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“The only way we can answer these questions is if you ask him about it, Rowan.”
The detective nods, but then goes quiet.
A minute passes.
Another.
I glance at the clock. Ten minutes. We are only ten minutes into our session. We have forty minutes left to fill.
This is how it goes. Rowan comes in, sits far away from me, doesn’t speak, until I eventually prompt her with open-ended questions, which usually lead to her husband. I’ll get twenty minutes out of her tops, and that’s it. We sit in silence the remainder of the appointment.
For months this has been going on.
There is something Rowan needs to get off her chest, something that keeps her coming back.
TWENTY
ROWAN
My head throbs as I pull into the driveway. Therapy does that to me.
Night hovers above the treetops, slowly pushing away what remains of daylight. The days are growing shorter. I shift in my seat, closer to the open window, and inhale deeply. The evening has grown cold, the air stinging my lungs as I suck in a breath, hoping to clear the headache.
The light glowing from the kitchen window tells me that Shepherd is home. I roll into the garage, cut the engine, take another deep breath. My headache has now wrapped to the back of my head.
When I open the door, I am taken aback by the fresh scent of rosemary and thyme.
I hang up my purse, slip out of my jacket, then make my way to the kitchen. Banjo surges up from the floor and rushes me, licking my hand. His tail is wagging so hard his entire back end sways from side to side. I reach into the dog-cookie jar and give him a treat. Satisfied, he trots back to his pillow and resumes his rest.
The evening news murmurs from the small television tucked under the corner cabinets. Shepherd is standing at the counter, mincing garlic and onions for a soup that is simmering on the stove. A fresh loaf of French bread sits next to a half-drunk glass of wine.
Over his shoulder he says, “Hey.”
“Hey. You’re cooking.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s Jenny?”
“In her room, watching Judge Judy.”
“How was she when April dropped her off?”
“Fine.”
I step past him, grab a wine glass, and pour what remains of the wine (not much) into my glass.
A beat passes between us.
“It’s my first glass,” he lies, his tone laced with annoyance.
“I wasn’t going to say a word.”
“Yeah right,” he mutters as I pass.
I turn around, a rush of anger blowing through my system. “Are you serious right now? I just walked in the freaking door.”
Shepherd’s jaw twitches. He begins mincing faster.
