Dr. Patricia dressed in beige, unoffensive outfits and had an utterly unsexy but engaging way about her. She might have been thirty-five; she might have been sixty.
“You were thinking about a job change?” she once asked me.
I told her the truth — that unlike my father I was not career minded. “I flit.” I actually said that, and added, “Like a butterfly.”
“You’re young. You have time. Just ask yourself: What might you like to do, what’s enjoyable that you can earn a living at?”
I told her I’d think about that.
And being the strategic therapist that she was, she inquired: “And how is Aleksandra? Things are going well with her?”
“Yes. Very good.”
Dr. Patricia diagnosed me as suffering from anxiety and depression, laced with some ADHD — all very fixable. She gave me Wellbutrin, which has fewer sexual side effects than other antidepressants. I guess she didn’t want to hamper my relationship with my Russian beauty.
Then toward our last session, she said, leaning forward for emphasis, “But there’s one thing you have to do. You’ll never be free until you confront the issue of what your father did to you in the basement. You need to talk to him about it. Tell him how the cellar affected you. It could be that he’ll beg for forgiveness. You’ll reconcile.”
I told her I would think about her suggestion. I tucked the idea away and dusted it off from time to time.
Now, I glance at my phone for the time. It’s afternoon. My Visits only work, of course, after midnight. But sometimes you get an urge to peep, to peer, to possibly do more.
Sometimes you need to hurt.
For the simple joy of it.
I take a shower and then dress. I pick up my knife. It’s not only a helpful weapon, and tool, but it has great sentimental value.
It was given to me by Dev Swensen, my lock-picking mentor. He machined it himself. Brass is an unusual metal for a weapon. Unlike its stronger cousin, bronze, brass is rarely used in weapons. Not that it can’t be honed to razor sharpness; it’s just that it won’t hold an edge very long. It needs to be sharpened after each use.
Into my pocket it goes.
Completely concealed, Officer. And short enough to be legal.
I don the Mets cap, sunglasses and a raincoat. I collect my gaudy, precious souvenir keychain and step outside, making sure, as I always do, the locks are nice and snug.
40
Was that guy following her?
No...
But maybe.
She’d noticed him about halfway on the walk to the school — four blocks total. She’d turned back absently at the sound of a horn and noted that he had looked away slightly, as if he’d been gazing at her.
A block farther along she peeked again. What made it suspicious this time was that he was the same distance behind her. Had he slowed down intentionally to keep pace?
Taylor Soames was savvy in all the ways that a Manhattan woman had to be, especially a single woman. The brunette was attractive enough, she felt, and dressed in outfits that displayed her figure, which she worked hard to maintain and was proud of. But they were never overtly suggestive or revealing. She attracted eyes, which was okay — it was the nature of men and women — but she was sharp enough to know when a look crossed the line.
With this fellow, she just couldn’t tell. The sunglasses...
She arrived at the school where she was going to pick up her daughter. Roonie had stayed late after class for chess club. Rather than going inside, though, Soames waited. She wanted to see if she was truly being followed.
The man ducked into the Korean deli on the corner, pulling a phone from his pocket.
To make a call?
Or pretend to?
She assessed: A raincoat on a day of no rain, shades with little sun. A baseball cap pulled low. Younger, rather than older. More creepy than slavering. But she was standing outside a school, so “creep” took on an intensified meaning.
She just couldn’t tell.
How embarrassing if the police confronted an innocent man.
Maybe, she thought, it’s my ego that’s the problem.
Though usually her radar was correct.
Damn it, was he now looking out at her through the milky plastic window of the deli?
She chatted with a few of the other moms, also picking up their middle-school children.
Checked her phone for emails and texts.
A man’s voice behind her. “Oh, you’re Roonie’s mom, right? Hi.”
The parent had stepped out of the front door of the large redbrick school. He wore the sticky visitor’s ID badge plastered to a very nice suit.
“Ben.” They nodded. “I’m Meghan Nelson’s dad. We met a month ago. PTO. Before the great schism.”
She laughed, with a shake of her head. The power play among the parents in a middle school had all the high drama of a royal court coup.
“Is Meghan in Roonie’s class? I don’t remember, sorry.”
“No, she’s sixth grade.”
Soames’s eyes returned to the vegetable stand. The stalker was either gone or had walked deeper into the deli.
Ben said, “We went to the gymnastics meet. The one at Hunter. Meghan thinks Roonie totally rocks.” He laughed at his dip into teen speak.
Soames smiled. “Really, how sweet. Is that her sport too?”
“She wishes but she’s big-boned. And too tall.”
His daughter, he explained, wasn’t into sports, but she was a wiz at singing and dancing. “Meghan’s the theatrical one in the family.” He gave a laugh. “Second only to my ex.”
Then Ben looked past Soames — toward the deli.
“All okay?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just... this guy was staring at me.”
“Was he wearing sunglasses?”
“Yeah, like he was some kind of player. He stepped back inside.”
“And a raincoat and baseball cap?”
“That’s him, yeah,” Ben said.
“I think he was looking at me.” She explained about the suspected following.
“Well... you want me to go talk to him?”
“God no.”
Ben offered a smile.
“I knew a stalker once, my ex.” Soames was feeling relaxed talking to him. “It was just that he wasn’t inspired to stalk me, only his secretary.”
He touched his bare ring finger. “Five years for me.”
“Three.”
Ben was a good-looking man; his thick dark hair was swept back, with premature gray streaks. Which, Soames had always felt, added to the sexy quota. And the suit was truly gorgeous. He had money.
“You want to call the police?”
“No. It’s probably nothing.”
Silence arose between them. Ben was looking up the street. She could feel his mind working. And she wasn’t surprised when he said, “Look, I don’t know your situation, but...” Funny how even the handsome ones grew positively bashful when about to ask the question. “You like Broadway?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Meghan’s got a part in Annie.” He nodded to the school. “The end of school play. Interested in going?”
She laughed at the Broadway reference. “I’d love to.”
When he looked up the street, she scanned his body fast. Athletic.
And she loved graying hair.
She thought back to the last time she’d been with a man. Fortunate I have a good memory, she reflected.
Then she looked again at the deli.
Imagination, or not?
There were so many crazy people in the world, and particularly in such a densely packed city like this. She’d read in the Times about the number of people who were true sociopaths. Quite a few. The story said that most were harmless but some could snap for virtually no reason whatsoever.