Fractured by Kate Watterson Page B

is your version of flirting, give it up. We work homicide. We aren’t interested in your particular activities unless you kill someone, and then we will bust your dishonest ass. If you help us, it might win points toward your next arrest, which I have no doubt is coming if we find any evidence you contributed to a crime.”
    â€œLike what?” Astin looked defensive. “What crime?”
    Time for shock therapy. Ellie took out a crime scene photo and handed it over. “This one.”
    â€œHoly mother of God.” Astin crossed himself after looking at it for a minute, and let it drift to the floor. “People are just sick. No one on ruf would do that.”
    â€œWe aren’t saying they would.” Santiago leaned up against one of the columns. “Someone gave it to the victim. Where could the killer buy it?”
    â€œFuck, you think I know all the dealers in a city this large? I’m good but not that good.”
    â€œI think you are an excellent place to start. Do you supply it?”
    â€œAh, man, seriously? I’m not answering that. You might keep in mind it is possible to get a prescription for that shit.”
    â€œLet me rephrase.” Ellie picked up the picture and tucked it away. “Let’s say, Mr. Astin, I want to purchase some of that drug illegally. Can you point me in the right direction? Just as a helpful gesture to law enforcement. Have you ever heard of someone who sells it?”
    He considered for a moment, and then inclined his head. “Maybe.”

 
    Chapter 6
    Her eleven o’clock patient was a good half-hour early and Georgia suspected that was habitual.
    â€œI kind of wonder if this is just a waste of my time.” Rachel Summers softened that declaration with an apologetic smile.
    Georgia wasn’t surprised at the comment, but needed to really think about how she went about addressing it. In her experience almost everyone had a certain point when they wondered if therapy was just tossing money and time into the wind. After all, a patient was just asking another—very fallible—human being to look at their problems and give them solid, life-improving advice.
    She decided on, “It depends what you hope to gain from this experience.”
    The young woman looked around and pointed. “I do like the pictures on the walls. Especially that one.” She pointed. “It reminds me of the farm my grandmother owned.”
    An interesting avoidance of the issue.
    The picture was of a solemn little girl sitting on the front porch of an old farmhouse, a chicken pecking in the dirt nearby, the rough frame handmade. Georgia had actually inherited it from her own grandmother.
    Good memories were hard to come by sometimes, so she’d hung it in her office, just as she had her aunt’s lamp on her desk.
    This was their second session. Rachel was hesitant and had some nervous mannerisms that Georgia recognized. She constantly adjusted her skirt, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and while she was visibly still unsure, she was more comfortable than at their session last week.
    â€œYour grandmother had chickens?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe house then?”
    â€œMaybe that’s it.”
    This was not going to be an easy patient to get to open up. “The last time we talked, you had a date. How was it?”
    â€œI didn’t go,” Rachel confessed. “I didn’t feel well.”
    â€œYou do realize people often use that as an excuse, right? It is not at all uncommon to do so, but don’t you think you would have felt better if you had gone?” Georgia had at first thought this patient merely introverted, but for such a pretty woman, she was certainly insecure. It was very, very early in their patient/doctor relationship to push for guarded confidences as to why, but Rachel had sought out therapy for a reason.
    She wrapped a strand of long hair around her finger. “The thought of going made