Читать книгу The Promise He Made Her - Tara Taylor Quinn - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

PHYSICAL BRUISES HEAL. It’s the mental ones that can kill you. Bloom shook her head and hit the delete key. Looked for a more genteel way to get her point across. She didn’t want to lose her audience during the first minute of the two-hour-long psychology symposium. They’d given her a room with seating for three hundred, which could feel cavernous if she failed to entertain.

Back in her old life, her teaching life, she’d have filled the screen with visual aids, provided a handout—and probably pens, too. She’d have sent around a bowl filled with individually wrapped peppermints. All actions designed to increase memory retention in lecture situations, and she’d have been content to get 5 percent retention after seven days.

But those were the old days. Her associate college professor days. Funny how so much could change in just three years.

Physical bruises heal. It’s the mental ones that can kill you. Her second try ended up exactly the same as the first.

And if she started her keynote address at the psychiatric conference that way, people might not physically exit in droves, but she might lose her credibility.

One in four of the audience members—the current statistic for the number of the victims of domestic violence in the United States—might even take offense. Get angry.

How could she belittle the bruises that took so many lives? How could she say that “bruises heal,” dismissing the fact that intimate partners lifted fists to those who loved them?

She had two hours to impress upon her peers the very real disease that ate away at more of the population than any other disease. Domestic violence.

Medical personnel had been made more aware of intimate partner violence in recent years. After all, some professional sports leagues had been forced to shine light on the problem as a way of warding off the negative press that resulted from some of their stars being abusers.

But the fact that every minute twenty-four people were victims of intimate partner abuse in the United States was not just a problem for police and hospitals, doctors and nurses. Her profession—psychiatrists, psychologists, counselors—needed to step up to the plate.

Because bruises, broken bones, even cracked skulls healed over time. But without awareness, without help, without a “movement” to tend to the mental bruises left by domestic violence, not enough of the victims of that violence were going to heal...

The soapbox is not going to work with these people.

Bloom’s self-talk was trying to help. She knew that.

But...unhealed mental wounds often drove victims to the other side—they became abusers.

Preaching, teaching, prophesying or statisticizing wasn’t going to reach her peers.

She deleted again.

Sitting behind her mahogany desk, Bloom looked over the top of her laptop screen to survey her office, as though the words she needed were there. The couch and two recliners that faced each other with her favorite old claw-footed chair—an inheritance from the maternal grandmother she’d adored—offered...nothing. There was the coffee table with a floral tissue box holder in the middle of it. Wall hangings, all carefully chosen, in shades of muted reds, oranges, yellows, a splash of purple. Some hearts quilted together. Some quotations in the midst of abstract art.

Clearly a woman’s office. She made no apology for that. She was a woman.

Her patients were predominantly women.

A lot of whom were living healthy, productive lives.

But there were so many more out there. And she was booked to the hilt. Beyond the hilt, really, not that she minded the evening hours she put in three nights a week in addition to fully booked days.

Dr. Bloom Freelander, Psy.D, had a thriving private practice.

And it wasn’t enough.

She couldn’t even come close to serving the needs of all of those calling her office for help.

Nine o’clock on a Wednesday night. Her last patient had been gone almost an hour. Susan, her receptionist, soon after that. She had a 7:00 in the morning—Latoya Markham, who had to be at work by 8:00 a.m. And here she sat, needing to write the speech that she’d be giving at the University of California in just two days.

Physical bruises heal. It’s the mental ones that can kill you.

No!

The truth was...true. Physical bruises did heal. In some fashion. They’d fade and disappear. Broken bones reset. Some attacks resulted in death, too. It was the most unfortunate fact of all. One that she was trying desperately to avoid as often as humanly possible. The way to prevent domestic violence deaths was to heal the person. As well as the bruises.

She typed.

The way to prevent domestic violence deaths is to heal the person. Not just the bruises.

She read what she’d typed. Nodded. Yes. There.

She still had two hours left to fill.

She read her words again. One sentence. Her fingers lifted to the keys. Began to move. And Bloom quit fighting them.

* * *

WTF.

Detective Samuel Larson, thirty-seven-year-old semistar of the Santa Raquel Police Department, leaned back in the old squeaky desk chair he’d inherited, along with the scarred desk, when he’d been awarded his detective’s shield.

He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the desk. Never had. He stared at the emailed report he’d just opened.

Two years? The asshole was out in two years?

How was he going to... “Damn.”

“Something wrong?” Brand-new detective Chantel Harris, who’d recently transferred from a beat cop to internet crime investigation, happened to be walking by Sam’s desk as that last expletive slipped out.

