In This Life (2 page)

“One step at a time, Lottie.” David’s voice sounded firm but I heard his doubt, too. Like me, he wanted to write this off as an oddity but neither of us would be able to do that until we found all the answers.

My cell phone rang again. David studied it in his palm, as if he’d forgotten it was there, and checked the display for a caller ID. When he frowned, I assumed there was none.

“Want me to do the honors?” he asked.

I shook my head. If I was going to take any kind of control, I had to take the call myself.

The phone rang a third time.

“If it’s the guy who called before,” David said, handing it over, “don’t give him the power. Answer it, but keep him on your turf. Don’t let him manipulate you, Lottie.”

I sat up and nodded, but was having trouble digesting his instructions. Logically they made sense, but what was happening didn’t feel logical. I grabbed the phone, steadied myself, and answered. Paul Cavanaugh, a good friend and colleague from Amrose Counseling Center, was on the other end.

David sat down next to me and whispered. “Who is it?”

I mouthed the answer.

David’s jaw clenched. He and Paul tolerated each other at best, and only because of me.

“There’s a problem with Logan,” Paul said.

“What happened?” I sat up, too quickly, and braced through another surge of dizziness.

David steadied me with a strong hand and sent a stern look.

I ignored it.

“I just got a call from Amrose.” Paul’s lingering pause meant he had bad news. “Logan’s missing. His mother found a suicide note this morning that had been left in his bedroom, but she doesn’t know where he is. She couldn’t find your number and called Amrose directly, and someone patched her through to Stuart Hanley because you’ve been out sick. Then Hanley called me.”

Hanley served as the director at Sunrise Recovery where Logan, my client, was undergoing drug rehab.

Memories of a teenage client’s suicide last year resurfaced, weighing me down with regret and blame. I forgot about my stomach flu and the strange dream and the phone call. All I could see was Deborah’s coffin and her distraught mother at the funeral, dressed in black and unable to stand without help because she’d been so heavily sedated.

“Logan’s mom wants to meet with you this morning at Amrose,” Paul went on. “When I told her you were out sick, she completely lost it. So I called you to see if you could — ”

“Of course I’ll meet her. I can be there this morning.”

David’s gaze cut to mine and I mentally prepared for battle.

“I planned to stay home another day, Paul, but I won’t do that to Mrs. Reynolds. I can meet her this morning.” A quick glance at the digital clock on David’s nightstand showed it was just shy of eight-thirty.

“You’re not going in,” David said.

I waved my hand to shush him and hoped Paul didn’t hear. “Can you reschedule my other appointments for today, and let her know that I’ll meet her around ten-thirty?”

“Lottie — ”

I waved David off again and his shoulders tensed, a warning sign that I might not want to try that again.

“Once she and I are finished,” I went on, “I’ll head back home.” I said the last more to David than to Paul, hoping it was enough to ease the growing tension between us.

“You sure?” Paul asked.

“Definitely.”

“Great. I’ll let Mrs. Reynolds know.”

We disconnected and I pushed off the covers so I could get out of bed. David grabbed my arm, stopping me halfway. He said nothing but he didn’t have to. His thoughts were more than evident on his face.

“I have to do this,” I told him.

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m
not
going to let this happen again,” I said. “I lost one client already to suicide. I won’t lose another.” And though hours of my own therapy helped me understand that Deborah’s death wasn’t my fault, a part of me still had trouble accepting it.

“Can’t you have someone else handle Mrs. Reynolds for you?”

“It’s not that simple, David,” I said. “And please don’t order me around and expect me to do something just because you said so.”

“I’m not looking to argue about this, Lottie.”

“Neither am I but I’m still going.”

“You’re not well.”

“Neither is Mrs. Reynolds!” My voice sounded harsher and louder than I intended, and it startled the both of us.

David looked away, probably balancing his desire to protect me with the need to let me go. He was one of the best people I knew but he also had an edge. It was what made him successful at his job and respected by his men, and occasionally annoying to me.

