a cell phone.” I sat back in the chair. “It’s not my home address or the code to my front door. If they abuse it, then I stop working with them. If I need to change the number, I’ll change the number. It’s not a big deal.”
“Coming from someone who looks at dead bodies all day, I have to say, Doc—I don’t think you take your safety seriously. You’re an attractive woman. All it takes is one of these sickos becoming obsessed with you, and you’re going to have a serious problem.”
“I appreciate the advice.” I forced a smile. “But they aren’t sickos. They’re normal people, Detective. Some people struggle with depression; others struggle with violent urges. If my clients didn’t care about protecting others, they wouldn’t be in my office.”
“Is that why John Abbott was seeing you? He didn’t want to hurt people?”
I kept my features pleasant. “Like I said, I treat clients for a variety of things. Some just need someone to talk to. You want to know more than that, I need a warrant.”
“Hey, I had to try,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. Glancing toward my window, he studied the park view for a long moment. “Any reason I should look at this as anything other than a suicide?”
He was questioning the wrong death. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Would you swear to that under oath?”
“Absolutely.” Just please don’t ask about Brooke.
He nodded slowly. “I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions, Dr. Moore.” He pushed on the arms of the chair and stood. “Thank you for your time.”
I walked him to the lobby and gave a reassuring smile to Jacob, who watched us with interest. Returning to my office, I closed the door and let out a shuddered breath.
The chances were high, very high, that this was my fault. I’d had one job to do, and I had failed in an epic way with Brooke—but also John. Because of that, two people were dead.
CHAPTER 3
“This isn’t your fault.” Meredith squinted at me over a brussels sprout–laden tuna fish sandwich. “Tell me you know that.”
“While I appreciate your emotional life raft, you’re wrong.” I stabbed my fork into a piece of melon and prosciutto. “He sought treatment with me because he wanted to kill his wife. He killed his wife. He killed himself. If I’d done my job properly, they’d both be alive.”
“Okay, first, you have no proof he killed his wife.” She spoke through a mouthful of food, one finger lifted in the air as she started to count off a list of bullshit. “She had a heart attack.”
“Someone can trigger a heart attack.” I set down my fork. “He was a pharmacist. Trust me.”
“Then call the detective. Have him run a tox screen.” She waited, her sandwich hovering before her mouth.
“You know I can’t do that,” I said grudgingly, lowering my voice as I glanced around the crowded downtown café.
“You can do that,” she pointed out. “You just don’t want to. Because then I might be right and you’ll have to release this self-imposed guilt and move on with your life in a happy and productive manner.”
This was why I shouldn’t have befriended a fellow shrink. We couldn’t have a simple lunch without analyzing each other.
I studied the stamped design along the rim of my plate. “I shouldn’t do that,” I amended, “for several reasons.” I could waste our entire lunch going over why that was a horrible idea. If I was wrong, and Brooke’s death was natural, I’d be a laughingstock who’d tried to tarnish my own client’s name. If I was right and my client had killed his wife, I’d be under a microscope, would have to turn over his files, and for what? For justice on a man who had already imposed his own death sentence? It was a waste of government resources and time.
Meredith took a sip of herbal tea and shrugged. “Whatever. Dig your own mental grave. Did you call that guy whose number I gave you? The handyman?”
“I did not call the handyman.” I tore off a piece of bread. “I appreciate the matchmaking, but I already have one new man in my life, and I don’t need another.”
“A pack of Mr. Clean sponges doesn’t count.” She frowned at me and picked a sprout off the front of her blouse.
“Yeah, well. He’s the first man inside my house other than my brother in . . .” I squinted and did the depressing math. “Eighteen months? So,