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Dinah

I bring him lunch and we eat in his office, then head back to the house.

Joe is wired and talking nonstop, his energy high.

I play into his good mood, smiling at the right moments and chiming in with comments and questions, but my heart isn’t there.

I keep wondering if I should interrupt and tell him about my conversation with Natalie.

Natalie called me today. Internal Affairs is sniffing around my older cases.

That’s all I would need to start with. He will have lots of questions after that, and I wonder how many of those I will have to answer with lies.

“She’s a nice girl, you know. Has an inner sweetness. Reminds me a little of you, actually.” The Excursion bounces over the dried-out juts in the road. We really should have a grader come in and make this smooth.

Reminds me a little of you. I press my lips together, hating that statement. When we met, when we married, no one reminded him of me. I was unique, special. Has that faded? Is it a physical similarity or a personality one?

I won’t ask him. I don’t want him to think any deeper about her—not right now. Not when I have so many lies around this IA debacle that I am going to have to put into careful order and deliver with precision.

I hate lying to him. Each lie is a string, one that wraps around my neck, joining the big rope that’s already there.

The noose is over two decades old, one I carried into this marriage and that has been steadily tightening in recent months.

Add enough of these new strings to it, and it’ll strangle me to death.

He can’t find out about that rope. I’m close to cutting it free, but a few more things have to fall my way first. This IA investigation and Jessica Bishop are the opposite of what I need right now.

“I showed her the photos, and the acceptance is already there, Dinah. I’ll start to taper off her meds tonight and let her have an emotional release, and tomorrow we’ll do another long session.

I have to say, the new combination of drugs is so much better.

I can already tell the difference. I might start to try it on the older patients with smaller test topics. ”

He should give up on the older patients. There’s only so much you can do to someone’s soul and psyche before they check out. It’s already happened with a few of them, but I get that he doesn’t want to waste any opportunities.

“I would wait on tapering off her meds. Give her another day.” I put my hand on the seat belt’s buckle, unclipping it as the SUV rolls to a stop in front of the garage.

As always, my husband considers the input. “What are you thinking?”

“It’s a big hit you gave her today. I would let her rest up. Allow the emotions to come to her gradually. You won’t be able to make progress if she’s a grief-stricken wreck.”

“Part of that emotional break opens the door to acceptance,” he points out.

“Speaking from the standpoint of a woman who has a complicated relationship with her own mother, trust me on this.” I place my hand over his, squeezing.

“Okay.” He yields, in part because I rarely have an opinion in any matters concerning his patients.

I let go of his hand and open the car door, stepping out. I think of Jessica, her profile as she sat beside him at the table, so close they were almost touching, their knees together under the table.

She’s a nice girl, you know. Has an inner sweetness. Reminds me a little of you, actually.

A memory of myself flashes, standing outside his office, obsessively running my hands through my hair, my palms sweaty, my heart pounding in my chest. I was such a child with him in the beginning.

So impressed by the diploma on his wall, the concepts he spoke of, the way he understood—really understood—my anger over the Howard child and my fear that the mother would get away with murder.

“Hey.” He stands at the front of the vehicle, keys in hand, his expression intent as he studies me. “You okay?”

How many sessions has he had with Jessica? Five? Ten? Too many.

The noose is getting too tight around my neck. It’s time for it to be put around someone else’s.