“Okay,” I say. There’s no point in fighting him on this one. No point in trying to explain. I watch Detective Thomas nod again, satisfied with my response, before turning around and disappearing behind my office door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The rest of the morning goes by in a daze. I have three appointments, back-to-back, none of which I remember very clearly. For the first time, I’m thankful for the little icons on my desktop—I can go back and listen to my recordings later when I’m less distracted, more engaged. I cringe, imagining the emotionless mumbling I’m sure to hear coming from my side of the conversation; the distant mhmms I had administered instead of asking genuine questions. The long, drawn-out silences before my eyes refocused and I remembered where I was, what I was doing. My first appointment was in the waiting room when Detective Thomas walked out. I saw the look on her face when I finally pulled myself from my chair and walked into the lobby, the way her eyes darted from me to the door as if she were trying to decide whether or not she wanted to come into my office or just get up and leave.
I rise from my desk at 12:02—I don’t want to seem too eager—and snatch my duffel bag, powering down my computer before opening up my desk drawer and tapping my fingers across the sea of pills. I look at the Diazepam nestled in the corner and turn away, deciding instead on a bottle of Xanax, just in case, before securing the drawer and rushing past Melissa with hurried instructions to lock the door on her way out.
“You’ll be back Monday, right?” she says, standing up.
“Yes, Monday,” I say, turning around and trying to flash a smile. “I’m just doing some wedding shopping. Knocking out the last-minute errands.”
“Right,” she says, eying me carefully. “In New Orleans. You said that.”
“Right.” I try to think of something else to say, something normal, but the silence stretches between us, awkward and uncomfortable. “Well, if that’ll be all—”
“Chloe,” she says, picking at her cuticle. Melissa never uses my first name in the office; she always keeps distinct boundaries between personal and professional. Clearly, what she’s about to say to me now is personal. “Is everything okay? What’s been going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I say, smiling again. “Nothing’s going on, Melissa. I mean, other than my patient being murdered and my wedding coming up in a month.”
I try to laugh at my pathetic attempt at a joke, but it comes out strangled. Instead, I cough. Melissa doesn’t smile.
“I’ve just had a lot of stress lately,” I say. It feels like the first honest thing I’ve said to her in a while. “I need a break. A mental health break.”
“Okay,” she says, hesitating. “And that detective?”
“He was just asking some follow-up questions about Lacey, that’s all. I was the last one to see her alive. If I’m their strongest witness, they obviously don’t have much to go on at the moment.”
“Okay,” she says again, this time more confidently. “Okay, well, enjoy your break. I hope you can come back refreshed.”
I walk out to my car, tossing my duffel bag into the passenger seat like junk mail before getting into the driver’s seat and cranking the engine. Then I pull out my phone, navigate to my Contacts, and start typing a message.
On my way.
The drive to the motel is quick, only forty-five minutes from my office. I reserved the room on Monday, immediately after I told Melissa to block my calendar. I had found the first cheap all-nighter I could find on Google with a rating over three stars—I wanted to pay in cash, and I knew I wouldn’t be spending much time in the room, anyway. I pull into the parking lot and walk into the lobby, avoiding small talk with the clerk while retrieving my key.
“Room twelve,” he says, dangling it in front of me. I grab it, shoot him a weak smile, almost like I’m apologizing for something. “You’re right next to the ice machine, lucky you.”
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket as I’m unlocking the door. I dig it out, read the message—I’m here—and shoot off a text with the room number before tossing my bag onto the single queen bed. Then I glance around the room.
It’s bleak in that fluorescently lit way only highway motels can be. The efforts at décor almost make the place sadder, with its mass-produced beach scene hung crookedly over the bed, the chocolate placed delicately on my pillow, warm and slightly squishy between my fingers. I look at the bedside table, open the drawer. There’s a Bible inside with the cover ripped off. I walk into the bathroom and splash water on my face before twisting my hair into a topknot. There’s a knock at the door, and I exhale slowly, stealing one final glance at myself in the mirror, trying to ignore the bags under my eyes that seem amplified in the harsh light. I force myself to flip the switch and walk back toward the door, a silhouette looming outside the closed curtains. I grasp the knob firmly and swing the door open.