you,’ Grace told her. ‘I don’t like it when people talk about me behind my back.’
Cathy looked back up at her again. ‘You don’t think they do suspect me, do you, Grace?’ Her voice was deceptively soft, but the plea was clear behind her eyes. ‘You
don’t think anyone thinks I could do something like that, do you?’
‘I doubt it very much.’ Grace was determined to be straight.
‘I didn’t really get why my aunt was so upset,’ Cathy went on. ‘I mean, I thought Detective Becket was being nice, but she just got more and more uptight, you
know?’
‘I can understand why she would.’
Silence ruled again. Grace let it go on for a while, mentally drawing a pencil line beneath that topic, before broaching the next. Their hour was ticking by. Despite her reluctance to think too
much about time, Grace had learned to tell, without glancing at a watch, how much of a session was left. They still had plenty in hand, but she had in mind to finish early and maybe go out on deck
with Cathy and Harry, simply to hang out for a while. She didn’t want to overtax Cathy, didn’t want to put her off coming back. Still, there was one more avenue she wanted to try
opening before they stopped.
‘You told me yesterday that you went to a therapist once before.’
‘Yes.’
‘You said you didn’t trust her.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’
Cathy hesitated. ‘She taped everything I said.’
‘You didn’t like that.’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘You’re not taping me, are you, Grace?’
‘No, I’m not.’
Cathy eyed the notepad on Grace’s lap. ‘You haven’t written anything down.’
‘I don’t always. Sometimes I like to,’ Grace explained, ‘if there’s something important I’m worried I might forget. But I have a pretty good memory, on the
whole. After you go, I might make some notes, and then next time – if you want to come again – you might see me taking a look at what I wrote last time.’ She paused. ‘Is
that okay with you?’
‘I guess.’
She seemed to accept what Grace had said, but the uneasiness had crept back in and Grace could sense her starting to put up shutters, knew that by bringing up the subject of her former
therapist, she had entered high-risk territory. She decided to veer back to safer ground before suggesting they called it a day.
‘I hope you feel you can trust me, Cathy,’ she said.
‘I hope so, too,’ she answered.
Five minutes later, Frances Dean arrived, earlier than scheduled, seeming edgy and anxious to take her niece away. Grace was frequently left after sessions feeling uncertain of a patient’s
– or their parents’ or guardians’ – faith in her, unsure of whether they would, given a choice, actually return for more. It always mattered to her a great deal.
If she was honest with herself, however, she wasn’t sure if she always cared quite as much as she did about Cathy Robbins.
Chapter Nine
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 8, 1998
Sam Becket and Detective Al Martinez stood out in the backyard of a Coconut Grove house a little after noon. It was humid and unpleasant and the air was full of small insects,
but Sam was glad to be outside for a while, away from the scent of blood. He wondered, for a moment, why Beatrice Flager, the victim, a fifty-two-year-old divorced psychotherapist, had not put up a
lanai or any kind of bug screening – though no amount of insect-proof mesh could have protected her from whoever had pierced her left temple with a fine, sharp weapon of some kind.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked his partner.
‘You’re the main man on this one. What do you think?’ Martinez had a round, kindly face, sharp, dark eyes and wavy hair. A slightly built man who only reached Sam’s
shoulder, he was a man of strong opinions, quiet and calm until roused when, once in a while, he turned into a pitbull.
‘Too soon to tell.’
‘I’ll bet the wad it’s the same perp.’ Martinez’s accent was light, but his vocabulary tended to
Cathy looked back up at her again. ‘You don’t think they do suspect me, do you, Grace?’ Her voice was deceptively soft, but the plea was clear behind her eyes. ‘You
don’t think anyone thinks I could do something like that, do you?’
‘I doubt it very much.’ Grace was determined to be straight.
‘I didn’t really get why my aunt was so upset,’ Cathy went on. ‘I mean, I thought Detective Becket was being nice, but she just got more and more uptight, you
know?’
‘I can understand why she would.’
Silence ruled again. Grace let it go on for a while, mentally drawing a pencil line beneath that topic, before broaching the next. Their hour was ticking by. Despite her reluctance to think too
much about time, Grace had learned to tell, without glancing at a watch, how much of a session was left. They still had plenty in hand, but she had in mind to finish early and maybe go out on deck
with Cathy and Harry, simply to hang out for a while. She didn’t want to overtax Cathy, didn’t want to put her off coming back. Still, there was one more avenue she wanted to try
opening before they stopped.
‘You told me yesterday that you went to a therapist once before.’
‘Yes.’
‘You said you didn’t trust her.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’
Cathy hesitated. ‘She taped everything I said.’
‘You didn’t like that.’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘You’re not taping me, are you, Grace?’
‘No, I’m not.’
Cathy eyed the notepad on Grace’s lap. ‘You haven’t written anything down.’
‘I don’t always. Sometimes I like to,’ Grace explained, ‘if there’s something important I’m worried I might forget. But I have a pretty good memory, on the
whole. After you go, I might make some notes, and then next time – if you want to come again – you might see me taking a look at what I wrote last time.’ She paused. ‘Is
that okay with you?’
‘I guess.’
She seemed to accept what Grace had said, but the uneasiness had crept back in and Grace could sense her starting to put up shutters, knew that by bringing up the subject of her former
therapist, she had entered high-risk territory. She decided to veer back to safer ground before suggesting they called it a day.
‘I hope you feel you can trust me, Cathy,’ she said.
‘I hope so, too,’ she answered.
Five minutes later, Frances Dean arrived, earlier than scheduled, seeming edgy and anxious to take her niece away. Grace was frequently left after sessions feeling uncertain of a patient’s
– or their parents’ or guardians’ – faith in her, unsure of whether they would, given a choice, actually return for more. It always mattered to her a great deal.
If she was honest with herself, however, she wasn’t sure if she always cared quite as much as she did about Cathy Robbins.
Chapter Nine
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 8, 1998
Sam Becket and Detective Al Martinez stood out in the backyard of a Coconut Grove house a little after noon. It was humid and unpleasant and the air was full of small insects,
but Sam was glad to be outside for a while, away from the scent of blood. He wondered, for a moment, why Beatrice Flager, the victim, a fifty-two-year-old divorced psychotherapist, had not put up a
lanai or any kind of bug screening – though no amount of insect-proof mesh could have protected her from whoever had pierced her left temple with a fine, sharp weapon of some kind.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked his partner.
‘You’re the main man on this one. What do you think?’ Martinez had a round, kindly face, sharp, dark eyes and wavy hair. A slightly built man who only reached Sam’s
shoulder, he was a man of strong opinions, quiet and calm until roused when, once in a while, he turned into a pitbull.
‘Too soon to tell.’
‘I’ll bet the wad it’s the same perp.’ Martinez’s accent was light, but his vocabulary tended to
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