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There was no way she was getting back to sleep, so she climbed out of bed. She opened the door and tiptoed out into the living room. Grover Nix was exactly where he told her he would be after Ryan said he couldn't make it home last night: lying on the couch. He was covered in a blanket, and his gun was on the floor near his right hand, which dangled down off the couch.
She was tempted to wake him up and demand that he call Rufus to make sure that Hannah was okay, but convinced herself that she was being ridiculous. She’d give him until dawn before shaking him awake.
She quietly walked to the breakfast table, where the file on Gemma Britton rested, grabbed it, and retreated to the bedroom. As long as she was awake, she might as well use the time constructively. Plus, it would take her mind off the nightmare.
She put the file on the bed and headed to the restroom to shower off the dried perspiration that currently caked her whole body. If this morning was any indication, it was going to be a long day.
***
Four hours later, Jessie put the file down in frustration. She was at the end of her rope.
She’d already pursued almost every angle she could without formally being on the case. She’d had Jamil do facial recognition on the long-haired, tinted glasses-wearing guy that was almost certainly the killer in the hopes of matching him with other footage in the area last Friday, but that had proven fruitless.
Once Grover woke up at 6 a.m., she had him call Rufus, who checked on Hannah and reported back that she was sleeping soundly. To their credit, neither Grover nor Rufus ever asked her why she wanted the check. They just did it.
When the hour was late enough, she’d called back Britton’s assistant, Cara Boynton, to make sure she hadn’t left anything out from her brief exchange with the man who went by Tyler Hardigan. But she had nothing new to add.
So Jessie got a list of friends, family, and colleagues that Cara remembered Britton either having issues with or to whom she was especially close. She was waiting another half hour until 9 a.m. to start calling them.
One person she wouldn't be calling yet was Gemma's ex-husband, Cameron Britton. Normally, the victim's ex was the first, best suspect in a situation like this. But several issues made that a non-starter, at least for now.
First of all, even looking into Cameron would be seriously overstepping her bounds. That was clearly in the proprietary zone of the assigned detectives. They would not be amused if she started asking the guy questions.
Luckily, there didn’t seem to be much cause to do so. Based on the interview notes from Detectives Wagner and Ortega, it appeared that they had pressed him pretty hard while questioning him. In addition, he had a solid alibi. That didn’t eliminate the possibility that he’d hired someone to take out Gemma. But there was no way Jessie could pursue that angle without involving Wagner and Ortega.
Though her options were frustratingly limited, she plowed ahead anyway. Maybe she could talk to someone the detectives had missed. Maybe she’d uncover some morsel of evidence that might make all the difference. She had to try. Janice Lemmon was counting on her to deliver justice for Gemma.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dr. Isabel Shea was at a bit of a loss.
She was already halfway through her first appointment with a new patient named Henry Colt, and it was becoming increasingly clear that the young man didn't fully understand how therapy was supposed to work.
At first everything had seemed okay, as they engaged in some initial small talk. He seemed to like her office, which was just a converted guest house behind the main one. As they sat across from each other on the plush chairs she’d spent way too much on, he was effusive in his thanks for her willingness to see him on short notice.
“It’s not a problem,” she had told him. “I had a cancellation, so the timing worked out.”
Her practice was small, and she couldn't afford to skip timeslots. Hell, she couldn't even afford a receptionist. When someone canceled, she almost always filled the slot and did all the scheduling herself.
Though she was well-respected among her peers, she certainly didn’t have potential clients banging down her door. Not like Gemma Britton, the famous psychiatrist who, until the horrible events of last Friday, could only make time to see one new patient a month.
Though Isabel didn’t know Britton personally, her murder had still sent shockwaves through the psychiatric community in L.A. The fact that after almost four full days, the police had yet to capture the man on the news with the longish, bushy brown hair and tinted glasses had her and everyone else on edge.
But she couldn't let that interfere with doing her job. The young man in front of her, with the shy disposition, needed help, and she intended to provide it. At least she had been trying. Isabel had Henry walk her through his personal history, which he did willingly. But once she asked him to share the particulars of why he was there, things got…odd.
“I need you to fix me,” he said, running his hand through his shock of curly, blond hair.
“What do you think is broken, Henry?” she asked.
“I can’t get a woman to love me, no matter how hard I try,” he explained. “I always do something wrong and then they leave the date.”
“How often has this happened?”
He paused, apparently embarrassed.
“It’s okay, Henry,” she coaxed. “You’re here to tell me things you can’t tell anyone else.”
He closed his eyes as if remembering a painful experience, then nodded to himself and opened them again, as if in that moment, he’d chosen to trust her.
