THE THERAPIST

13

𝐂 𝐡 𝐚 𝐩 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫  𝟏𝟑

     My knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. My heart thumping, I whipped my head backward and checked the seats behind me. There was no one in the car apart from me—not that I expected someone to be in there. Whoever left the envelope was long gone.

     I locked my car before I left, which meant that the person broke into my car and dumped the envelope on the dashboard. Garry’s words rang again. There was a figure last night standing on the street and watching the house. Could this be the same person Garry saw the other night? Now I was convinced someone was watching me.

     Slowly, I let go of the wheel and took a deep breath. Unfastening the seat belt, I stumbled out of the car. I had blithely walked into my car. If someone had set up an explosive device under it, I’d be burning in flames by now. The thoughts sent a shiver down my spine.

     I bent over and inspected the vehicle. I sighed, realizing there wasn’t any device installed under it. If someone was trying to kill me, they wouldn’t be brazen enough to do it in the parking lot of a rehab center.

     The door I had walked through opened again and three men and a woman spilled out, laughing. They walked past me. I stood still, watching as they lumbered over to a car.

     I barely spent thirty minutes with Edna. Whoever placed that envelope in my car must have followed me down here, but I didn’t see any tailing car on the road. Or perhaps I didn’t look.

     I moved my eyes to the booth. The security man wasn’t there. Then I heard footsteps thudding on the cement. It came from the far end. He’s back. Thank God. I waited as he neared me.

     He held a coffee cup in one hand and a brown bag in another.

     “Hi,” I said, looking at his name tag. “Mr. Osborne. I need a favor.”

     His dark brows arched. “Hi. It’s you again. You ain’t gone?” He brought the cup to his lips and sipped.

     “Yeah,” I said.

     “What can I do for ya?” he asked in a heavy African-American accent.

     I refrained from telling him my suspicion someone had broken into my car under his supervision. If I told the managers about it, he could get into a lot of trouble. He seemed like a nice guy, and I didn’t want to put him in a serious situation.

     “Can I see footage of the parking lot in the last twenty minutes?”

     He shrugged. “Of course. C’mon.”

     I followed Mr. Osborne into the security booth. His workspace was neat, with every item placed in the appropriate section. A soft fluorescent lightning illuminated the place.

     I watched as he plopped down on a swivel chair behind panoramic monitors and placed the cup and bag on the desk. He set his hands on the keyboard, typing with the speed of lightning.

     When I blinked, I was staring at black-and-white footage of the parking lot.

     He peered at me over his shoulder. “This is the footage from twenty minutes ago.”

     “I see,” I said, crouching over the screen.

     In the footage, I pulled up into a vacant space. The door flagged open, and I stepped out. I passed by the booth, waving at Mr. Osborne. Nothing happened afterward. The time read rapidly, and then a man in a dark suit entered the subterranean parking lot, his head turned away from the camera. He appeared to be walking toward my car, but then he veered left and neared the other car parallel parked to mine, all along his face directed away from the camera. Why is he avoiding the cameras? The man didn’t just enter the parking lot to take his car. He had an agenda. Now my curiosity heightened. Who’s this man and why’s he following me?

     I didn’t shift my eyes from the screen. The other side of the car wasn’t captured in the footage. Five or six seconds later, the car pulled out so fast that I couldn’t catch the number plate.

     I looked at him. “You don’t have cameras at the other section of the parking lot?” I fingered the screen, pointing at nowhere in particular.

     He picked up the brown bag. “Nope. That section is in the blind spot.” Papers rustled as he unwrapped the bag and brought out a huge doughnut, directing it to me. “Want a bite?”

     “No, thanks.”

     He plunged his teeth into the pastry and took a big bite, his eyes widening. He spoke with a mouthful of food in his mouth. “This’s so good. You should try it.”

     I backstepped. “No. I’m good.”

     I waited until he swallowed and drank from the cup. “Could you play that again?”

     He shrugged, flicking a button on the keyboard. “Sure.”

     I stood and watched the footage again. “Pause it right there.”

     I stared at the grainy image of the license plate of what looked like a black BMW.  “Could you get a name off the number plate?”

     He double-clicked the mouse and zoomed in on the image. “Sure I could, but this is too faint.” He darted his eyes at me, which now showed signs of pity. “Sorry, ma’am.”

     I offered a smile. “No worries. Thanks for all your help.”

     I turned to the door.

     His voice caught me halfway. “If I may ask, did something happen?”

     I shook my head. “No. I just wanted to know who that man was.”

     He stared dubiously at me. “All right. You could leave your phone number here. In case I get anything.”

     “Great.” I dug into my purse and pulled out one of the business cards I gave to clients. “Here.”

     He left the cup on the desk, then collected the card and studied it. “Dr. Avery Newton.”

     “Yes, that’s me.”

     “Why do you look so familiar?”

     I wasn’t ready to tell him who I was. I didn’t have the strength, and I badly wanted to get home. “I’m sure I resemble someone you know. Bye.” I stepped off the booth and skittered to my car, the clicks of my heels echoing in the parking lot, which now appeared empty.

     Jabbing a button on the key fob, I neared my car and opened the side door, then climbed into the driver’s seat. A chill suddenly ran down my spine when I glimpsed it again. It was still there, tucked on the dashboard. Somehow I wished it would just vanish to wherever it came from.

     I moved a hand forward but stopped momentarily and dropped it on my lap. The man in the footage had deliberately avoided the cameras—I was now convinced about it. Could he have placed it there? If he had, it meant he picked a lock. That would require some skill. I had seen in the movies how locks were picked with bobby pins, but I had never tried it before. And for a very good reason.

     Whoever this person was, whatever motive they had, I knew wasn’t alone. I’m being watched. The thoughts brought a shiver. Passing a hand to the dashboard, I saw my reflection in the rear-view mirror. For the first time in a while, I noticed fear in my hazel eyes.

     What could be in that envelope? Well, there was only one way to find out. I inhaled, then exhaled before picking it up. It was so light, I wondered if something at all was in. Maybe a letter. But when I opened it, I was looking at a gold ring. It sparkled in the dimness. I immediately recognized it.

     The wedding ring belonged to Mallory Blake. My first client who was murdered. This can’t be. I stifled a gasp.