
Ava nearly overturned her soda as she jerked away from the table as if she’d been slapped. And that’s how it felt. Stinging humiliation. “What? Who’s Julie?”
Ian dropped his face behind his hand, saying nothing. When he finally looked at her, her heartbeat quickened. His eyes were electric, fierce darts of pain fixed on her. “My wife.”
“I thought your wife was . . .”
“She is.” And Ava wondered if he couldn’t say the word either. She had trouble with it herself. The simple finality of it. The questions that always came after. Why? And how? “But her parents blame me. They always have.”
Ian raised his hand to signal the waitress. But he didn’t wait. He stood up and tossed two twenty dollar bills on the table. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was totally out of line.”
“Why do they blame you?”
He shook his head at her, but she wouldn’t let it go. Not now. Not after that sudden squall had left her reeling.
“Please. It’s important to me,” she said. “I won’t say anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He reached for his jacket, pulling it roughly from behind her. Without it, she felt bare and ashamed. “Because I convinced her to participate in a research trial for a new antidepressant. She’d been up and down for a long time. And nothing worked. It was our last hope, but I couldn’t save her.”
Ava saw him teetering on the edge she knew so well,
walking the line between pushing her away and letting her in. Between indignation and vulnerability. All he needed was a nudge. And she needed one too. So she reached for him, laying a hand on his forearm. He flinched at her touch but he didn’t pull away.
Then, he said it. And said it again when she’d asked him to, not believing. Not trusting her own ears.
“She killed herself.”
Ava had felt alone for so long that it might have been that moment—right then—when she fell in love with him. She marveled at it, their shared pain. That out of all the wrong people, he was the right kind of wrong. The same kind of wrong as her.
The Monterey County Courier
“Bloody Valentine: Love Doctors’ Deaths Ruled Homicide”
by Jackson Lamont
Police are investigating the deaths of Ian and Kate Culpepper as a double homicide. The Culpeppers’ housekeeper discovered the bodies early Wednesday morning inside the doctors’ upscale home on Cortez Road, located near the famed Pebble Beach Golf Course. Police initially called the scene suspicious but were reluctant to disclose additional information pending further investigation.
Thursday morning, the Carmel Police Department (CPD) issued a statement confirming the manner of death as homicide by stabbing, noting that both victims suffered from numerous stab or slash-type wounds, any number of which could have been fatal. Toxicology and autopsy results are pending. According to police, they found no signs of forced entry at the Culpepper residence; however, various news outlets, citing an unnamed source close to the investigation, have reported that the person or persons responsible may have gained access through an open window in the study. The murder weapon has not been found. “At this point, we have more questions than answers,” Police Chief Scott Morrow said.
CPD also confirmed they are investigating the possibility that the Culpeppers were targeted by someone they encountered in the course of their professional duties as marriage counselors. CPD has not yet publicly ruled out a connection to the 2016 death of Love Doctored guest Vanessa Sherman. While appearing on the show, Sherman was found dead in a dressing room from an accidental overdose. Sherman’s widower, Ricky, unsuccessfully sued the Drs. Culpepper and the BXA network, claiming the show had led to his wife’s untimely death. Chief Morrow added, “We’re considering all leads at this time.” Mr. Sherman did not respond to The Monterey County Courier’s request for comment.
Ned Gotleib, the academic dean of Monterey Community College (MCC), where Dr. Ian Culpepper taught advanced courses in psychopharmacology, issued a statement today, calling him a “natural-born teacher” who relished the opportunity to guide his students. Dr. Culpepper had previously taught psychopharmacology at the University of California Berkeley, where he began his storied career as a renowned psychiatrist and couples’ therapist, and more recently, taught at the University of California Los Angeles. A memorial vigil is scheduled for Friday night at 7 p.m. at the MCC main campus.
Chapter
Six
Thursday
February 16, 2018
It’s well after midnight and Luke is asleep, one arm draped across my stomach. I say his name out loud just to be certain. But the push and pull of his breath, the rise and fall of his bare chest, is as steady as a metronome marking time. I envy him that—the spell of slumber and the way he falls under it. The flutter of his eyelashes, the slackness of his jaw, render him younger than his twenty-seven years. The soundness of his sleep had come as a surprise to me from the beginning. So unlike Ian whose eyes darted open like a lizard’s at the mere shift of my weight.
So unlike me too, eyes fixed on the ceiling, a death parade marching through my brain in a never-ending circle. Ian and Kate, stabbed. Cleo on the beach, waiting. Then sobbing in my office. My name in blood.
I can’t fix it. Can’t solve it. Can’t make it stop. A sob wells up, not for Ian or Kate or Cleo. Not even for Maddie, poor orphaned girl. It’s for myself. For the things I’ve done. The things I failed to do.
I choke it down and scoot out from under Luke. His hand seeks the tangle of sheets, the same way he always winds his fingers around the nape of my neck and up through my hair, drawing my mouth closer to his own. Strong and searching. I want to curl back beneath his arm, scoot into the warm wall of his chest, and pretend yesterday never happened. For once, I wish denial came as easily to me as it did to Ian. That I could box up whole parts of myself and leave them to gather dust like childhood mementos in an attic.
