An echo of my unspoken question from our first session rises in my mind: Is she scared of losing her husband or scared of him?
Taking people by surprise with blunt questions can be effective. So as casually as if I were inquiring about the weather, I ask, “Has Matthew ever been violent with you, Marissa?”
She blanches. “No, never! Why would you ask that?”
“No particular reason.”
We fall silent as Matthew’s footsteps approach the room. When he appears on the threshold, he’s holding a vase filled with lush yellow roses.
He walks toward Marissa and puts them on the table beside her. “For you.”
“Oh, they’re gorgeous! Who are they from?”
He shrugs. “You tell me.” His tone is flat.
The smile falls away from Marissa’s face as she pulls the card from the little plastic holder. “There isn’t any note. It’s just my name.”
“Maybe it’s your friend from the gym.” Matthew is standing over Marissa, just as he was in my office, but his fists aren’t clenched. He’s disturbed, but not enraged. I feel confident of this assessment.
“What? No—it couldn’t—Matthew, they could be from anyone. It’s probably a thank-you for some blazers I donated to Dress for Success last week.” Her voice trails off as she seems to realize no charity would send an elaborate bouquet for a relatively small donation.
Matthew nods, though it’s unclear if he buys it. “Sure. Maybe, Marissa.”
He sits back down, and I ease him into a conversation about his job, Marissa’s boutique, and how they juggle work and parenthood. Marissa clearly bears the brunt of the day-to-day chores of caring for Bennett, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
When I glance at my watch, it’s almost 9:45 P.M. I rise to my feet. “I can see myself out.”
“Marissa knows I would never let a woman see herself to the door.” Matthew gets up, and so does Marissa.
I walk directly over to Marissa, in the opposite direction from the front door. She stares at me, looking confused and more than a bit nervous. The sweet scent of roses perfumes the air around her.
“May I?” I don’t wait for permission as I pluck the florist’s card from her hand. Then I smile and exit the room.
* * *
Later that night, as I walk around my house checking that all my windows and doors are locked, I mentally plan my next steps: check out Natalie, call the florist, and visit Marissa’s boutique when she isn’t on the premises.
I’m not naive—I know the Bishops are still withholding important information. That’s only natural. Everyone keeps secrets, I think as I stare through the bay window in my office out onto the quiet, darkened street.
Including me.
One of my biggest centers around a young woman named Finley Jones. She was the true genesis for my ten-session method. A few months after Paul died, back when I was a run-of-the-mill therapist sharing office space in Dupont Circle and squeezing in eight patients a day, an anxious young woman showed up for her initial appointment, claiming disturbing thoughts were disrupting her sleep and appetite. She was thin, with bitten nails and dark shadows rimming her gray eyes. Finley’s presenting symptoms weren’t uncommon; anxiety is rampant in our society. As we discussed her tumultuous relationship with her father and her insomnia, she didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d upend my world.
Then she whispered, “My company is going to kill people.”
My gut told me this wasn’t paranoia, or delusions.
Can you tell me more? I’d asked, in the gentle therapeutic tone I utilized back then.
Finley was employed by a billion-dollar pharmaceutical giant as one of several assistants to the head of public relations. She didn’t have a lofty title. She didn’t have access. She didn’t have the ear of company executives.
What she had was exquisite timing.
It was a Tuesday night, well past quitting time. Finley had met her old college roommate for drinks around the corner from her office, and before heading home, she stopped by the office to retrieve her gym bag. The twelve-story building was mostly empty, occupied only by the security guard, who greeted her as she flashed her ID, a few late-working employees scattered on different floors, and cleaning crews.
Finley headed down the dimly lit corridor to her cubicle, the blue-gray carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps. Up ahead, her boss’s office was illuminated; she could see him inside with another man she later identified as the chief compliance officer. But the lighting optics meant that they, looking out into a darkened hallway, couldn’t see Finley approach.