“Gail, listen. You have to try to recognize that this… this…”
“Yes?”
“Hold on. I just… My phone buzzed. I have to make sure it’s not an emergency with one of my patients. It’s…”
“Dr. Hale?”
“Hang on.”
“Dr. Hale? Is everything okay? What does your text message say?”
“I’m sorry, Gail. I’m afraid we’re going to have to reschedule our appointment. An emergency has come up.”
Chapter 20
ADRIENNE
Before
I stare at the screen of my phone. It was horribly unprofessional of me to tell Gail to leave right in the middle of a session. But I didn’t have a choice. I read the words on the screen for the fifth time:
Hi, Doc. I have a little video I took of you from a parking lot in the Bronx. I thought you might enjoy watching it!
The message came from EJ. I didn’t delete his number from my phone after I terminated him as a patient. I wish I had, but it doesn’t matter. I have a feeling he would have found a way to get me this message.
Below the message is a link to a video. I haven’t watched it yet. The image on the screen is of me, frozen in time, dressed in the white blouse and gray skirt suit I wore to the free clinic the other day. My hair is whisked behind my head, although it had come partially loose during my hike from my parking spot to the clinic.
I remember that moment in time. And I remember what happens next.
I can’t bring myself to watch it. But I must.
I take a deep breath and tap my finger on the video to start it. Immediately, the image of myself unfreezes. The camera follows me for a couple of seconds, then zooms in as I pause in front of a red Jetta.
That asshole who took my parking spot.
The quality of the video is excellent. Naturally, EJ would have the most expensive phone money could buy. You can see the license plate of the car in perfect detail. You can see me fumble around in my purse for something. Then you can see me bend down beside the back tire of the Jetta and look both ways to make sure nobody is watching me. For a split second, the camera catches the glint of a knife in the sunlight just before it sinks into the tire.
Yes. I slashed that man’s back tire.
It sounds worse than it is. I was late to a clinic where my patients’ lives depend on me. The parking spot was mine. I was signaling to take it. He stole it from me, so he committed the crime first. I was simply retaliating.
And yes, I carry a knife in my purse. Sometimes the clinic lets out late, and it’s not the best neighborhood. I suppose I could carry a can of mace. I choose to carry a knife.
Slashing that tire was the wrong thing to do. I should not have allowed my anger at that man’s rude and selfish behavior to get the best of me. I should have taken the high road.
And I had no idea anyone was watching me.
I jump in my chair as another text message appears on my phone. The message comes from the same number:
I can see the headline now. Bestselling Author Psychiatrist Slashes Tires in Parking Lot.
I swallow. He is not wrong that this will make a compelling headline. One that has the potential to destroy me. And it’s all on video.
My hands are trembling as I type a reply. It takes me three tries to get it right:
What do you want?
His reply comes almost instantly:
I’m outside your front door.
An icy sensation slides down my spine. I always laughed at people like Paige and Gloria when they suggested I needed a home security system. I always felt safe here. But when I stare down at the words on my phone, I no longer feel safe. I’m not sure I ever will again.
I’m outside your front door.
I glance behind me at the window—the sun dropped in the sky over the last hour, and it’s now dark outside. I stand up abruptly from my leather chair, so quickly that it glides across the room, slamming into the wall behind me. I can’t ignore these messages. I’ve known EJ for a long time, and he will not let this go.
I take my phone with me to the front door, clutching it in my left hand much the way Paige did when she came to visit. I consider calling 911 but quickly rule it out. EJ has done nothing wrong. Yes, he is on my property, but I have no evidence that I terminated him as a patient. He has not breached my front door. And if he shows the police that video of me, my career is over.
He is calling the shots.
My front door is constructed from the same deep brown wood as the desk in my office—mahogany, I believe—broken up by two opaque panes of glass. There’s a lock and deadbolt on the door, but only a few feet away, there’s a window that could be easily shattered with a rock. I pass the window on the way to the front door and I can make out the shadow in front of my door. I stand there for a moment, hesitating until my phone vibrates in my hand.