The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 10

By the time Grace was sitting behind the precious barrier provided by her desk, Andrew Toner was perched rigidly on the edge of the patient chair, shoulders tight as bridge struts, looking everywhere but at Grace.

She had yet to completely collect her thoughts but began a cardboard speech that was better than nothing.

“Obviously,” she began, “this is awkward for both of us. Let me begin by saying I’m sorry.”

“No need, you didn’t know,” he said. “How could you?”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “Still. You traveled a long distance for my help.”

He brushed a wing of hair from his unlined brow and sat for a long time before mustering the faintest of smiles.

“Guess there are all kinds of therapy.”

Being a cheeky bastard? Would he be bragging to his friends in Texas the moment he left the office? Facebook, Twitter, some other hideous communication?

Guys, you’ll never believe what happened, I shit you not, this was straight out of bad porn. I fly to L.A. to meet this shrink, go for a drink the night before and...

But then he said, “Sorry, that was glib. I guess I just — I’ve never been that great at making conversation.”

Not a lout. Too bad. Seeing his faults would’ve been a pathetic way for her to feel less stupid...

She cleared her throat. He looked up. His mouth was set tight. Nothing more to say.

“I’m terribly sorry, Andrew. But what happened, happened, no sense dwelling. On the contrary, I’m thinking we could try to use this time constructively.”

His eyebrows arced.

Oh, no, not that, not that at all.

Grace leaned forward, faking calm and authoritative... professional.

“What I mean,” she said, “is that you traveled a distance because of questions you have. If you can put aside the distraction, I’d be happy to hear what they are. Obviously I can’t treat you long-term, but I can do my best to direct you to the best local referral possible.”

She had no dependable referrals in Texas but damn, she’d find one.

Andrew Toner didn’t respond.

“On the other hand,” she said, “if you find that too difficult, I understand.”

“I... maybe...” Pinching khaki, he began to cross a leg. Changed his mind and replanted both feet flat on the carpet. “Do you have any idea what I’m after?”

“If the article you mentioned to my answering service is relevant, I might.”

“Yes!” A single whispered word, emphatic. He sat up straighter. “When I came across it, I said this is the person I need to talk to.” He turned to the side. “It took me a while to find it. It’s not a topic psychologists seem to pay much attention to.” A beat. “Why is that?”

“Hard to know for sure,” said Grace, grateful to be discussing anything but last night. “I suspect some of it has to do with what we call small sample size. There aren’t enough people to do the kind of studies that get grant money.”

“Really?” said Andrew. “With all that goes on, you’d think there would be.”

“I imagine most people in that situation wouldn’t be interested in being studied.”

“Hmm. Yes, I can see that.”

Oh, you have no idea, Andrew.

Or maybe you do... you’re here.

“Anyway,” he said. “That’s how I found you. Researching.”

Grace pictured him clicking away at his computer, patient, methodical, like an engineer should be. If he was an engineer... whatever, he’d investigated because of his own situation, finally come across that article.

The piece was six years old, tucked at the rear of an arcane British criminology journal now out of circulation. Because Malcolm had guessed, probably correctly, that psych journals might not go for it.

An outlier, Grace’s only solo effort. Malcolm had been suggesting it for a while, finally she’d relented.

He’d so enjoyed seeing it in print.

What the journal referees hadn’t known — what no one but Grace and Malcolm and Sophie knew — was that Grace had done double duty.

Author and subject.

Referring to herself as Jane X and altering details so no one would ever detect autobiography masquerading as clinical case history.

She’d placed the “precipitating event” in another state, transformed the father into the initial killer and suicide, the mother into a hapless victim — in addition to camouflaging the facts, that would play well with the feminist editor of the journal. And, let’s face it, Ardis had been a star player in the tawdry melodrama that ended with his neck slit open. All that stupid testosterone unleashed by booze and dope. All those backhand slaps.

The stink of tension and fear when he entered the trailer.

Across from her, Andrew sat there and Grace realized she’d drifted off. She wheeled back her desk chair, pressed her back into leather, wishing she could melt into oblivion.

Was she showing discomfort? Andrew’s blue eyes were ripe with concern.

Oh, just dandy. Not only had she failed him, she was burdening him with her personal shit.

Wheeling forward, she recited the title of the article. Hoping the incantation would free her of subjectivity.

Andrew nodded. Suddenly, Grace felt as if she was about to choke. Covering with a cough, she muttered, “ ’Scuse me,” placed her hand over her mouth and inhaled long and slow, exchanging air through her nose in order to conceal her craving for oxygen.

