to present myself a certain way in front of other people. But doesn’t everyone do that? The point is, Doctor”—when he didn’t correct her, she assumed it was okay to call him that—“I run a successful law practice and have a professional reputation to maintain. I can’t be running out of the courtroom because I’m suddenly feeling woozy or worried about having another panic attack.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
Good. Now they were getting somewhere. “I fully recognize that these lingering . . . fears”—she hesitated over the word, debating whether it was too extreme—“are obviously all in my head. And I’m sure they’ll go away as more time passes from the burglary. But since they’re kind of, well, annoying, I was hoping you might have some tricks to help speed up the process. You know, breathing techniques, relaxation exercises, things of that nature.” She went for a joke. “Feel free to order me to visit a spa or get weekly massages as part of my treatment.”
Dr. Metzel chuckled. “I’m not sure about the spa part, but certainly both relaxation and imagery techniques can be very helpful in the treatment of panic disorder. Now, one thing I’d—”
Wait. “Did you say ‘panic disorder’?” she interrupted.
“Yes. Panic disorder.”
She sat back in her chair. But . . . she didn’t have a disorder. She was just having a few small panic issues. Clearly, the good doctor here needed to get with the program.
Then she realized what was going on. “Ah. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned this up front. I’m not fishing around for some kind of diagnosis in order to get insurance coverage. I’m fine paying out of pocket for these sessions.”
“That’s good to know,” he said. “And, admittedly, this is just an initial assessment. But based on what you’re telling me, I’m comfortable diagnosing panic disorder at this time.”
Huh.
Having deposed and cross-examined several psychologists, her lawyerly instincts took over. “If you don’t mind my asking, what, exactly, are you basing that diagnosis on?”
“I don’t mind at all,” Dr. Metzel said patiently. “In a nutshell, panic disorder is the fear of having a panic attack. Your fear of causing a scene, or looking ‘weird,’ and the changes you’ve made in your behavior—no longer riding the subway and stopping your exercise class—are all very classic symptoms.”
Completely caught off guard, Victoria tried to process this. “But . . . I don’t have any history of anxiety.” Not that Dr. Metzel would know this—because she hadn’t intended, and still didn’t intend, for these sessions to be an all-access pass into certain things from her past, but she was about as mentally steady as they came. She was the rock. Hell, ever since she was ten years old, she’d made a point of demonstrating just how unflappable she was.
“In your case, the break-in was the catalyst for your initial panic attack,” Dr. Metzel said. “And as you said, that’s not a wholly atypical physiological response, given the extreme stress you were under at the time. But as for why that incident has now brought on your fear of having additional panic attacks . . . well, that’s something we’ll want to explore in therapy.”
Therapy.
Aw, criminy.
Once upon a time, after The Incident, Victoria had gone through therapy at her mother’s insistence. Two years of it, in fact, “just in case” there was anything she wanted to talk about. So she had a pretty good idea what to expect: all the talking, and the dissecting of her every thought and emotion.
Going through that ordeal again sounded about as much fun as stapling her tongue to the carpet.
“Can’t you just patch me up with some breathing techniques and send me on my way?” she asked, trying to charm her way out of this.
Dr. Metzel returned the smile and clicked his pen. “Are weekends better for you? I have an opening for Saturdays at one P.M.”
She took that as a no.
Three
“IT’S ME—YOU know what to do at the beep.”
At the sound of the familiar greeting, Ford grumbled under his breath. Per the promise he’d made to his mother, this was the second time in three days that he’d called to check up on his sister and Zoe. Both times, his call had gone straight to voice mail.
“Hey, Nic. Just checking in to see how everything’s going. I thought I might swing by sometime this weekend—maybe take you and Zoe out to lunch. Call me.” After hanging up, he looked at the phone for a moment, and then turned back to his computer.
A week had