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Her phone buzzes a reminder. She hasn’t got time for Adam this morning. She needs to leave for an appointment she should never miss. Especially not now.
* * *
Romilly is early, Dr. Jones on time. At precisely nine thirty, her doctor appears in the doorway of the waiting room, the usual small smile on her face. Today she’s wearing navy-blue trousers, a white blouse, and smart brown brogues on her feet. Flat shoes, ever practical.
The therapist escorts her through to her office. The room is unchanged. Neat. Tidy. A faint smell of something delicate and floral is in the air.
Dr. Jones sits down. She crosses one leg over the other and rests her notepad in her lap, waiting.
“Twice in one week,” Romilly says with a nervous laugh. “You’ve probably had enough of me.”
“It must be a difficult time for you, Romilly. I’ve seen the news. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” she replies automatically. Jones tilts her head to one side, a gesture that says, “Really?”
Romilly tries again. “It looks like my father is still killing. From prison, however that’s possible. My best friend has been murdered. I’m arguing with my boyfriend. And my ex-husband …” Romilly feels her throat tighten. She stops and composes herself before she speaks again. “So, yes, I’ve had better weeks.”
“But?” the therapist asks.
And there is a but. Dr. Jones has sensed it. Despite all this, Romilly feels something different.
“All this time, ever since I was eleven, I’ve thought this would happen. That my father would kill again. My dreams, my nightmares have all been about him coming back. And now he is …”
“You feel like you were right all along.”
“Yes. It’s a relief.” Romilly laughs awkwardly. A sense of calm, of sanity. “That I’m not crazy.”
“Maybe you never were,” Dr. Jones says. “And why are you arguing with Phil?”
“He thinks I shouldn’t see Adam anymore.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Jealousy. He wants to control me.”
“Or?” Romilly’s used to this—Dr. Jones challenging when she gives statements as fact. “What’s the alternative story?” the doctor asks.
Romilly sighs. “That he loves me and he’s worried. That he wants to keep me safe from an investigation that can only hurt me.”
The doctor nods solemnly. “And Adam? You didn’t finish your sentence.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Try to explain.”
Romilly’s thoughts immediately turn to Jamie. She went to the house—Adam’s house—yesterday, to see him.
When she arrived, just past eight PM, the curtains were closed, the house quiet. She locked her car and rang the bell. Nothing. She tried again; this time slow, heavy footsteps made their way toward the door, and it opened.
Jamie stood in front of her. His hair was at all angles, his face unshaven. He was wearing a T-shirt, socks, and boxer shorts, an old dressing gown of Adam’s over the top. It was almost comically small on Jamie, the sleeves only coming halfway up his forearms.
He saw her, then turned back into the house without a word.
She followed him into the living room; Rom couldn’t help but wince at the mess. The smell of cigarette smoke, the empties, the booze, male sweat. He slumped back on the sofa. He wasn’t wasted, but Rom could tell he was getting that way, fast.
Misery poured off him. He was a shell of the man she knows.
Rom found herself lost for words. She wanted to say something about what a wonderful person Pippa was, what a good friend she was, how much Rom enjoyed her company, but no words seemed sufficient. Instead, she said, “I loved her.”
