‘I’m terribly sorry, Dr Roberts,’ Kim blurted. ‘I think, somehow, I must have offended Miss Grey. I asked about scheduling another appointment and she … she … well, she became very angry with me.’
‘Don’t worry, Kim, it wasn’t your fault,’ Nikki said reassuringly. ‘I’m afraid Lana’s been very angry for a long time. I’m sure it had nothing to do with you.’
‘She said she wouldn’t be coming back,’ Kim admitted nervously.
‘Yes,’ Nikki smiled. ‘She says that a lot too. You’ll get used to it. You can send Carter Berkeley in as soon as he arrives.’
Back inside her consulting room, Nikki closed her eyes an
d began her own breathing exercises, the ones Doug had taught her years ago as a way to calm her emotions and that she still relied upon to this day.
First, breathe. Nikki could hear Doug’s voice in her head, as if he were standing next to her. Then separate your thoughts out one by one, slowly and calmly, as if you were laying out individual leaves on a table, or seeds in a tray.
Thought number one: Lana was getting worse, not better, and edging into psychosis. Every prettier, younger woman was a threat, an enemy. The time had come to gently guide her towards another therapist. In all honesty, she probably ought to see a psychiatrist too. But would Nikki be able to get her there?
Breathe.
Thought number two: No one else had been killed, or hurt, since Trey and the threats to Nikki had also stopped, for now. Was the person trying to kill her done? Or merely biding their time, toying with her like a cat with a cornered mouse? If so, would Derek Williams be able to catch them before they struck again? Everything had gone ominously quiet on the police front, which she took to mean that Johnson and Goodman were no further forward. It was Williams or bust.
Breathe. One step at a time, Nikki. Focus on your patients. Focus on the now.
Thought number three wasn’t a thought, so much as a series of faces. Doug’s. Anne’s. Goodman’s. And a fourth, hidden face, still obscured by shadows: Lenka, Doug’s mistress. Would Williams succeed where Nikki had failed, and find out something, anything, about the woman whose death had ripped apart Nikki’s life?
The ‘patient waiting’ light on Nikki’s wall suddenly turned red. Carter Berkeley must be here. Nikki found sessions with Carter difficult at the moment. His paranoia, always a problem, seemed to be escalating out of control. Ever since Lisa Flannagan’s murder, he’d become so jumpy, so wildly suspicious of everybody, it was tough to get any effective work done in treatment. I’m failing him too, just like I’m failing Lana, Nikki thought miserably. I wasn’t a good enough wife, I couldn’t even get pregnant, and now I’m failing as a therapist too.
Stamping down her depression, like someone throwing a damp blanket over a fire – she could hear her friend Gretchen Adler’s voice, telling her to ‘get a grip’ – she pulled herself together and opened the door, smiling serenely.
‘Carter. Do come in.’
Carter stood up, revealing heavy bandages on his left leg from the knee down. Looking around him furtively, he grabbed a pair of crutches from the other side of his chair and limped through into Nikki’s office.
‘What happened?’ Nikki asked, as soon as they were alone.
Setting his crutches to one side Carter eased himself down onto Nikki’s couch. His face was white, with beads of sweat glistening on his forehead like tiny pearls, and his legs were shaking uncontrollably. Looking up at Nikki, he said through gritted teeth, ‘I was shot. They shot me.’
‘Oh my God!’ Nikki was suitably horrified. ‘Carter, I’m so sorry. Who shot you? And when did this happen?’
‘I didn’t get a good look at their faces. But it was the same guys, the Mexican gang I’ve been telling you about. I’ve had threats … they broke into my home. I told the police, but they didn’t do anything. They acted like I was making it up.’
A shiver ran down Nikki’s spine at the similarity to her own experience. Mysterious break-ins. Disbelieving police …
‘Whatever,’ Carter said angrily. ‘Screw them. I know the truth. It was the same guys. Last Saturday. I came out of a club downtown around one thirty a.m. They must have followed me there. I was outside, waiting for my car, and this car pulls up, two guys get out, one of them shoots me in the shin and they drive off.’
He finished this monologue in an oddly flat tone. When he was done, Nikki noticed his teeth were chattering. It was as if he were still in shock – as well he might be, if his story was true.
‘Did anyone else see it happen?’
Carter shook his head. ‘No. I was the only customer outside and the valet had already left to pick up my car. By the time he got back I was on the ground, bleeding and barely conscious.’
‘Right,’ said Nikki, her mind whirring. On a human level, she wanted to believe him. He did, after all, appear to have been shot. So if his story wasn’t true, that would imply that he’d deliberately shot himself, in some sort of Munchausenesque bid for what? Attention? She couldn’t believe Carter was that far gone. He was still functioning in his job at the bank, still lucid.
On the other hand, yet again these mysterious ‘Mexicans’ seemed to have struck at a time when there were no witnesses, and left no evidence to corroborate his story.
‘Did you call the police? Or did the valet? He must have been shocked to find you like that?’
Carter’s eyes swiveled wildly around in his sockets. For a moment he looked truly insane. ‘Maybe.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Or maybe he was in on it. Maybe he tipped these guys off? Did you think of that? They have people everywhere, all over LA, all over the US. They’re like a plague.’
‘Who are “they”, Carter?’ Nikki asked softly. ‘You’ve told me that you believe they’re from Mexico but beyond that—’