You've Been Warned - James Patterson [25]
“I’ll check on those figures for you, Carter. I’m on it,” he says in his best business voice.
Shit.
“Penley just walked in, didn’t she?” I say.
“Yes, Carter, that’s correct. You have such a good feel for these things.”
I listen to Michael babble on about debt ratios and the nonfarm payroll report. Give him credit, the switch over was seamless.
“Okay, she’s gone,” he says seconds later.
“What did she want?”
“The kids are waiting on me, so she was pointing at her watch and making an incredibly bitchy face — then again, what else is new?”
I can’t help a slight smile. I am calmer now, and I love it when he dumps on Penley. All the better for my Dump Penley campaign.
“So where were we?” he asks.
“Your not being there for me,” I answer.
Michael sighs. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he says. “Tell you what. How’s this? We’re supposed to drive out to Connecticut tomorrow to see my in-laws. I’ll do like I did last time and tell Penley that something came up with work. Better yet, I’ll blame it on you, Carter.”
“Can you really do that? ”
“Sure. We can spend the whole day together, maybe drive upstate and have a picnic somewhere, and you can tell me whatever it is you want to talk about.”
The thing is, I want to tell him now — right now. At least I think I do. Which raises an interesting question. How much do I really trust him? This much?
“Michael, I — ”
“Oh, shit,” he interrupts, sounding rushed. “Penley’s heading back this way. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, okay?”
There’s no time to respond.
He’s gone.
I hang up as if in slow-motion. It’s hard to put the feeling into words. Empty? Numb?
Still alone?
Usually, just the thought of being with Michael makes everything better. No longer. At least not today. Because tomorrow isn’t soon enough for me.
Right away, I pick up the phone again.
There’s somebody else I need to call.
Actually, this should have been my first call.
Chapter 34
“THANK YOU FOR SEEING me on such short notice, Dr. Corey.”
I watch as my ex-therapist slowly — and I mean slowly — fills his pipe with tobacco from a plastic bag. I swear, glaciers move faster.
But it’s okay. I’m going to get some help.
“To be honest, Kristin,” he says, his eyes fixed on his pipe, “I’m not particularly happy about this appointment. However, given the way you sounded on the phone, the sheer desperation in your voice, I felt a professional obligation to see you. So here we are. What can I do for you?”
Gee, Doc, that really makes me feel welcome.
Still, it’s okay. I’m lucky he was able to make time for me.
A few Manhattan psychiatrists keep weekend hours, and Dr. Michael Roy Corey is one of them — at least during the spring, summer, and fall. That’s when he works Saturdays so he can take Mondays off to play golf at some public course near his house in Briarcliff Manor.
“No crowds on the course and my pick of tee times,” he once explained to me. That was about a year and a half ago, when he first became my therapist. Six months later, I stopped seeing him. I thought I’d worked out my issues.
Not that I could see these new ones coming.
I lean back into his familiar gray leather couch and describe some of the events of the past few days, culminating with spotting my dead father this morning. Dr. Corey listens while puffing away, not saying a word.
When I finish, I stare at him with expectant, hopeful eyes. Let the healing begin!
“Are you absolutely sure that’s your father in the photographs?” he asks, tugging at a fold in a salt-and-pepper sweater vest that almost perfectly matches his hair.
“As sure as I can be,” I reply.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Kristin?”
There’s a slight edge in his voice. Impatience, perhaps? Skepticism?
“It means I’m almost positive it was him.”
“Almost positive, as in, it could’ve been someone who looked a lot like him.”
“I considered that. But he spoke to me. And then why did he run?”
“Any number of reasons,” he answers. “Maybe the man you saw didn’t want to be photographed. I don’t know; maybe he’s wanted by the police. Maybe he