With Good Behavior (4 page)

“Oh.”

“She died when I was twelve, from pancreatic cancer.”

“Pancreatic cancer?” Jerry repeated. “How long was she sick?”

“Not long—a couple of months? The doctors said it was one of the deadliest cancers. Back then, anyway.”

Jerry frowned, feeling a kinship with the man across from him. So, his own mother probably had only weeks left. Almost twenty years after Madsen’s mother’s death, pancreatic cancer was still one of the deadliest.

During the awkward silence that ensued, Jerry glanced down at the parolee’s file, trying to move on. “Lucky for you, your drug test from last week was negative. What do you have to report to me today?”

Also eager to venture into happier territory, Grant proudly announced, “I got a job!”

“Well, la-dee-dah, Madsen!” Jerry grumbled, mocking the parolee’s exuberance. “Aren’t you happy with yourself. What kind of job?”

His enthusiasm taken down a notch, Grant reported stoically, “It’s with Eaton Tours. They run Chicago architectural cruises.”

“And what do you do for them?”

“I hope to work my way up to chief navigator, but right now it seems I am chief toilet cleaner.”

Jerry chuckled. “I need some evidence that you are gainfully employed, for your file.” He reached into his desk drawer and extracted his business card. “Give this to your boss and have him fax me a letter verifying your employment.”

“Yes, sir.” Grant pocketed the card. “His name is Roger Eaton.”

“And where are you living?”

“I’m staying at Mr. Eaton’s apartment for now, sir.”

“You’re living with your boss?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Eaton is my uncle’s old Navy buddy.”

“Ah, that makes sense.”

“But he snores like an outboard motor, so I’m hoping to get my own place when I can afford it.”

Jerry noted Eaton’s address in Madsen’s file. “All right. Good job, Madsen. See you here next week.”

Rising from his chair, Grant nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Back in the hallway, the woman Grant had met was nowhere to be found. How would he get his jacket back? Joe had bought him that jacket as a reminder of their days of attending White Sox games together. Rubbing his hand across his shorn hair, Grant found himself desperately hoping to see the blond beauty next week. He needed to retrieve his jacket! Or not. Who was he kidding? He simply wanted to see her again.

S
ophie glanced nervously around her, eyeing the homey furniture and magazines strewn across the end tables in the small room. Another woman sat in the chair across from her—another client awaiting her therapist. Sophie felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She did everything she could to avoid eye contact with the woman.

So, this is what it’s like to sit in a psychologist’s waiting room.
 No wonder her clients had appeared so apprehensive when she retrieved them from her own waiting room for the first time. The ignominy of needing professional psychological help was enough to make anyone want to hide. She stared at the gray speckled carpet, anxiously rehearsing her answers to questions she might face.

“Sophie?” She looked up to see a clean-cut man with tanned skin and short blond hair looking her way.

“That’s me.” She grabbed her handbag and the black athletic jacket from the chair next to her. Clutching the jacket calmed her, and she stood, facing the man with whom she was supposed to share all her secrets.

His warm hazel eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he shook her hand firmly. “I’m Dr. Hunter Hayes.”

“Hi, Hunter.”

He paused. “Feel free to call me Hunter, by the way.”

Sophie winced.

Grinning, he said, “Please follow me to my office.”

As he turned to walk down the hall, Sophie noticed they were roughly the same height. She wondered how old he was. He looked about thirty-five, but he also appeared to take good care of himself. His broad shoulders tapered into a lean waist, indicating he was likely a frequent flyer at the gym. His casual black shirt and jeans helped Sophie feel slightly more at ease.

Hunter led her into his office, and Sophie was immediately drawn to the huge aquarium set into one of the walls. She placed a slender hand on the glass, mesmerized by the colorful fish peacefully swimming in lazy patterns. “This aquarium is beautiful.”

“Do you like it?” He stood by a chair, waiting for his client to step over to the sofa. “My partners in the group practice were a little dubious, but I’d like to think it works.”

Sophie nodded, and noticing him still standing, politely waiting for her, she gracefully took a seat on the sofa.

“The fish seem to provide a soothing presence for my clients,” Hunter noted as he took his seat.

“What a great idea. Oh, look, a Nemo fish!”

He chuckled. “Ah yes, my percula clownfish. Let me go over a few things with you before we get into it, Sophie. Looking over your paperwork …” She feigned interest while he launched into a description of confidentiality, as if she didn’t know the laws governing privacy and duty to warn for psychologists. But her focus sharpened when he added, “Apparently I’m supposed to report your attendance and progress to your parole officer?”

