Читать книгу Into the Dark - Rick Mofina, Rick Mofina - Страница 20

13

San Marino, California

Claire’s office was in a one-story medical building at Garfield Avenue and Huntington Drive on San Marino’s west side, close to South Pasadena and Alhambra.

It was shaded by fragrant eucalyptus trees and tucked behind lush holly hedges and blazing violet azaleas. The awnings offered seclusion from the busy street.

Because of yesterday’s drama, Claire had canceled all of her appointments for that day. Today, she had to catch up. It was early and her first patient had not yet arrived.

Alice Pearson, her assistant, was making coffee. The big-hearted fifty-nine-year-old had come with the office when Claire took over the suite from Leo Schwartz, a psychologist who’d retired. Alice was a die-hard fan of the L.A. Lakers. A framed photo of her courtside and beaming beside Jack Nicholson, another die-hard fan, sat on her desk. She had a copy at her home and a smaller one in her wallet.

When Alice saw Claire, she gave her a hug.

“Oh, Claire, I’m so happy everyone’s okay. That husband of yours— Wow!”

“I’m glad no one was hurt badly.”

“How’s Robert doing?”

“He’s pretty cool about it all. He’s my mild-mannered Clark Kent. So how do things look for today?”

“A full slate.” Alice passed her the agenda and patient list.

Claire went to her office, fired up her computer, inserted her flash drive and transferred the notes she’d updated at home two nights earlier. Sipping coffee, she reviewed files for nearly an hour before meeting her patients.

There was Dorothy, a fifty-three-year-old bank teller, whom Claire had been helping for nearly a year following the death of her violent husband. Then there was Vanessa, a forty-eight-year-old graphic artist, whose husband was addicted to cocaine and abused her. Her other patients included April, a thirty-six-year-old former high school teacher who wanted to leave her husband. And Madison, a thirty-one-year-old hairstylist, whose husband, a limo driver, was abusive, jealous and controlling.

That was how Claire’s morning and early afternoon had gone.

She ate lunch at her desk while working on her notes. All of her cases were different but they shared common factors. In many ways abused women were like hostages whose experiences were symptomatic of the Stockholm syndrome.

Seeing no way out, no alternative relationship, they bonded with the loving side of their captor-abuser, the part they’d fallen in love with, the part to which they had given their heart. They grew dependent on the spouse or partner to provide emotional comfort after an incident, usually during his repentant period. This would also be when the victims downplayed the violence and fell into denial.

Claire knew that no abusive relationship was violent all the time, but there were identifiable patterns and cycles in most of them—long stretches of calm, normal everyday living that were usually punctuated with an inciting event that led to a period of increasing tension culminating in the explosion.

With each patient Claire was on guard for danger signs.

Safety was paramount.

Many times she’d wanted to call police, wanted them to intervene in a relationship. But she could never lose sight of her ethical, therapeutic and legal obligations. Patient confidentiality was critical. Intervening was a heart-wrenching challenge. Often abusers had no clue their partner was seeing a psychologist. So there was always a risk of exacerbating a situation.

A range of agencies and outreach services was available to help victims of domestic violence, and Claire always ensured her patients were aware of them. Usually, she made arrangements on their behalf. She’d never had a patient die at the hands of her abuser but she knew therapists who had.

If pushed, Claire would stop at nothing to protect her patients.

Three graves in a Minnesota cemetery reminded her of what happened when no one intervened. Claire paused for a moment to bear that in mind before preparing for her last patient of the afternoon.

Amber was a twenty-eight-year-old office assistant. After initiating a divorce from her husband, Eric, a thirty-nine-year-old security tech, she’d moved out of their Long Beach apartment to Alhambra. She was now house-sitting for friends of friends who wanted to help her start over after the breakup of her marriage. They’d even helped her get a clerical job at the Huntington Library.

Claire consulted Amber’s file again. The abuse in the relationship was extremely violent. Eric had come close to going to jail. Amber had sworn out a restraining order against him, a no-contact order. She had been Claire’s patient for several months. They had regular sessions but Amber had pleaded to have her next session moved up as soon as possible.

“Patient reports being anxious, feels like she’s being watched,” the file note said. Claire flipped to the file on Eric’s information. It contained his photo with a copy of the restraining order. Her eyes found the note, “Employed at installing residential/commercial security systems.” Claire considered these factors as Amber sat down in her office.

