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Finally, she awkwardly got to her feet and looked around, wondering what she would do next. This practice was the very heart of her. In her pursuit of professional excellence, she’d put everything else on the back burner—friends, family, hobbies. She hadn’t even had a date in almost a year. Not since Philip, in fact. She went to her phone and stood there, staring down at the speed dial list.
Dr. Philip Westover was still number seven. She felt an ache of need, a bone-deep desire to hear his voice, hear him say It’ll be okay, Julia, in that lilting brogue of his. For five years he’d been her best friend and her lover. Now he was another woman’s husband.
That was the thing about love—it was unreliable.
With a sigh, she pushed the number two button.
Her therapist, Dr. Harold Collins, answered on the second ring. She’d been seeing him once a month since her residency, when it had been required of all psychiatric students. In truth, he’d been more of a friend than a doctor.
“Hey, Harry,” she said, leaning tiredly against the wall. “Did you see this morning’s paper?”
He sighed heavily. “Julia. I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m worried about myself.”
“You need to start giving interviews, tell your side of the story. It’s ridiculous to shoulder the whole blame for this thing. We all think—”
“What’s the point? They’ll believe what they want to, anyway. You know that.”
“Sometimes fighting is the point, Julia.”
“I’ve never been good at that, Harry.” She stared out the window at the bright blue-skied day and wondered what she would do now. They talked for a while longer, but in truth, Julia wasn’t listening. Treating patients was all she had; all she was good at. She should have built herself a life instead of just a career. If she had, she wouldn’t be alone now. And talking about her emptiness wouldn’t help. She’d been wrong to reach out. “I better go, Harry. Thanks for everything.”
“Julia—”
She hung up the phone and walked around her office. When she felt tears gathering, she stripped out of her suit and put on her workout clothes, then headed to the treadmill she kept in the next room.
She knew she’d been on it too much lately, that she’d lost so much weight she was down to nothing, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
Staring into the murky darkness of her beloved office, she stepped on the black pad and set the incline button for hills. When she was running, she almost forgot her pain. It wasn’t until much later, when she’d turned the machine off and driven back to her too quiet home, that she thought about what it meant to run and run and have nowhere to go.
IN THESE LATE EVENING HOURS THE HALLS OF THE COUNTY HOSPITAL were quiet. It was Max’s least favorite time; he preferred the hustle and bustle of daily emergencies. There were too many thoughts that waited for him in the shadowy quiet.
He made a few last notes on the girl’s chart, then looked down at her.
She lay perfectly still, breathing in the deep, even way of sedated sleep. On her left wrist, the brown leather restraint looked obscenely heavy and ugly.
He reached down for her free hand, picked it up and held it. Her fingers, clean now but still stained by blood and lined with scars, were thin and tiny against his palm. “Who are you, little one?”
Behind him the door opened and closed. He knew without looking that it was Trudi Hightower, the charge nurse of the swing shift. He could smell her perfume—gardenias.
“How is she?” Trudi asked, coming up close to him. She was a tall, good-looking woman with kind eyes and a loud voice. She claimed that the voice had come from raising three boys on her own.
“Not good.”
She made a tsking sound. “The poor thing.”
“Are we ready to move her?”
“The old day care center is all set up.” She reached down and unhooked the restraint. When she lifted the heavy strap, Max touched her wrist.
“Leave it here,” he said.
“But—”
“I think she’s been bound enough in her life.”
He bent down and scooped the sleeping child up in his arms.