“Yes,” Sophie confirmed, adding uncomfortably, “Officer Jerry Stone.”

“Okay, then, I’ll need you to sign this release of information form, giving me permission to speak to Officer Stone.”

“What exactly do you have to share with him?” she inquired warily, taking the form and pen he offered to her.

“The POs never want the details,” Hunter responded. “They’re too busy. I just need to tell him whether or not you attended and provide an overall sense of how we are progressing toward therapy goals.”

Sophie reluctantly scrawled her signature, barely managing to avoid adding a “PhD” at the end of her name. She still had her doctorate, but the degree was useless for practicing psychology without her license.

“So,” Hunter began, settling back into his chair and preparing to take notes as they chatted. “Have you ever been in therapy before?”

“No.” Her graduate program had encouraged students to obtain their own therapy as they learned to become therapists, but Sophie never had the time or the inclination. Perhaps she should have taken her professors’ advice. Perhaps she could have avoided this whole mess if she’d done some work on herself before delving into the problems of others.

“You must be nervous, then, not knowing what to expect.” He smiled warmly.

You don’t know the half of it.

“Therapy is basically a conversation. I’ll be asking lots of questions today, and you answer them to the best of your ability. It’s okay to ‘pass,’ and it’s okay to ask 
me
 questions. Were you mandated to attend therapy as part of your parole?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, tight-lipped.

“Well, that Officer Stone must be some kind of jerk to force you into therapy, huh?”

Sophie looked up, startled. “He’s not really a jerk. He’s just doing his job. The truth is I probably need therapy. I made a colossal mistake, and I need to figure out why so I can prevent making another …” Her voice trailed off, and she eyed her psychologist suspiciously, gleaning sudden insight into his techniques.

Oh, he was good. He’d just made her argue that she needed and wanted to be here, despite the mandate.

“You made a mistake?” he repeated curiously, his pen poised above the file in his lap.

Sophie raked both hands through her strawberry-blond hair and sighed. “Thank you for explaining what therapy will be like,” she began. “But I’m actually a psychologist myself. Well, I 
was
 a psychologist … before I went to prison and my license was revoked.”

He cocked his head to one side, intrigued. “Really? You were a psychologist? Where did you go to school?”

“Undergrad at Northwestern and grad school at DePaul.”

His interest was further piqued. “And your pre-doctoral internship, where did you complete that?”

“At a VA hospital in Virginia.” She studied the clownfish, darting in and out of the coral in the tank.

“Huh, I went to U of I. I wonder if we know some people in common. What year did you get your PhD?”

Sophie wasn’t quite in the mood to schmooze about her past life. “In 2004.”

Hunter rubbed his cheek pensively. “Do you know Chris Dowd? He went to DePaul.”

She shook her head.

He glanced at her smooth, alabaster skin and long, toned legs clad in youthful navy shorts. “Oh, he was probably before your time. I’d already been practicing ten years by the time you graduated.”

Her mental calculations put his age near forty. At least she was getting an experienced psychologist.

“So, you were a psychologist, but you were never in therapy yourself?”

“I never had time. I was trying to hold down another job in addition to classes, research, and practicum. Even with the extra job I still came out with some hefty student loans.”

“You’re in a lot of debt?”

“Yeah, about sixty thousand dollars’ worth. Officer Stone told me I need to get a job soon, but I have to find something that pays well enough, or I won’t be able to make my loan payments.”

“Can’t your parents help you out?” Hunter asked casually.

Sophie froze, shame clenching in her chest. She recalled her father’s cold stare at her mother’s funeral, his frosty blue eyes laying blame that sliced through her like an icicle. Then an earlier memory emerged of those same eyes filled with fury when she was only nineteen years old. Her father had screamed incessantly upon discovering her plans to study psychology instead of joining him in the family construction business. He had groomed her for years to be his protégé, but she wanted nothing to do with his world. 
You ungrateful girl!
 
You want to be some namby-pamby shrink? You’re on your own, then!
 Shocked by his words, she had fled their house, vowing never to return.

Hunter carefully studied the beautiful young woman, whose sorrow was evident. She eventually returned his gaze and feebly requested, “Can I pass on that question?”

“Of course,” he nodded. She seemed relieved to be given a reprieve.

Glancing down at his notes, Hunter cleared his throat. “Let’s see … I got us off track a bit. You were saying you made a huge mistake?”

She worried what might happen if she continued to evade his questions. How many passes would he allow? She had to share the reason she went to prison or she would never begin to heal. Hunter seemed trustworthy enough.

