Page 17 of Dark Ugly Places

I look at the paper, the writing almost unreadable, but I know what it is. Diazepam. The generic for Valium. “I’m not taking any more drugs,” I tell her.

“It will make you feel better.” Dr. Constance sighs. “You need to work on being honest about the things that you feel, Nicola. You must learn how to express your grief and your anger in healthy ways. Otherwise, your emotions will control you, and you’ll never heal from this.”

“I am being honest right now,” I say under my breath. “But you don’t believe me.”

I begin to cry, hot moisture gathering in the corners of my eyes. I steady my gaze and let it burn away, rage searing up from within like a firestorm.

“Take the medication,” she instructs me. “You’ll feel better.”

Outside the window, the street is flooded with sunshine. A woman runs to her bus stop, arms waving, bags trailing. The bus rolls on and leaves her behind.

As I get up to leave, I glimpse Dr. Constance’s notes on my case, all in pencil, barely legible. A few words come into focus in the center of the page, bigger than the others. “Recommend further psychiatric treatment.”

Outside the office, I throw the prescription in the trash, then dart to the elevators to the seventh floor.

When I get there, I make my way into the sleek waiting room, full of steel and glass. I can already feel the familiar migraine pain moving into my right temple. I press my finger against it to feel the coursing pressure mounting. Very soon, it will take over, and I will be …

On your back.

Pounding.

Vomiting.

Take a pill.

I grab an Imitrex and swallow it dry, the bitterness catching in my throat and making me gag. When the secretary isn’t watching, I nip back to the hallways of offices, black name plates on the doors. When I open the door to Steve’s office, I’m struck by the smell: Chinese food and dirty socks, which is exactly what I see. His feet are propped up next to case files and an open container of takeout in his hands. My stomach lurches.

Steve bats his hand at me without looking up. “Not now, Jonel. Gimme ten.”

My throat clears involuntarily. “It’s me.”

He jerks his head up and bolts to his feet. “Mrs. Holiday! How are you? Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I say, irritated. “I don’t have an appointment, Steve. But I do have a breakthrough in our case.

He laughs and smiles at me, wide and flat, like he doesn’t believe me. “Mrs. Holiday, I’m sure you do, but you can’t just—”

Maybe it’s the Imitrex taking hold, but for a moment, I really don’t care what I say or do next. I feel myself unspooling.

“I saw him, Steve. I saw the guy who hit us. It’s him. We need to get the police involved and file a new report.”

A quizzical look comes over him. “How do you know it was him? Do you have proof?”

How to prove it? Same goddamned question. I know because I know. “It’s him. He drives the same car—it’s that white Rolls-Royce.”

He sniffs and wipes his mouth with a balled-up napkin. “You told the police you didn’t see what kind of car it was. Remember?”

I don’t.

“Put your investigator on this.”

“I could put my investigator on it, but we’d be racking up hours, and that’s going to cost you.”

“I’ll get the money.”

He sighs, visibly frustrated. “It’s not just that. We don’t have anything to go on. No plate number, no description of the driver. No witnesses. You remembered the car, but so what? This is LA. There are plenty of Rolls-Royces around here.”

“But it’s not just a Rolls-Royce. It’s a white Wraith, okay? And besides, I know where he lives.”