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She figured that he was eager to leave. “Well, it was—”
“I could—”
They started at the same time, stopped at the same time, then he motioned for her to go ahead. “I was just going to say that it was good to see you. Here, I mean. Without the sling and all.”
“What about you?” he asked. “How have you been?”
“All right. Considering.”
“Yeah. Considering. That’s a big word these days.”
She tilted her head and took in the strain on his face. In a softer voice, she asked, “How haveyoubeen?”
“Drunk.”
“Oh.”
“But only on bad days.”
“On good days how are you?”
He met her gaze straight on and said with a self-deprecating snuffle, “Drunker.”
“I’m sorry, Calder.” And now she was embarrassed and wanted to sayshit, because she’d used his name when before she’d only ever called him Mr. Hudson, and she could tell that he’d noticed the slip.
However, he didn’t acknowledge it. “So, what I’d been about to say was that I could use a cup of coffee.” He looked down at the abandoned cup. “Real coffee. You want to…?” He didn’t finish but raised his shoulder and a corresponding eyebrow.
Elle looked out across the room. Dr. Sinclair had left, leaving only a trio who had formed a prayer circle. They were sitting together holding hands with their heads bowed.
“Don’t feel obligated,” he said.
“No, no, coffee sounds good.”
“Great. After you.” As he motioned toward the door, he smiled.
It was her first glimpse of the suave charm he must have exuded. Before.
Well, now this…
During an interview with Dr. Alison Sinclair about post-traumatic stress, Shauna Calloway had weaseled out of the therapist that she’s conducting group sessions for the Fairground shooting victims.
Like that was a bombshell. Isn’t that a step in the playbook?
It’s become a hobby of mine to observe the attendees as they arrive and leave the meetings. Some go in looking dejected and disconsolate, and fifty minutes later emerge looking restored.
Others enter looking hopeful and come out looking like they’ve been beaten with a chain.
This ebb and flow of emotions fascinates me. I can’t help but wonder what triggers their misery one day and a renewal of spirit the next. Perhaps something like a birthday or anniversary that reminds them of who or what they’ve lost. Or possibly a call from a friend asking how they’re doing. I’ll bet that 99 percent of the time they say, “I’m fine.”
But they don’t mean it. It’s a fat lie. How could they possibly be fine? I wreaked havoc on them. I rained hell down on all of them. Life as they knew it will never be the same.
I don’t feel bad about that at all.
Because no one takes into account my suffering, my hardship, the hell I was put through that drove me to do what I did. If people were aware of my circumstances, they might not be so quick to judge.
But, as expected, I’m being analyzed by people who don’t know me and never will. I’m referred to as “criminal.” “Evil.” “Mentally ill.” I had braced myself for that, remember?
Some would regard this current spying on my victims as perverse, as a sick thrill. They’d say I’m victimizing these people all over again. But I can’t seem to help myself. It’s titillating.
