nothing to tell.”
“If that was true, you wouldn’t have mentioned it. Did you fantasize about ending your own life? Or did you simply picture the world without you?”
“I just…faded away. I was there, then gone.”
A trickle of relief moved through Ben. No clinician worth his salt took a patient’s thoughts of death or dying lightly. However, as such thoughts went, fading away set off far fewer alarms. Also, Rick had experienced similar fantasies before, always during times of great emotional stress.
“And how did that make you feel?” Ben asked.
“Angry.” Rick stopped pacing. He looked at Ben, his handsome face twisted with some strong emotion, though Ben wasn’t sure whether pain or fury. “Nobody seemed to notice or care. They went right on with the party.”
The party. Life. Ben understood. He leaned forward in his seat. “I think it’s interesting that in many ways this fantasy mirrors your feelings about your mother’s death. Your ambivalence and anger. Your isolation. Think about that this week. We’ll talk about it during your next session.”
Ben stood, signaling that their time was up. He walked Rick to the office door, wished him a good week and said good-night.
He watched his patient exit the waiting room, then returned to his desk, smiling with anticipation. Rick had been his last patient of the day. After he reviewed the notes from their session and straightened up his desk, the weekend was his.
He planned to spend all of it working on his book, a nonfiction tome on the effects of early-childhood trauma—particularly physical, mental and sexual abuse—on personality.
The idea for the book had been born during his first year as a practicing clinician, from the hours he had volunteered at the free clinic in Atlanta. The idea had solidified the following year, when he’d joined the Peachtree Road Psychiatry group. The patient demographic couldn’t have been more different than that of the free clinic’s, yet he saw the same manifestations of childhood trauma on the personalities of individuals from both groups.
He had realized two things. The first was that child abuse crossed all social, economic and racial lines. The second was that the effects of that abuse could be seen in a predictable pattern of adult pathologies. He had begun researching the work of scholars in the field and immersing himself in the case studies of other clinicians.
Only after that research had begun to stack up and take shape had Ben realized he wanted to write a book on the subject. He wasn’t breaking any new ground, his certainly wouldn’t be the first book detailing the adult pathologies of childhood trauma and it wouldn’t be the last. It would, he hoped, be the first written for the masses, one that spoke to Jane and John Q. Reader. His ultimate goal: to educate and to heal.
Once begun, the book had become his obsession, one he devoted as much time to as he could.
On his way out of the office, Ben once more caught sight of himself in the rippled glass of the antique mirror. It was a flickering glance and he stopped, startled. For a fraction of a second, he had looked like someone else.
Like who, for God’s sake? Ben gave his head a shake. The man in the moon? Rick Richardson?
Ben thought of his patient, of his dashing good looks. Benjamin Walker look like Rick Richardson? In his dreams. Ben studied his reflection. Medium height and build. Medium-brown hair, brown eyes. Glasses that made him look as bookish as he was.
He would never be a lady-killer. He would never make women swoon. Or drool. Or faint.
Which was okay. That wasn’t what he was about.
Smart. Steady. A good son. Someday, when he found the right woman, a faithful husband and a devoted father.
He was comfortable in his own skin, with the man Ben Walker had become, the choices he had made, his life.
With a wry grin, he snapped off the office light and stepped into the waiting room, locking his office door behind him.
His was a one-person outfit; he didn’t even employ a receptionist. He didn’t need one. He made his own appointments, an answering service picked up his calls when he was in session and a computer program helped him with his bookkeeping. As of yet, his contact with insurance companies had been minimal. He was totally self-sufficient. A far cry from the Atlanta group with its plush offices and staff of twenty.
Truth was, he didn’t miss it. This was where he belonged.
He supposed as he became busier, he would require an employee. A part of him, a big part, would regret that day. His office was located in half of a Garden District double; the other half served as his residence. It was cozy. Intimate and homey. The inclusion of another would change that.
But change, he acknowledged, was an unavoidable, intrinsic part of life.
Ben crossed to the coffee table to straighten the magazines, only then did he notice the manila envelope propped against one of the sofa cushions. He picked it up. His name had been printed neatly in the upper left-hand corner of the otherwise unmarked envelope.
Curious, he opened it. Inside he found a hardcover suspense novel by Anna North, an author he didn’t recognize. As he turned the book over in his hands, a note fluttered to the floor. Short and cryptic, it read:
Tomorrow. 3 p.m. E! Entertainment Network.
Ben drew his eyebrows together, intrigued. Who had left this for him? Why had they left it?
He flipped through the book, but found nothing to indicate an answer to either of those questions. It seemed logical to assume one of his patients had either brought the book for him and forgotten to mention it or had dropped it off while he was in session.
Ben thought back. He had seen six patients today. He ticked off each in his head and saw no reason any of them would have left the book. If one of them left it. Anyone could have come in while he was in session and left the package.
Still, the question was, Why?
A mystery, he thought, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. One to read. And one to solve.
He would begin tomorrow at three, by tuning in to E!
7
Saturday, January 13 The French Quarter
Just after 2:00 p.m., Anna arrived home from her half-day shift at The Perfect Rose. She shivered and glanced up at the gray sky, wishing the sunshine predicted by the Channel 6 meteorologist that morning would make its promised appearance. Winter had only just begun and she was already ready for it to end.
After her lunch with Jaye on Thursday, Anna had returned to work, unsettled by Jaye’s revelation that somebody had been following her. She had even considered calling Jaye’s foster mom or the police, then had rejected the thought. First off, Jaye would have been furious with her, and secondly the girl had agreed they would go to the police if she saw the man again. Although not completely comfortable with her decision, Anna had decided that for now she would let it drop.
Anna retrieved her keys from her purse. In addition to her concerns about Jaye’s
