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“So you refuse to speak?” Fern asked.
“That’s right,” Camille said, pushing professional confidence into her voice. “I will not answer any questions regarding my practice.”
“Then Shoot it is,” Fern said, picking up the gun and offering it to Camille.
Camille stared down at the weapon and found that she couldn’t lift her hands. How could something so relatively small look so ominous, so heavy. There are no bullets, she reminded herself. The chamber is empty.
“Take the gun, Camille,” Fern urged softly.
Camille reached for the revolver. It was even heavier than she thought it would be. A cold, dull weight in her hands. She looked to Fern for help. What was she supposed to do next?
“Just put the barrel to your head and pull the trigger,” Fern said. Despite the confident set of Fern’s jaw, Camille could see in Fern’s troubled eyes that this didn’t set well with her either, but still she pressed. “Don’t worry. It’s not loaded. Remember, this is just a game.”
“This is sick,” Samuel said, pushing his chair away from the table. “You don’t have to do this, Camille. We can all just refuse. What is she going to do then? Do we all lose?”
The truth was, Camille had lost patients. All doctors did. Just maybe not in the way she lost Travis Wingo. A bullet for a bullet.
“No,” Camille said resolutely. “It’s okay, I’ll do it.” Best to get it over with. She lifted the gun and found that she needed both hands to support its heft. With quaking hands, she guided the barrel to her temple, the steel burning cold against her skin.
“Jesus,” she heard Maire breathe.
It’s not loaded, Camille told herself. Her finger found the trigger. It’s not loaded. Closing her eyes, Camille pulled the trigger.
THIRTY
THE CONFIDANTE
Then
Icy rain pecked at Dr. Tamerlane’s bedroom window. She looked up from the patient file she was reading to glance outside. The night sky held the threat of snow, unusual but not unheard of in San Francisco. The faint scent of smoke tickled her nose. It was hard to believe that the wildfires could still be burning in this weather, but Camille knew the smell could travel for miles and miles.
She set the file on the pillow next to her, knowing that bringing work home, even if her office was just down the stairs, was a bad idea. Camille had promised herself that she would take a few days off, but the holidays were difficult for many, especially for some of her clients. So here she was, thinking about Chelsea Weatherly. She had finally decided to leave her husband and remarkably, Doug appeared to have accepted her decision and was leaving Chelsea alone. However, he was still showing up wherever Camille happened to be. Popping up outside her office and home, the grocery store, the gym. He never said a word, just made sure Camille saw him. Doug Weatherly was letting her know that he blamed Camille for the death of his marriage.
And since the night the rock went through her office window, there had been several more acts of vandalism and more bouquets of flowers. Camille knew the flowers were coming from Wingo, but the property destruction was another matter. It wasn’t like Wingo to be destructive. That fit more with Doug’s more mercurial personality. Camille didn’t know.
Camille reached for the cup of tea on her bedside table. It had grown cold while she was reading. Reluctantly, she slipped from her warm bed and moved through the dark hallway, mug in hand, to the top of the steps that led downstairs to her kitchen. The smell of smoke was stronger out here. Had she inadvertently left a window open? Earlier in the day it had been warmer, mild even, until the rain and sleet muscled its way in.
Camille’s three-level Marina District home was too big for one person and much more than she could realistically afford, but she loved every nook and cranny. And once she had seen the office with its private entrance, it had to be hers.
Gripping her mug in one hand and the banister in the other, she carefully made her way down the creaky hardwood steps that led to the pitch-black front living room. At the bottom, she shivered. The temperature was markedly lower down here, cementing the thought that she left a window open. Maybe two. She felt around for the lamp on the antique rosewood table where she set her mail each day and fumbled beneath the shade and finally found the switch. When she turned the small knob, no light appeared. She tried again. Still nothing.
Had the power gone out? No, she could still see the faint glow from her bedroom light on the upstairs landing. She set her mug down on the table and moved blindly through the room toward another lamp. Again, she floundered for the switch, and no light appeared. Weird. Camille felt around for the bulb, thinking a quick twist would tighten the connection and instead found an empty hole. The light bulb was gone.
Confusion gave way to fear, and Camille froze in place. She hadn’t been the one to remove the bulb, so then who did? She had used that lamp just the night before. Geraldine hadn’t been in the office since just before Christmas, so it couldn’t have been her. What if the person was still in the house?
Her phone. She needed her phone. It was upstairs, on her bedside table, charging.
She could run upstairs and grab it, call 911. Or there was her office phone. It was a landline. It was closer and she could call for help. Or should she just get out of the house? Camille was frozen with indecision.
Camille heard a soft click. Then another and another. She couldn’t place the sound, not until a small yellow flame appeared in the dark and was then extinguished. It appeared once again, then disappeared. A lighter. Someone was sitting on her sofa, flicking a lighter.
“I know you don’t allow smoking in your office,” a voice came from out of the dark.
It was Wingo, the man who was her client but wasn’t her client. One of the several who paid cash so as to leave no paper trail. Mutually beneficial, she had always told herself. Cash meant no paper trail, but it also meant she didn’t have to claim the income and didn’t pay taxes. It worked great until Camille understood that Wingo didn’t want help. Never wanted help. He had become obsessed with her while listening to her show and now wanted only Camille.
“Wingo,” Camille said, once she caught her breath. “We talked about this. I asked you not to come here anymore.” He was a confused, lonely man who had come to rely too heavily on Camille. “I told you, you need to find another therapist. I gave you some names.”
Wingo flicked the lighter again. This time the flame stayed, illuminating his broad, pale face. “I know,” he said. “But I really think we were getting somewhere. I was feeling better. I know I shouldn’t have come inside, but the window was open.”
