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Kellan looks at me. “My bet’s on the husband or the neighbor.”
“It’s always a man, isn’t it?”
“Always. Men are such pigs.”
I grin, but it feels forced. I’m tired, my head feels swimmy from not eating enough food, not drinking enough water, no sleep.
Kellan slides his hand on my knee. “Want to grab some fast food real quick? I’m starving.”
I glance at the clock. “I can’t. I have an appointment.”
“An appointment?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of appointment?”
“A personal one.” I start the engine.
Kellan’s brow cocks. “A personal appointment with who?”
“With none of your business.”
Kellan’s gaze lingers, but he doesn’t press, doesn’t argue, and also, doesn’t remove his hand from my leg.
EIGHTEEN
AMBER
I am sitting behind my desk, enjoying my margarita buzz while scrolling through my favorite clothing app, when the desk phone buzzes.
“Mrs. Bailey, your five o’clock is here,” Susan, the Oak Tree Counseling’s office manager croons though the speaker. Susan is twenty-two years old, and has the voice of a porn star and the attention span of a Goldendoodle. It’s a confusing combination.
I glance at the clock. Shit. Time got away from me. Or maybe I should say, the tequila got me.
“Thank you, Susan,” I say into the phone speaker. “Give me five minutes and send her back.”
I quickly minimize the clothing app (currently with a $327 cart) and take a moment to center myself. My desk is a mess. My breath smells like booze, my mascara is smudged. I’ve got two missed texts from Mark, the last informing me that he’s going to be working late again. I roll my eyes and don’t respond. Instead, I run my finger under my eyes, then switch focus to the file labeled DET. ROWAN VELKY.
I’m midway through scanning the first paragraph of my notes from our last session when I hear footsteps down the hall. I make a mental note to buy Susan an egg timer because that definitely wasn’t five minutes.
With the best warm smile I can muster, I open the office door.
“Hey, Rowan.”
Rowan nods and breezes into the small room I call my office. Always in a hurry, always busy, always fidgety. Rowan is one of those type-A’s who lacks the ability to relax. It’s one of the things that makes her good at her job. She’s always “on.”
“Have a seat,” I offer as I round my desk.
Rowan sits on the left side of the couch, next to the door, the farthest distance from me that the space will allow. This is where she sits every time, even when she used to come to my old office. Rowan is my only client ever to sit in that exact spot. Everyone else chooses the seat directly in front of me. It’s a painfully obvious—albeit subconscious to her—physical display of her need for a smooth exit. To run from anything that becomes too uncomfortable. In this clinic, the exit serves as Rowan’s security blanket.
“So,” I begin, “how are you?”
“Busy.”
I nod, taking in the detective in front of me—or awkwardly, at a forty-degree angle, I should say. Rowan is a beautiful woman, though she has absolutely no clue of this. A natural, unassuming beauty. The golden highlights in her long, brown hair compliment a caramel skin tone that women spend hours in tanning beds to achieve. She has a sexy, sultry look to her. My guess is she has either Native American or Latina in her lineage. Her style, however, is, cringe-worthy. Always an ill-fitting dress shirt and slacks, always thick soled shoes that remind me of the men and women in the Silver Sneaks program at the local senior center. But today, something is off. Her demeanor is different, her eyes a bit wild. Skin a bit pale. She seems exceptionally fatigued and tired.
“Tell me about what’s got you so busy?”
