The doorbell rings. When I get my handbag from the dresser, dig my cell phone out of it, and look at the camera feed, no one is there. The front porch is empty.
That’s it. I’ve fucking had it. I’m not about to let a stupid electrical problem drive me insane!
I quickly scroll through my call log to find Eddie the handyman’s number, then stand there hyperventilating until he picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Eddie. It’s Kayla. Remember me? With the leaky roof and the electrical problems?”
“Sure, I remember! Hey, Kayla! How are you, man?”
“I’m good, thanks. How are you?”
His laugh is low and breathless. “Grooovy.”
He sounds stoned. What a surprise. “That’s…nice. So the reason I’m calling is because I wanted to get the number of your therapist.”
“Oh, for sure! I just, uh…” He’s silent for a moment, then says, “I don’t actually remember it.”
“Won’t it be in your cell phone?”
He sounds confused. “Cell phone?”
Yep, totally stoned. Either that, or I was right about him living in a commune with no modern conveniences. This number must be a land line. I sigh. “How about if you just give me his name?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, no problemo. His name’s Letterman. Dr. David Letterman.”
I frown. “Like the talk show host?”
Another confused pause. “Who?”
So he doesn’t own a television, either. At any rate, this conversation is going around in circles. Time to say goodbye. “David Letterman. Got it. I’ll give him a call. Is he in Seattle?”
“Nah, he’s right down on Winslow and Olympic, across from the museum of art. That little red brick building with the green awning.”
I know the building well, so I thank Eddie and promise him again that I’ll give his number to anyone who might need a handyman. Though I think he’s probably far more skilled at dealing pot.
When we hang up, I go downstairs to my office and google the doctor on my laptop.
There’s no listing. Eddie was probably so high, he gave me the wrong name.
I consider calling him back, but decide it’s a lost cause. Next, he’d likely give me the name of his dentist.
Feeling defeated, I stare at the computer screen for a while. I know therapists in Seattle will be more expensive than ones on the island, and I don’t love the idea of taking the ferry back and forth to the city once or twice a week. I could try to find someone in Bainbridge, but I know the pickings will be slim.
Then I consider the possibility that maybe Dr. Letterman is the only shrink on the island. Or maybe he’s not a shrink at all, but a voodoo doctor who’ll want to sacrifice a chicken and read its entrails to see what’s wrong with me. That seems a little more up Eddie’s alley.
Except David Letterman doesn’t sound like a voodoo name.
I’m starting to get exhausted from my little mental guessing game, so I decide I’ll take a drive downtown later this afternoon after Fiona’s gone and pop into Letterman’s office.
You can tell a lot by someone’s office. If he’s got a nice secretary and the place doesn’t look like its recently hosted any black magic ceremonies, I’ll make an appointment. I’ve got dry cleaning to pick up, anyway, and the cleaners is only a block over.
Hopefully, my clothes are still there. I dropped them off before the accident.
When a sharp pain stabs me behind my left eyeball, I mutter an oath.
Just what I need, a headache.
I lie down on the sofa and close my eyes. I must drift off to sleep, because when I open my eyes again, the light has changed. Shadows slink up the walls in long gray fingers. When I look at the clock, I’m surprised to discover I’ve been asleep for more than four hours.
When I emerge from my office, the house is quiet. Fiona’s gone. I go upstairs and change into a fresh shirt, then drive downtown and park on the tree-lined street outside the building Eddie said Letterman’s office is in.
As I’m getting out of the car, I happen to glance at the restaurant across the street.
The Harbor House is a seafood place with a patio overlooking the water and live jazz on Friday nights. It’s a popular spot for tourists and locals alike. Sometimes during the summer, there’s even a line to get in.
But it’s not summer now, and there’s no line. I’ve got a clear view of the restaurant’s entry.
Walking through the front door with his arm slung around a curvy brunette’s shoulder is a man I’d recognize anywhere, even from the back.