Page 3 of What Boys Learn

They were terrible forms—Duplass hadn’t let me change them—with room for little more than a “presenting problem” and one or two “action(s) taken.”

Topic: Friends/family

Action: Explore feelings. Develop trust.

“His partner sent me copies,” Mayfield said. “You might have done me the courtesy.”

“We planned to,” Duplass said. “But it didn’t seem right to send emails until we’d talked to you first. We’re so deeply sorry. We can’t even imagine how you’re—”

“I want the rest of it,” Mayfield said, turning to me, his face so close I could see one bright red shaving nick, the size of a staple, on his neck. “Don’t you scribble things down, beyond the checklist stuff? I want to know what you and my daughter were talking about week after week.”

Duplass threw me a cautioning glance. Did she think he’d sue? But Mayfield loved Summit. Maybe he could sue me alone, and not the school.

“Most of our conversations were about career interests and general well-being, not acute mental health concerns.” I hesitated. “But I can get those notes to you.”

Mayfield slumped for a moment in his chair, like he’d been itching for a fight and was disappointed I’d given in so quickly. “Good. Email me everything. I should get to see it first, don’t you think?” His ire was rising again. “Didn’t that occur to the two of you? Show the family first?”

Another glance from Duplass. It’s what I’d proposed to her this morning. Family first, and promptly. But she’d had her own ideas.

“Did Sidney talk about her mother?” Mayfield asked.

“She was sympathetic to her mother’s history of neck pain, but she was a little concerned Geneva was overusing prescription drugs.”

What can I say? My mom’s self-medicating. We all do, one way or another.

Sidney had made that comment while pointing to my desk drawer. In one of our first sessions, Sidney had complained of cramps and cravings. I’d told her about my dark chocolate supply. She’d asked if we could open a bar to share. I relented, warning her that if she told every other girl in school, I’d never hear the end of it.

Our secret, she’d said.As long as you keep the good stuff coming. Orange peel or almond, next time, please?

In that moment, I’d caught a glimpse of the daughter I’d never have.

Mayfield was still staring at me. “You’ll confirm Sidney was upset about Geneva’s pill problem, if the detectives ask?”

The impression I got from Detective Hernández was that they already knew, but I nodded. As Mayfield himself said, there was no doubt where the pills came from. The question waswhy. I had no answer for that.

“Did Sidney say anything to you about me?” he asked.

It’s not his fault. Apologies from Sidney—for her father’s attitudes, behaviors, absence. But she seemed resigned, even relieved, that the charade of her parents’ marriage would end when she left for college, in a year.I personally think they should separate now, but hey, it’s up to them.

“She loved you, Mr. Mayfield. And Mrs. Mayfield, of course. She loved you both.”

His eyes grew glassy. His lips parted. The aroma of whiskey, half masked by cologne, settled like a warm fug between us.

“Small consolation,” he muttered. “My daughter still killed herself.”

The assumption of suicide seemed premature, but I bit my tongue. I wasn’t a criminologist. I certainly wasn’t a cop. But even I knew that crime scene assumptions could go disastrously wrong, especially when it came to supposedly self-inflicted tragedies. It had happened in Waukegan, where Benjamin and I lived before moving to Pleasant Park—the hanging of a sixty-year-old man, later ruled a murder, a case I only followed because it happened in our building and the man had been an upbeat, easygoing neighbor. I hoped local detectives wouldn’t make similar mistakes. But a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl, found in her beautiful bed, empty bottle of prosecco on the nightstand, several types of pills missing from her mother’s bathroom—it could give anyone tunnel vision.

When Mayfield swiped at his eye, I thought we were reaching a truce. But then he leaned closer. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? Fucking diploma-mill counselor. Summit deserves better than you.”

I nodded, as if he’d just given me some helpful professional feedback. Then I cleared my throat. “Will there be a full autopsy?”

Duplass raked her neck with eggshell-colored fingernails. “Forgive the question. I’m sure it’s too early. You and Mrs. Mayfield must be—”

“It’s goddamn clear what Sidney took.Andin what frame of mind.” He was referring to a final text message from Sidney to her mother—the only form of a note detectives had been able to find.Don’t come into my room. I don’t want you to see. The detective had explained to us that the housekeeper had found the body, just after arriving at the house for her Sunday afternoon shift. Geneva had been hailed from a private tennis lesson, where she hadn’t seen the text.

Mayfield added, “The timing was purposeful. Sidney waited until she was alone. She knew her mom wouldn’t be checking her phone until it was too late.”

I nodded, eyebrows lifted, trying to restrain myself from saying what came to mind. That if I were the parent, I’d wonder why there was no note, aside from the brief text. The majority of people leave notes. Young women, especially.