Amber was wearing a dark pencil skirt and white top. She’d come directly from her job at the Huntington Library. She updated Claire on her divorce, Eric’s failure to show up at the last court hearing, the restraining order and the news that he was moving.

“Okay, Amber,” Claire said, “when you called, you said you feel like you’re being watched. This is a new aspect in your case. Is that why you’re here today? Why did you feel the need to move up your session?”

“This is going to sound stupid.”

“It’s all right. Take a breath and take your time.”

As Amber twisted a tissue in her hands Claire noticed her new nails, bright red with tiny bright pink stripes, something Eric would never have approved of. They symbolized the progress Amber was making in rebuilding her life.

“It’s going to sound weird,” Amber said.

“It’s all right. Just tell me.”

“It’s hard to describe, but one night, just a few nights ago, I felt ‘a presence’ in the house.”

“A presence?”

“Yes, like something, or someone, was in the house.”

“You live alone, no roommates, no pets. You’re still house-sitting in Alhambra?”

“Yes. So I went around the house checking windows and doors. I didn’t see anything. I went to bed, but as I drifted off I felt someone was watching me.”

“Can you describe this presence?”

“No.”

“Did you see anything, touch anything, smell or feel anything?”

“No.”

“Did you find any signs or evidence that someone, or something, a bird, a cat, a mouse was in the house?”

“No, nothing.”

“And the house has a security alarm system?”

“Yes, the owners I’m house-sitting for said it was one of the best.”

“Have you been having any strange dreams lately?”

“No. Not really.”

“Are you taking any new prescriptions or over-the-counter medications?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes, it scares me.”

“What do you think it was?”

“Well, my first thought of course is that it was Eric. If anyone would know how to disarm and bypass a security system, he would.”

“Do you think he’s capable of this kind of behavior?”

“I don’t know,” Amber said. “The divorce is proceeding. Maybe he’s having trouble accepting it, but this is so strange, I don’t think he’d do something like this.”

“I see.”

“Then I thought that maybe I was just imagining the whole thing.”

“Did you call police, or tell anyone?”

“No, not so far. You’re the only one I’ve told.”

“I see. There are a few possible explanations.”

“Like I’m losing my mind.”

“No,” Claire reassured. “It could be a manifestation of your fear of Eric. That you are sensing this presence could be a reaction to your fear of Eric surfacing in your new life, because he was such a presence in the life you’ve left behind.”

“That could be it.”

“Every relationship is unique and the time it takes to heal varies,” Claire said. “You’ve taken several brave, life-changing steps. You’re undergoing a lot of pressure. This ongoing fear is real and to be expected. And given Eric’s violent past, and his profession, and the fact you’re ending your marriage to him, your fear that he is somehow stalking you is understandable.”

“So it’s all psychological? There’s no man hiding in my home?”

“Let’s hope not,” Claire said. “But we won’t take any chances by dismissing or underestimating the potential risk of danger, okay?”

Amber nodded.

“Remember we talked about an emergency plan, what to do if Eric ever tried to contact you?” Claire said.

“Yes.”

“Here’s what I suggest you do as soon as we’re done here. Call the security alarm company and ask them to send someone over to double-check the system at the house. Don’t go in the house. Meet them outside your home. And call the police, tell them your situation, tell them to look up Eric’s restraining order and ask them to check your house, too. Taking these precautions will help restore your peace of mind.”

“Okay.”

“Then I want you to consider moving in with a friend for a few days.”

“I will.”

“Does this help?”

“It does. Thank you so much, Claire.”

After Amber left, Claire poured a glass of ice water from her pitcher and updated various patient files before copying the day’s work to her flash drive to take home.

As it loaded, Claire began texting Robert.

It had been a long day, the muscles in the back of her lower neck and shoulders were rock-hard. But the stress couldn’t prevent her from smiling at the bright personal news on the baby front. Tonight would be a good night for that celebratory dinner—

“No!”

Claire’s head suddenly snapped to her office window.

Someone outside sounded panicked.

Claire left her desk. Through the curtain she’d seen Amber in the parking lot, contending with a man who had her backed up against a car.