“It was about two years ago. I had just passed my licensing exam, and I was thrilled that I no longer had to report to a supervisor. Well, thrilled and a little nervous, I guess. Anyway, I was renting office space over on State Street, trying to start a practice. But insurance companies were giving me a hard time, and it was tough to get clients.”

“Insurance companies giving you a hard time?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. “Say it ain’t so.”

Sophie gave a wry smile. “Going to battle with managed care is one thing I do 
not
 miss about being a psychologist, that’s for sure.” She swallowed hard before she continued. “You can imagine my relief when I picked up a client who said it was no problem to self-pay. He said he didn’t have health insurance anyway. He was in a similar situation as I find myself now—mandated by the court to attend therapy. He had a gambling addiction that got him into trouble.” Sophie recalled the flutter in her heart upon meeting him.

He had strode confidently into her office, wearing a tight royal-blue T-shirt that showcased the musculature of his arms and chest. On the tall side of six feet, he was a formidable presence. Sophie could not help but allow her eyes to drift down the length of him, taking in his dark jeans and black boots.

“Dr. Taylor?” his deep baritone rang out in the room. She glanced up at his cavernous cerulean eyes, hardened and mysterious. His jet-black hair bled into the stubble of a five o’clock shadow lining his chiseled jaw. The man exuded sex.

“Yes, it’s Sophie,” she corrected, offering her hand.

He grasped it and shook robustly, causing the muscles of his forearm to contract and ripple. He looked her in the eyes as he introduced himself.

“Logan Barberi.”

“Barberi?” Hunter repeated. Sophie flinched, reorienting herself to the present. “The Barberi? As in the Barberi crime family?”

She smiled sadly. “That’s the one. He’s the son of Vicenzo Barberi. If only I had known.”

Hunter appeared puzzled. “You didn’t know his family was Mafia?”

“I didn’t know! In my defense, Vicenzo was sentenced to life in prison when I was only seven years old.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” Hunter nodded. “But didn’t you follow Angelo Barberi’s trial? It was the talk of the town when he got off on a technicality.”

Sophie shrugged. “That happened when I had just started grad school. Back then I didn’t have time to sleep, much less follow the news.”

Hunter continued writing, and he waited patiently for her to resume the story. She crossed her long legs and exhaled deeply, maintaining an elegant posture on the sofa. Her mind drifted back to her first meeting with Logan, as it had done so many times while sitting in her cell.

He had just told her his name, and she was drowning in the magnetism of those deep blue eyes. The timbre of her voice was tremulous. “Um, welcome … Please have a seat.”

He eyed her appreciatively as he crossed to the sofa. “Damn, if I knew shrinks could be so pretty, I would have started this therapy thing long ago.”

Backing unsteadily into her own chair, Sophie felt her cheeks redden, and she emitted a nervous giggle. Oh Lord, the physical attraction appeared to be mutual. It definitely seemed like the time to refer this client to another psychologist before they even started this charade of therapy. Instead, she found herself asking, “What brings you in today, Mr. Barberi?”

“It’s Logan. None of that formal stuff. A judge, uh, ordered me to see you. I had a little, uh, incident, and they think I have a gambling problem.”

Her mind, overwhelmed by his ferocious intensity, drew a blank. What would her supervisor tell her to say in this moment? 
When in doubt, make an empathic statement. Reflect the client’s feelings. 
Sophie racked her brain for an appropriate response. “And you’re angry about that, Logan? You don’t think you have a gambling problem?”

He exhaled derisively. “A problem implies lack of control. I’m always in control of my bets. I know what I’m doing.”

“Fair enough,” she responded, wanting to establish rapport before challenging him too much. “So, what was this ‘little incident’?”

He looked around the small office, sizing it up. Taking in the bare walls and sparse furniture, he observed, “You haven’t been in this office long.”

“That’s right, less than one month.”

His leg jiggled nervously as he continued his visual scan. Abruptly popping off the sofa, he strode to the lone object on the wall: a framed document. Peering at the date on her psychologist’s license, Logan turned to her and arched one eyebrow. “2006? You’ve been in this office about the same amount of time you’ve been a full-fledged shrink, huh? Only one month?”

Sophie nodded her head, and her throat felt dry. So she was green. A freshly licensed psychologist. So what?

He returned to his seat and shot her a disinterested smirk. “What the hell are we supposed to do in here?”

“Well, I’d like to get to know you better, Logan. Why don’t you tell me a little about your family?”