A victim. No way, nono way—

Andrew Toner continued to regard her with... tenderness?

I’m okay, you softhearted bastard.

Grace knew she had to regain control or... what?

Distraction is the enemy. Stay focused.

“So,” she said, in her best therapist voice, “what villain has been occupying your thoughts and dreams?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.”

“I understand.”

“That’s part of what you wrote about, right? That woman — Jane — was never sure she was ready to deal with it. Had no way of knowing because who could provide a map?”

Grace nodded. Going through the motions felt good. Shrinkyshrinkshrink.

Andrew went on, “That I can absolutely relate to. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, This is the moment I need to... confront reality. Then the impulse passes and I convince myself I’m able to just forget about it.”

Grace said, “Of course.” The warmth in her voice surprised her. Not having to think it out. Just being.

Maybe Andrew picked up on her newfound confidence because his body relaxed a bit.

But his eyes had grown moist.

Grace guessed why: sudden onrush of memories.

When he spoke next, she learned she was wrong.

“It’s not about me. There’s a... moral parameter.”

Grace waited.

Andrew shook his head. “Not important.”

“Important enough for you to come from San Antonio.”

His eyes raced to the left. The Texas bit, a lie? What else wasn’t he telling her?

Everything. Of course.

She said, “Without getting into details, can you tell me about the villain?”

He thought about that. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is.”

“I know, I know — listen, I’m sorry.” His laugh was harsh. “Another obnoxious apology, I do it too much, it’s my problem.” Another laugh — an angry bark, really. “One of my problems... anyway I’m glad I made the trip because it gave me time to think but it’s just not going to work.”

His hand sliced air horizontally. “Nothing to do with you, please believe that, no... regrets. I just... can’t. Still not ready, I guess.” He smiled. “No doubt you hear that all the time.”

Trying to normalize the situation. For Grace as much as for himself. Someone who cares about others. That made it worse.

He got to his feet, face flushed. Remembering her? Tongue, legs, everything?

Grace said, “We’ve got time. You can take your time.”

He shook his head violently. “Can’t, sorry — there I go again. Apologizing to the damn world, like I feel I’m...”

“Different.”

“No, no,” he said, with surprising ire. “That’s...” Impatient wave. “Everyone’s different, different is meaningless, what I feel is... polluted.”

“Makes sense,” said Grace.

“Does it? Did Jane X feel polluted? Because that doesn’t come out in your article, you just talk about her having to construct her own system of morality. All those steps she took to cope.”

Grace said, “An article has limitations, Andrew. Why don’t you sit back down, give yourself some time?”

Andrew’s eyes scanned the therapy room. “You mean well. I know that. Maybe you’re right and I should. But I can’t. Thanks for your time. I mean that.”

He strode to the door. Wrong door, the one that led back into the front waiting room, rather than toward the side-street exit.

No one around, no need to stand on ceremony. Grace got up.

He said, “I can see myself out. Please.”

She held back, watched him open the door gingerly, take two steps into the waiting room before half turning and offering a slice of his pleasant, handsome, tortured face.

“Andrew?”

“I’m — would it be possible — just say no if it’s not — would it be possible if tomorrow I felt that I could handle returning — would you be able to find some time? I understand that you’re probably extremely busy, so if it doesn’t work out—”

First day of her intended vacation. She said, “Of course, I’ll make time for you, Andrew. As much time as you need.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re... quite... I think you might be able to help me.”

Blushing deeply, he escaped.

Relieved that he’d made no attempt to pay her, Grace returned to the therapy room and stood there for a long time. Hoping she’d finally return to normal but she didn’t and left, trudging out to the garage.

Wondering if he would call.

Aware of the multiple meanings that question could evoke.

She hoped she’d see him again. Hoped she was being honest about why.

As she backed the Aston into the street, a car, a squarish sedan parked several houses up, switched on its headlights and rolled toward her.

Unusual on this quiet block, but it happened.

Still, ever watchful, the way a single woman needed to be, Grace made sure the DB7’s doors were locked as she eased out and headed east.

The car remained behind her and she prepared to jackrabbit away if necessary. But then the sedan stopped for a moment, swung a three-point turn in a neighboring driveway, and reversed direction.

Grace watched its taillights diminish then vanish. Maybe she’d just seen a cop’s allegedly undercover wheels, some sort of burglary stakeout, WeHo had its share of break-ins.

Or just a car with a perfectly logical reason for being there and she was letting her thoughts ooze into irrational anxiety because today had been... different.

New day, new dawn.

Would he call?