The biggest question in my mind is the identity of the man who hurt Matthew.
Marissa mentioned that both she and Matthew suspected the assault could have been conducted by a disgruntled employee, and they’d relayed their suspicion to the police. I imagine the parking garage has video cameras, too, which could aid in identification.
I rub my temples and stand up, bringing my empty coffee mug and the stack of mail into the kitchen. Maybe caffeine will help.
While my coffee brews, I flip through the mail: catalog, bill, junk, bill … and an envelope with the return address for LifeLine, the agency that handled Paul’s life insurance policy. Probably just a follow-up, since they already sent Lana the generous settlement. I slide my finger under the seal and remove the letter.
I scan the document quickly at first, then my eyes widen: medical fraud … investigation … misrepresentation …
My hand begins shaking and I almost drop the sheet of paper.
It sounds as if the insurance company thinks I had something to do with Paul’s death.
I sink onto a counter stool, rereading the letter, this time more closely.
Then I reach for my cell phone and call my lawyer.
* * *
I expected the Bishops to cancel their session tonight; after all, Matthew was released from the hospital only this morning.
I was hoping they’d reschedule. My lawyer, Sylvia McColaugh, did a little digging after I scanned the letter from LifeLine and sent it to her. She scheduled a Zoom call with me for 5:00 P.M., right after I’d gone for a long hike with Romeo, hoping to simultaneously burn off some of my physical stress and shake loose some new ideas in my mind.
But any relief I’d found during my walk through Rock Creek Park evaporated the moment I saw Sylvia’s frowning face on my phone screen, her big green eyes further magnified by her glasses and her white curls a halo around her head.
It’s not great, she’d said, forgoing pleasantries and cutting to the chase, which is one of the reasons why she keeps my business. They’re opening an investigation into Paul’s death.
Before I could ask why, she told me, They received an anonymous tip that you euthanized Paul.
An anonymous tip.
The irony isn’t lost on me. My call to the FDA whistle-blower hotline was supposed to be anonymous, but it wasn’t. Neither is this one to LifeLine.
Acelia is demonstrating that they can swing a sledgehammer and aim it at any chinks in my life.
Sylvia told me to sit tight, and that she’ll circle back when she has more information. You get any more letters or calls, a cop comes to your door, anything—you phone me immediately. Don’t let them in, don’t say a word.
After I hung up, I filed away Lifeline’s letter, then popped a CBD gummy and soaked in a hot bath while I listened to Joan Armatrading on my AirPods. But I couldn’t stop seeing images of Paul during his final weeks, especially this one: me sliding into his bed and cradling him in my arms while he took his final breaths. He was so frail by that point; he barely weighed more than a child. I held him for a long time, until his body was no longer warm. As the sun rose, I dialed Lana’s number so she could come over and say goodbye. Then I set into motion the arrangements Paul and I had discussed: a cremation, a celebration of his life at a local pub with the music and food and drinks Paul loved best, and toasts given by Lana and his closest friends. I mingled for a few minutes, then hid in a back room. I couldn’t give a toast, for the same reason why I couldn’t read the sympathy cards and letters.
I don’t care what all those people will think if they learn the insurance company is investigating me, but I am concerned about Lana’s reaction. What if she believed the claims? It would break her heart and possibly destroy our relationship.
And what if I’m found guilty?
I cast aside the worry for now, pulling myself out of the bath to get dressed in anticipation of Marissa and Matthew’s arrival.
This, our fifth session, is Devastation, the point at which my clients reach rock bottom and fear they won’t succeed. But in this case, I’m the one who is beginning to worry they won’t succeed. The Bishops’ case is outside the lines; so many unseen forces are competing with my techniques and conspiring to harm them, too. I can’t repair their marriage until I uncover the truth—about each of them and their motivations, as well as the complicated people in their orbit.
My doorbell chimes at 7:00 P.M. sharp, and I welcome them into my office. Marissa looks pale and exhausted and seems so jittery I’m tempted to offer her a gummy from my stash. Matthew, by contrast, appears robust and intently focused. If it weren’t for the bandage on his forehead, I’d never know he’d been brutally attacked less than twenty-four hours ago. He keeps his arm around Marissa as they sit side-by-side on the couch, as if he wants to protect her from whatever their future holds.