Page 57

Dinah

I ignore the smoothies, even though my mouth tastes like bitter cotton. I know what he puts in there—a cocktail of antidepressants and mood-altering meds—and I have to be sharp for whatever comes.

I really need to know what time it is. I understand why there isn’t a clock in here, given that Melonie lost that privilege a few weeks back, but since I have the appointment at eleven thirty with the union rep, it’s driving me crazy to not have any sense of bearing.

I’ve probably already missed it. I picture Natalie getting the call, her dark-brown forehead wrinkling as she gets the news. She’ll call me, then immediately follow up the call with a text.

This is inexcusable, Dinah.

Call me immediately, Dinah.

She loves to use my name. It’s a control mechanism for her, a way to point out that she is my superior, despite the fact that we went through the training academy together and that bitch scored lower than I did in every single aptitude test except for kissing ass.

He took my cell phone when he put me in here.

My cell and his. I didn’t even have time to go through his, to do my bimonthly sweep to see what my husband has been up to.

Maybe it is clean, his normal back-and-forth volleys with his few male friends and colleagues.

Joe is selective about his circle and is most verbose with me.

Once, I found a message thread with my mother, a fairly long conversation about what to do for my fortieth birthday.

In it, he told her that I was the love of his life.

Even though I knew that, the confession still gave me a spike of pleasure; there is something about a man’s public profession of love that is incredibly sexy.

I am the love of his life, yet he put me in here.

Put an IV in the back of my hand, drugged me, and left me alone all night.

It’s the first night we’ve spent apart in years.

The last time was when Sal’s girlfriend had her baby, an emergency C-section that went wrong.

When her contractions began, I flew to Las Vegas to be at her bedside and was the lone representative of our family.

No one should have a baby alone. I told Sal that it was too traumatic of an event, that she needed to have some support.

He was in the midst of a trial, had promised to come the following day, didn’t see the urgency that I did.

I had my own cases, my own appointments, but I dropped them all and arrived just twenty minutes before the baby went into fetal distress and an emergency C-section was ordered.

Alyssa needed someone; she clung to my hand as if it were a life preserver and whispered through her tears that she was terrified.

That if something happened, to tell her baby that she loved her.

By the time Sal arrived, both mother and daughter had made it through, and he swept in the door with flowers and a big smile, unaware of the risks she’d just overcome.

She hugged him, and over his shoulder, our eyes met in silent solidarity.

The door to the room clicks open, and I whirl around to see Joe step in, clipboard in hand, his lab coat on.

That stupid coat. A costume, designed to invoke respect and authority.

If someone in a white lab coat gives you a pill, you take it.

If they tell you something is wrong with you, you believe it.

It’s the basis of Joe’s entire research—the power of suggestion and influence. A lab coat is the anthesis of that.

I don’t rush to him, despite the desire. I’ve had hours to consider my strategy, and begging and pleading with him won’t work. No, this battle will be won the same way our courtship happened: reluctant participation.

My husband loves a puzzle, not a path.

“Hello, Dinah.”

“I have an appointment with the union rep today at eleven thirty. It’s very important. If you want to keep me here, fine, but take me to it and then bring me back. I can’t miss it. I’ll be fired.”

“So be fired.” He pulls a pen from the pocket of his coat and writes something on his clipboard, and if it was possible for me to hit a new level of irritation, he just got me there. “You don’t need the job. In fact, right now would be a good time to pen your resignation letter.”

I know this cold delivery, the flat press of his mouth. He’s mad at me.

“I can’t do that.” I knot my arms over my chest and wonder how long it will be before he brings me something else to wear. At what point he’ll allow soap and shampoo and a towel. In this place, everything is a gift and up to him to grant.

“Sure you can. It’s not like we need the money.” He shrugs, and I don’t like the reference. Yes, he has money. Insane piles of it. It’s always been a quiet part of our life. I have access to it if I need it; we use it when there’s a reason to but ignore it the rest of the time.

“It’s not the money.” I inhale. If there’s a time to tell him, it’s now. “I’m being investigated by Internal Affairs. That’s what today’s meeting is about. If I quit, I’ll look guilty, and it won’t stop the investigation. If anything, it will heighten it.”

He pauses, then puts the pen in the clip at the top of the board, and finally, I have his full attention. “Explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Explain what the fuck Internal Affairs is investigating.” His tone is dark. This is the version of my husband that I respect and fear the most.

“I don’t know.” I square my shoulders and keep my voice strong and competent. “I was hoping to find out something today.”

“You’ve kept this a secret from me.” He closes the distance between us and stops when he is less than a foot away.

He’s wearing the gray pin-striped suit, which means he went home before his class and changed.

Did he water the plants? Drag the trash cans to the curb?

Did he take his allergy medicine and his supplements?

Normally, I put them out each morning, a neat little line of vitamins and pills, followed by a glass of water.

I always clean out the Excursion after our weekends, which he follows up with an Armor All wipe down and vacuum.

Had that been done? How many degrees is our axis off by?

I swallow the questions and look up into his face. “I wasn’t sure how big of a deal it was. I was assessing and collecting information.”

His hand closes on my throat, and it’s so big it covers my entire stretch of neck cords.

His fingers wrap around, almost touching together on the nape of my neck.

It is comforting, the grip—any fear held at bay by the absolute confidence that my husband will not physically hurt me. “You’re lying to me, Dinah.”

I stare into his eyes and tell him the truth. “I didn’t want to bring it to you unless I knew how serious it was or wasn’t.”

“Which cases are they looking into?”

“I don’t know yet. Lacey Deltour. Riley Biff. Maybe more. They had someone following up on my investigation of Reese and Jessica to make sure I was doing my job.”

He says nothing, and I know this look on his face. He’s thinking. Judging. Calculating. He releases my neck and turns away. “You already missed that meeting, so we’ll deal with that after your session.”

“I’m not doing a session.” I speak before I have time to think, and it’s a mistake, defying him right now.

He pauses, and when he turns around, his face is set, his eyes cold, and when he speaks, his voice is steel, each word a knife stabbing deeper.

“You are a patient, Dinah. You are not special. You do not have your own unique set of rules. You obey the guidelines you are given, or you will be released. If you think I won’t do it, talk back to me again and spend tonight in the box. ”

I pin my lips together. I have only a few fears in life. The box is one of them.