Sam knew Chantel. Not from any work they’d done together on the job, but because they were both members of the Santa Raquel High Risk Team—an organization of professionals in all fields who came into contact with victims of domestic violence. From nurses to school counselors, cops, doctors, lawyers, the team had formed an intricate communication system geared solely to prevent domestic violence deaths.

“Yeah, something’s wrong,” he said, running a hand through blond hair that was too long by department standards. No one seemed to care. Least of all him. “One of our High Risk cases just threw up on us.”

In silk pants and a jacket that looked like it had cost a year of his car payments, the no-nonsense, no makeup, blond-hair-tied-back cop sat down hard in the varnishless wooden chair beside his desk.

“Which one?” Her lips were white with tension.

“This one was before your time,” he quickly assured her.

“But not before yours.”

“Right.” He looked at his screen again, seething angry energy. Rocking back and forth in the swivel chair that had seen better days, leaning on one elbow as he chewed the side of his finger.

Chantel glanced at the screen. “Arrested three years ago, sentenced to life in prison a year later and now released on a technicality,” she read the portion he’d scrolled to.

“The lawyer who prosecuted him was Trevor Banyon.” He chewed harder.

Chantel’s drawn out curse was only slightly less harsh than his mental one. “How many are they up to now? Twenty-four? I can’t believe that many cases have been overturned. A top prosecutor with an illegal gun trade on the side.” She shook her head. “The guy should be shot.”

With one of his own weapons, Sam agreed silently.

“I thought all of his cases were drug related.” Chantel leaned over and, taking charge of his mouse, scrolled some more. “What was he doing on one of our cases?”

“The perp was a professor of psychology at U of C. The victim, his wife, was an associate professor he’d mentored.”

“The authority figure.” Chantel’s tone dripped disrespect. He knew it because it was a sentiment he shared.

Answering to a boss was one thing—having someone assume that they knew what was best for you better than you did, or thought that they had the right to force their will onto another—the idea pissed him off. Royally.

“So why were we on it?” Chantel, apparently finding nothing pertinent in the brief report, sat back. “U of C is out of our jurisdiction.”

“The couple owned a home here on the beach and commuted.” An hour and a half four days a week. He remembered the details. Every one of them.

“Still, doesn’t explain Banyon’s involvement.”

“The professor also had a private practice. He was a licensed psychiatrist. He’d been slowly drugging his wife.”

“He was killing her?”

“Nothing that kind.” Sam shook his head, feeling his lunch threaten to come back up on him. “He’d made up his own little cocktail. Just to dumb her down enough that she wouldn’t surpass him.”

“He drugged her to keep her in his control?”

“She’s genius-level intelligent,” Sam said, remembering the woman he’d spent two years trying to forget. Because forgetting was the right thing to do.

She’d been so vulnerable when he’d known her. Nothing like the person she’d been born to be. The person he hoped she’d become after she’d gotten her life back. “He was afraid she was going to take his job.” Chantel cut right to the chase. “Or surpass him in his field.”

“Yeah.”

“Did he hit her, too?”

“Hard enough to break her jaw.” And the crooked smile he’d left behind would be her constant reminder of what the man she’d adored, idolized and trusted had done to her.

“He’s due out next Monday. That’s four days,” Chantel said, frowning.

“I know.”

“When are you going to tell her?”

It was Thursday morning. He was thinking about...maybe...Sunday night. Give her as much peace of mind as he could.

Give himself some way to figure out how to get the asshole back behind bars before he’d had a chance to take a step out.

“With his conviction overturned there won’t even be a probation period.”

He knew that.

“What about a restraining order?” Chantel asked the question even as she shook her head.

“Not until he approaches her again,” he said what they both already knew. When a case went away, so did all of the painfully collected evidence. At least in theory.

“She needs time to make arrangements.”

She had a point. Maybe Sunday night was leaving it a little late. Still, he needed time to make a plan.

“Is she still local?”

“Yeah. She’s in private practice now. Has an office in that professional plaza across the street from the hospital.” Still living in the beach house she’d bought with the bastard. That was one of the first things they were going to have to fix.

They. As though she was going to want to have anything to do with him when she found out that he hadn’t been able to keep his promise to her that once she testified the man who’d hurt her so cruelly would spend the rest of his life behind bars. That if she testified he, Detective Sam Larson, would guarantee her safety.

Not that Banyon’s sins were on him. But the fact that the asshole professor’s wife had testified against him when everything in her had told her not to do so—that was on Sam. He’d ridden her hard.

He’d needed her testimony to make his case.

To keep her safe.

Well, he’d sure as hell screwed that one up.