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Patient: “No, Luke, please, please.”
Therapist, taking control: “You’re surfacing.”
Patient: “Luke, oh, God, Luke. Forgive me!”
Therapist, more firmly: “You are leaving the cannery and Luke. For now.” The
therapist hides frustration and keeps a steady voice. “On my count.”
Patient, taking short breaths, nearly hyperventilating: “But—”
Therapist, rock steady: “Three. And you’re leaving the building, going away from the riverfront and Luke, and leaving the past behind.”
Patient, still frantic: “I don’t know. I could save him—”
Therapist, in control: “Two. And you’re nearly awake.”
Patient: “There’s so much to tell him.” The patient’s still worried, but coming around.
Therapist: “One.”
The patient’s eyes open and blink, adjusting to the soft lighting and soothing music in the tiny room. A bit of incense tinges the air with oleander as the patient stirs and focuses on the therapist.
Therapist, smiling with relief, voice soft and steady: “And you’re back.”
Patient, breathless, still worried: “I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t get the chance.”
Therapist: “You will. Maybe in the next session.”
Patient, sighing: “Maybe. But I’ve been living with this for so long.”
Therapist: “It takes time.”
Patient, wryly: “And time wounds all heels, isn’t that what they say? Well, this wound, this pain has been around too long. It needs to go away.”
Therapist, taking a peek at the clock on the antique desk: “It will.”
The leather of the recliner creaks as the patient adjusts the chair to a sitting position. “I hope so.” The patient stands. “God, I hope so.”
CHAPTER 19
Over the years Rachel had learned that she had to pick her moments, so she waited until both of the kids were home from school Monday evening. Dinner was in the oven, lasagna; the security system had been reconnected; and they were settling in for homework.
Dylan hadn’t said much about his extra time at the school doing Mrs. Walsh’s bidding, just that it was “okay.” And Harper had spent a couple of hours working on some project at a friend’s house, supposedly studying.
Neither kid had asked Rachel how her day had gone, though if they had, she wouldn’t have told them about the front door. The new coat of black paint had dried, and she figured that threat could wait for another day.
Now, though, it was time for the truth about what her son had been up to.
Harper was already on her phone in her room, the door only slightly ajar, and Dylan was heading to his when she stopped him. “We need to talk,” she said. “In the living room.”
“About what?” He didn’t seem surprised and didn’t argue, just walked down the hall in his bare feet.
“This.” She pulled the sock with the money out of her pocket and noticed his jaw tense. Not surprise. Anger. She’d thought he would be shocked and he definitely wasn’t. “Sit.”
He dropped onto a corner of the couch.
“Want to explain?” she asked.