I step over Luke’s boxers, discarded in a hurry at the foot of the bed, and risk a quick glance at his badge on the dresser. It winks at me like it knows me, glinting in the slash of moonlight that cuts through the blinds. And for one aching instant it’s summer and I’m fourteen again—and the badge is my father’s, and my father is dead on the floor, blood pooling around his head like melted ice cream.
I look away, and the memory retreats to the shadows. It hunkers down in the dark. Waits to be summoned again.
I pad across the hardwood into the bathroom and shut the door. The night light makes a small halo on the counter. And in the mirror. But I don’t look there. I’m afraid I’ll see Ian’s face, or worse, his finger tracing my name in red with his last ragged breath.
I run the water in the sink until it’s cold and scoop a handful into my mouth. Splash my face. Better.
Then, I slink out of the bedroom to the kitchen. My laptop sits on the counter, where I’d left it last night, the home screen lighting up with a gentle touch of the mouse. I pull up a stool and lean into its glow like a moth to a flame.
I should wait until the morning. Wait for Luke to leave. But I won’t. It’s as unavoidable as a head-on collision. And it reminds me of Verna, my 10 a.m. Friday, who spent half her retirement on the home shopping network. The urge to splurge, she’d called it. Just like Verna, I can’t not do it. Though in my case, it’s been more of an urge to scourge.
My chest tightens as I open the browser, fast-type my password, and click the Sign In button.
The gates of hell unfurl before me. One new message in my inbox.
To: Avenging Angel
From:
Date: February 16, 2018 12:03 AM PST
Subject: WTF?
Is it true? And how? I don’t know what to think or maybe I’m just afraid to ask. Are you really that kind of avenging angel? And what happens now?
I stare at Ricky’s questions, the marks at the end like crooked fingers pointing straight at me. He expects me to answer, to know what to do. Because he’s only twenty-seven, Luke’s age. But in the photo leaked to the press—a candid shot from his wedding day—he looks younger. He and his shiny new wife, Vanessa, surrounded by friends and family. The picture had been chosen with intention, I’m sure of that. Meant to convey a message of trouble brewing. Because Vanessa looks at Ricky like he’s the puppy she’s always wanted, with his linebacker shoulders and ruddy face and scruffy hair the color of a penny. Meanwhile, Ricky’s gaze wanders to the perky blonde in the tight dress.
Of course, I’d dug up other photographs: Ricky and Vanessa kissing at midnight at a New Year’s bash; Ricky and Vanessa splashing in the waves at the beach; Ricky and Vanessa, pressed and polished, at the annual Collins and Bloch Accounting Firm charity fundraiser. I’d squinted at the screen, coveting their clueless smiles. This is what I love about photographs. What I hate about them too. They’re undeniable proof that once, even if just for a heartbeat, everything was perfect.
I type fast in case Luke wakes up. He may be a heavy sleeper, but he’s still a cop. And cops have a sixth sense for secrets. My dad always knew when I’d kept him in the dark. Never mind that he had secrets of his own. “Spill it,” he’d say, with that steely glower I couldn’t sneak past. Luke’s not so different.
To: Ricky Sherman
From: Avenging Angel
Date: February 16, 2018 12:35 AM PST
Subject: Re:WTF?
It’s true. Don’t talk to anyone. Lay low for a while, and I’ll be in touch. Remember, I’m the kind of angel who gets shit done. And if anybody asks, you don’t know me.
I push Send before I can rethink it and close the browser. Delete my history. Like I do every single time. Not that it matters. Online footprints can’t be erased. And mine lead to Ian. And Kate. The Shermans. Cleo too. And down a thousand other rabbit holes that make me look like a criminal. A murderer even.
Ricky thinks I killed them. And I’d let him think it. God knows I’d wished them dead, both of them, so many times. When I was fourteen, wishes like that had power. The last words I’d spoken to my father, for one. I hate you. I wish you’d just die. And then, he did.
I hear Luke before I see him shuffling down the hallway in my baby-blue bathrobe, eyes half-closed. “Ava? What the hell are you doing?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He runs a hand through his hair and frowns at me. “You should’ve woke me up.”
“I tried.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He pulls a stool up next to mine and angles his head over my shoulder. I want to snap the laptop shut, but I don’t. I’d only look guilty.
“What are you doing?” he asks, suddenly alert. And I wonder if it’s all an act. Choir boy Luke with the mussed hair and the sleepy eyes.
“Looking at the news. It’s everywhere, you know. Love Doctors is trending.” I point to the headline on the screen—“Bloody Valentine”—and the picture of them, baring their matching perfect teeth at a BXA premiere. I’m drawn to Kate, like always. Her hair, blonde as a sunray, styled in a careful updo. Her glacier-blue eyes lined in black. Diamond chandeliers dangling from her ears. And the showpiece, the jewel in her crown: Ian’s tuxedoed arm, tight around her shoulders. It’s that arm I can’t look away from.
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