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Blake shook his head. He didn’t want to get into his parents’ death with this woman. “That’s why I got the job, not why I stay.”
“Then by all means, tell me why you stay.”
Shifting in the chair, Blake tried to appear casual, but his shoulders hurt where the muscles bunched tensely. He hated therapists, always picking apart everything you said, even if there was no other hidden meaning behind your words. It was a bunch of hokum, and he wasn’t going to play into this woman’s game.
“Because this program deserves to succeed. It had helped a ton of kids, dogs, even—”
“But why do you stay? You’ve been with the program for over a year and have just now started training your own dog and having your own squad. That’s a long time to be involved without actually being involved. There are thousands of other jobs you could be doing in the military, so tell me, why is this one important to you?”
It was almost exactly what Sparks had said. Had he put his concerns in Blake’s file, or had the general given Dr. Stabler a full report on the issues they were having with Blake?
“With all due respect, I have been looking for a place so I can bring Charge home with me, and I want to be at Alpha Dog because I enjoy it. It’s fulfilling. And to be quite honest, I really don’t need to be here, talking to you.”
“If that were true, then why would your commanding officer and the Alpha Dog director suggest that you would benefit from three sessions a week?”
Blake clenched his jaw, pissed at Sparks’s nosy traitorous bullshit.
“I’m sure you know I lost my wife two years ago, and I guess you could say that I struggled the first year, but I went to group therapy. I discussed and dissected my feelings, and I got better. I don’t know why they’re concerned about me, but I assure you, I am working to alleviate their worries.”
Dr. Stabler smiled at him, the expression behind it bland; she was obviously humoring him.
“It’s interesting you would say that, because it al
so says in your file that you’ve been exhibiting signs of depression.”
“I am not depressed,” Blake ground out.
“Let me ask you this, Sergeant. What steps have you taken to mourn your wife?”
Blake couldn’t believe the brass balls on the woman. “I buried her. I organized her funeral, and I stood by her grave as they leveled dirt over the coffin.”
“And have you been back since?” she asked.
“No.”
“Have you thought about going back to Texas and visiting her grave site?”
“My wife isn’t in that grave. She isn’t anywhere. She’s just gone.”
“Your theology is your own, but many people in mourning find it healing to visit their loved one’s grave and even talk to them. Tell them about what is going on in their life as if they were there.”
Blake scoffed. “You mean they go to a cemetery, stand over a grave, and talk to themselves? Sounds crazy to me.”
She scribbled something down on her little yellow notepad and asked, “What about dating, Sergeant Kline? Have you been out with anyone since your wife passed?”
“Let’s be clear. My wife didn’t pass. She was brutally terrorized and murdered. She didn’t die quietly in her sleep. She died scared and alone.”
Dr. Stabler sat back in her chair, as if waiting for him to say more, but he was done.
“And the distinction is important to you. Do you blame yourself for the way she died?”
“What kind of stupid question is that?”
She glanced down at his file. “It says here that she was at the store. Where were you?”
His chest squeezed tightly as she pressed him. “Does it matter?”
“I think so. Were you on duty?”