“This is the least I can do for Mrs. Reynolds,” I told him. “Logan is her son and my client and I owe them both.”

I stood up, and the minute I got to my feet the room swayed again. David looked at me and sighed out loud, but this time he didn’t try to stop me.

I saw his worry just the same. “I’m very well aware that I’m not one hundred percent yet, David, and I promise to be careful.”

“I’m working very hard here, you know. I still think this is a mistake.”

“I know.” And I appreciated it.

David’s bright green eyes met mine and the fleeting anger and impatience I felt with him melted away, replaced with something that warmed my heart and filled my soul. He was trying his hardest. The least I could do was to return the favor. So I searched for a compromise and found one.

“Drive me there,” I said. “Hang around the office while I meet with Mrs. Reynolds and then drive me back home. This way, if I need help, you’ll be there.”

He considered me and shook his head, but acceptance only came when he said, “Fine.”

I sent him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“You can remind me of all the things you disagree with after you bring me back home,” I said, leaning down to give him a kiss.

With fingertips to my chin, he gently angled my head so that I was forced to kiss his cheek instead. “I love you, Lottie,” he said as he pulled away, “but not your germs.”

I made a chicken sound, and David gave me a wide, playful grin.

I slipped out from his hold and, on shaky legs, headed for the bathroom to get ready.

We took David’s SUV and wove through the back roads toward Amrose Counseling Center in Huntington, but I didn’t pay attention to the warm, summer morning that surrounded me. I was preoccupied with Logan, preparing myself for every possible conversation I might have with his mother, and each scenario ended with the same desperate outcome. Despite all my training, I didn’t know what to say to this woman and I didn’t know what to expect from her, especially given what Logan had told me. Much of what he shared about his mother wasn’t good, and I had no idea how much of it was true.

We parked under a shady oak and David steadied me as we crossed the treed parking lot. By the time we reached the front door, I was sweating and out of breath. Alicia, the Center’s receptionist, gave me a smile that lit up her face as I walked inside. She was the only fifty-something woman I knew who looked more like thirty-something, and for a moment I envied her short silver hair and slender navy pantsuit. She looked fresh and young and vigorous. I felt wilted and beaten and apprehensive. It was a superficial thought, I realized, and one fueled by denial. I simply didn’t want to face Mrs. Reynolds or my guilt over Logan.

I blew a kiss to David and heard him make small talk with Alicia as I headed down the muted pastel hallway. Her answering laugh to something he said made me smile. David could banter with the best of them.

I closed the office door and opened a window to let in fresh July air — something I’d missed while cooped up in bed for three days. The breeze smelled like freshly mowed grass and thick-leaved trees, and I took some time to enjoy its clean simplicity. Another breeze followed, this one carrying a rich, spiced scent that I immediately recognized from my dream.

In the distance, I heard laughter and music.

I closed my eyes and followed the happy sounds. Some people were singing. Others were telling jokes and celebrating. And for some reason, I had the feeling that I did not want to be there. I felt out of place in that celebration, and very sad, and was looking for any excuse to leave. Fingertips were touching my chin, coaxing my attention away from my sorrow and back to the festivities. Back to him. He handed me a cup of dark red wine and encouraged me to sip. “You must let go and find your way,” he said. “Drink, and let the wine take you where you need to be.”

His fingers lingered on me for too long, and he leaned in as if he was going to kiss me.

“Be quiet, Doctor Morgan.”

A hand clamped over my mouth and I jumped, startled out of the moment and into Logan’s bloodshot, brown-eyed gaze. His flicked a look at the door and then focused back on me, and my heart double-timed with adrenalin and fear. He tightened his grip to make sure I wouldn’t run, and I felt tremors vibrate from him into me. He was scared. And high.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said, digging a knife into the underside of my chin.

I swallowed and nodded.

Logan removed his hand from my mouth, slowly, but kept the knife at my throat. He wore a black baseball cap, pulled forward, a black T-shirt, and a pair of designer jeans that I recognized. David once toyed with the idea of buying a pair but couldn’t justify spending two hundred dollars on denim. Knowing Logan’s background, he probably had on an equally pricey pair of sneakers to match.

