Then she hears her name being called: “Marissa!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AVERY
WHEN NEW CLIENTS COME to me with a confession, it’s often camouflage for their actual issue, which exists below the surface of their conscious lives. It lurks in a place that feels too hazy and perilous for them to enter alone—if their mind allows them to be aware of it at all.
I reach for my phone and replay the message Marissa left me this afternoon: “Hi, Avery. I’m sorry we keep playing phone tag. I know you are eager to catch up and I’ll be … Sorry about that.… Anyway, I’m sure we’ll talk soon.”
Her message wasn’t entirely directed at me; she briefly spoke to someone else midway through it, probably pulling her phone away reflexively for a moment.
I close my eyes. Marissa was walking down a busy street, probably Connecticut Avenue, near Coco, judging by the background noises.
Her aside was a bit muffled, but I play the message again, focusing intently on the words she spoke between “I’ll be” and “Sorry about that” to confirm I’ve heard them correctly.
“Oh, hi, Ray.”
The name isn’t terribly common, but I heard it just this morning, when I went to visit Polly. He’s the homeless man Polly recognized on the video, the one who pushed the note under Coco’s door late at night. He wasn’t near the store when I stopped by earlier, but he must have returned by the time Marissa left me a message.
Something has always bothered me about that letter, as it has about the delivery of those roses.
Both acts were supposedly anonymous.
Yet both seemed designed to engender witnesses.
If the man who seems obsessed with Marissa wanted to leave her a note, why didn’t he simply put it in an envelope with her name on it, ensuring her privacy? Or for that matter, send her a text or an email, rather than print out a single line on a sheet of white paper and arrange for it to be delivered to Coco?
I stand up from my desk and walk across the room, Romeo trailing at my heels. I’d let him out of his crate as soon as the fake Rose DeMarco left, and although I refuse to be shaken by her visit, I can’t pretend that my dog’s presence isn’t comforting.
We head to the kitchen, where I give Romeo a rawhide bone and check to make sure he has fresh water.
Marissa should be home for the night by now.
And one thing I’ve learned in my work, which was proven again only this morning with Polly, is that people tend to be more forthcoming when you catch them off guard.
I leave on plenty of lights for Romeo and double-check that the house alarm is set while he’s busy gnawing on his treat.
“Back soon,” I call to him as I head out my door, toward the Bishops’ house and our sixth session.
* * *
Traffic is in full force, but I’m not in any rush. I stay in the middle lane of Connecticut Avenue, thinking about what I know of the Bishops.
If I were my own patient, I might accuse myself of avoiding my lurking issue: the escalating threat posed to me by Acelia. Avoidance, suppression, denial—a lot of clinical terms could be applied to my actions, since I’m heading to the Bishops’ right now instead of trying to process the intrusion I just experienced.
I’m not going to allow Acelia to take up any more of my mental real estate, though. That monstrous company wants me to be cowering at home, fearing what it might do to me next.
But even though I’m confident they’ve researched me thoroughly, they must not know this about me: I’ve never liked bullies.
I pass through the circle that straddles the D.C.-to-Maryland line, braking hard to avoid a pickup truck that doesn’t seem to understand the concept of yielding. I honk, and when the driver gives me the finger, I fire one right back at him.
I reach Marissa and Matthew’s street a few minutes later. It’s like turning into a different world: Only blocks away is a city filled with noise and bustle; I drove over three potholes on my way to get here and passed a bus shelter that held a half dozen weary-looking people. Here, graceful three-story homes are set back from the road, buffered by well-tended yards and expensive cars. It’s quieter, and the roads are perfectly paved.
As I pull up in front of Marissa’s house, I spot her getting out of her Audi in the driveway. I honk, and my headlights pass over her. She turns around and lifts her hands to shield her eyes.
“Marissa!” I call.
“Oh, Avery!” She puts her hand to her heart. “You startled me.”
“Good timing.” I pull in behind her car. “I’m glad I caught you alone. Mind if I park here? I’ll be quick.”