I squeezed the armrests on my chair, channeling all the panic down to my fingertips. I was not going to let Logan see that I was scared.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

Logan pointed to the slit screen in the open window. “Couldn’t take chances of being seen,” he said.

I swallowed, relieved that Logan was alive even though part of me wasn’t surprised to see him. Logan was a manipulator and a chameleon and molded every situation to suit his own needs, without regard to how it affected anyone else. It was behavior many teenagers exhibited, only Logan took it to the extreme. And it was that knowledge that kept me cautious now.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” I asked.

Logan moved in closer. His breath smelled of alcohol mixed with something pungent and sour, and I held my breath until my roiling stomach settled down.

“No.”

“She’s worried. She thinks you’re dead.”

Logan pulled back and flicked the blade closed with a sharp, disgusted snap. “The only thing my mother cares about is herself.”

I kept still and watched him walk toward the light brown sofa. He sat down and dropped his sneakered feet on top of the wood coffee table, looking like he wanted commiseration and maybe a
poor baby
. He wasn’t going to get either.

“She’s coming here this morning,” I said. “Maybe you should call her and let her know that you’re okay.”

He blinked his eyes twice, looking like he was fighting the urge to sleep. “Why?”

The question was simple but the answer wasn’t. I’d come to the conclusion long ago that Logan and his mother needed family counseling, but neither one of them wanted any part of it.

“It’s not like she gives a shit,” Logan went on. “She don’t need me, what with her rich friends and rich life and rich family.” He paused, like he wanted to say something else and wasn’t sure how to say it. “You know she’s got a new boyfriend now, too?”

He kept watching me, waiting for an answer.

“No.”

“Yeah. And get this. I’ve seen this guy out there where I hang sometimes. He’s a player, but she don’t see it.”

In the year I’d been counseling Logan, I knew of three so-called boyfriends, one of whom had ties to organized crime. The gods only knew what else I didn’t know, and how much of it I could believe.

Logan flicked the knife open, closed, then open and closed again. He was buying time.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“It seems to me that you’re concerned about your mother’s welfare.”

Logan said nothing.

“Your recognizing her boyfriend as possible trouble indicates an emotional interest in her well-being. I’d like to talk about that.”

He shrugged again, tugged on the baseball cap and stared at the opposite wall.

“What are you concerned about?”

Logan folded his arms over his chest. “I asked my mom about my dad again last week.”

He’d shifted gears but that was okay. It was something I could work with.

“What happened?”

Logan started flicking the knife open and closed again, and I started thinking I should alert someone on staff that he was here. When he flicked the blade closed and slid it into his pocket, I eased back into my chair. I didn’t trust Logan, but knowing the knife was no longer easily accessible meant I had regained all the control. I let out a long, quiet breath and felt the knot of tension between my shoulders fade away.

“My mom deposited twenty large into my account so I can take a vacation somewhere. She told me to go away for a few weeks.” Logan tugged the baseball cap down further. “I’m so sick of her shit, trying to buy me off all the time. I know why she does it, too. To stop me asking about my dad.”

And yet he kept asking about him. And lately more frequently, too.

Logan cursed and sank deeper into the sofa. His body language screamed out a need for love and acceptance and guidance, and the more I studied him and spoke with him, the more I understood his compulsion in finding his father. Although he never said it outright, I knew he hoped his father would give him what his mother never would or could.

“Do you think faking your death was the best way to deal with this?” I asked.

Logan made a face. “Does it matter?”

“If it doesn’t, then why did you do it?”

“Because I want to be on my own and this was the only way I could do it.”

“By inventing your suicide?”

He held out his hands like I was a slow learning child. “My mother needs to be taught a lesson. What are you not getting here?”

“How do your actions this morning teach her a lesson?”

Logan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His knuckles, I noticed, were bloodied and bruised. “What does it matter what I did this morning? Are you my mother now, too? And what if I don’t want help? What if I just want to be left alone? Did you ever think of that?”