Chapter 12
BECK
Dr. Penelope Pike has perfected the art of silence.
I’ve sat across from her for an hour now, and the only sound that’s come from her side of the room is the scratching glide of her pen across the notepad she has pressed against her thigh.
None of our previous sessions have gone this way—me, filling all the time with words I’d rather not say; her, writing down observations I’ll never know the true extent of—so, it’s awkward, leaving me impatient and desperate for the volley of dialogue instead of the loneliness of a monologue.
“Can you say something, please?”
She raises her head, tapping the end of her pen on her chin. “Does my silence bother you, Agent Beckham?”
I shift in my seat, running my palms over my pants. “Yes.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because I’m tired of hearing my own voice.”
There’s only fifteen minutes left in our hour-long session, and my mouth is dry. I don’t know how anyone talks for this long without taking a moment to breathe and hydrate.
“Or maybe you’re uncomfortable with being left alone with your thoughts,” she offers, uncrossing her legs. She’s wearing wide legged jeans and an oversized sweater that’s too warm for the sweltering heat of DC in the middle of June.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”
Frustration claws at my chest with long nails that turn my response sharp. “It would make me feel better if you could tell me what the purpose of giving me the silent treatment is.”
“You have a background in psychology, Agent Beckham, years of experience with interrogating subjects and taking confessions, do you really not understand the value of silence in settings such as these?”
As she poses her question, she rearranges herself in the seat, folding her feet underneath her.
Watching her get more comfortable in the face of my growing agitation makes me want to get up and walk out of here and never come back.
I can’t do that though. After my shower confession a week ago, I promised Cal I would go back to therapy and gain the tools I needed to heal the ache inside of me he’d already began to sooth with his own dark admissions.
Pulling a breath in through my nose and expelling it out of my mouth, I think back to her question. “I’ve only ever used silence during interrogations when they weren’t really interrogations.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, some suspects just can’t wait to talk. That’s not usually the case, but it does happen sometimes. They can’t wait to tell you what they’ve done, so there’s no work for you to do. The words just flow out of them, and you have no choice but to just…let them.”
The end of my explanation comes with the dawning of realization. Dr. Pike watches it wash over me, hiding a knowing smile behind the rim of the teacup she keeps on the table beside her chair.
“Exactly.” She takes a slow sip of the hot liquid before saying more.
“In our previous sessions, you were reluctant to share, which isn’t uncommon when clients are mandated to come to me, but today, you came in and just let the words flow.
It would have been a shame to interrupt that for the sake of hearing my own voice. ”
“Oh.”
I deflate a little, feeling like an asshole.
Dr. Pike reads me easily, shaking her head.
“Don’t be upset with yourself. Lots of people find silence disconcerting in therapy.
I apologize for not making my approach clear to you before, but I have to commend you for doing so much with the space you were given. ”
Thinking back, she didn’t really give the space. I took it. As soon as I sat down, I started talking. About Charlie and the dreams. About Cal and the post-nightmare showers. About Valinsky and my fear of being more like him than I thought.
“Thanks.” I shrug awkwardly. “It felt easier to say this time.”
“That’s not uncommon especially if you had a positive experience the first time you disclose, which it seems you did with your partner, Cal.
” She glances at the notepad to make sure she got his name right.
“Receiving acceptance once typically makes us feel confident that we can again, so we repeat the story with less shame, less doubt, less fear of judgment and rejection.”
“Makes sense.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” she asks, laughing lightly at my flat response. “I’m afraid that’s our time for today, but in our next session, I’d like to unpack some of the statements you made today.”
“Which ones?” I quip. “Apparently, I’ve shared a lot today.”
“That’s not a bad thing, Agent Beckham.” Dr. Pike runs her index finger down the side of the notepad, tapping it lightly on the page when she finds what she’s looking for.
“If you’re comfortable, I’d like to start with you referring to yourself as a monster and discuss why you so easily accepted that as your truth. ”
I frown as I push to my feet. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“I wanted someone dead, and I acted on that desire without remorse.”
She’s standing now too, following me to the door which she holds ajar after I open it and step into her empty waiting room. “You think this belief was formed around Charlie’s death?”
“You don’t?”
In true therapist fashion, she sidesteps the yes or no question with an artful grace.
“In my experience, the stories we tell ourselves about who we are shaped in our childhood and affirmed or disproven in our adult years. Usually, we tend to hold on to the things that support those beliefs and filter out anything that doesn’t. ”
“So, you think I believed I was a monster before Charlie’s death?”
Her lips are pursed together as she gives a reluctant nod. “Possibly. The question is why?”
I turn Dr. Pike’s inquiry over in my mind several times on my way to the parking lot and find myself unreasonably frustrated when I can’t find a suitable answer. Cal is waiting for me in the car, expectant eyes on my face when I slide into the passenger seat.
“How was it?”
“Good. I think.”
He takes a slow inventory of my expression before backing out of the spot. “I’m proud of you,” he says, easing into traffic and onto the road that will carry us to work. “I know going back wasn’t easy.”
“It was actually a lot easier than I expected.”
Long fingers play a cadence of impatience on the steering wheel, and I laugh. “Do you want details, Drake?”
“Of course, I want details.”
“Nosey motherfucker,” I complain, but I give him exactly what he’s asked for, recapping the entire session while he splits his attention between me and the road.
When I’m done, he opens his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by the sounds of an incoming call.
According to the name displayed on the screen, it’s his brother, Hunter, but when I click the green button to accept the call, it’s not him on the other end of the line.
“Uncle Cal, can you please tell my daddy that you can give me a tour of the White House, and we don’t have to sign up on the stupid website,” Riley says, trampling all over pleasantries and getting straight to the point.
Cal and I share an amused but disbelieving look.
“What’d I tell you about calling things stupid, Nugget?”
The second voice belongs to Rae, Riley’s mom and Hunter’s fiancèe. She’s a little further away from the phone than her daughter, leading me to believe that our headstrong niece has commandeered her father’s phone and left whatever room they were in together to make the call in private.
Riley’s exasperated breaths rush through the speakers. “Sorry, Mommy.”
Rae’s loving murmurs are unintelligible, but I can tell the apology has been accepted. Seconds later, Riley is back pushing the envelope.
“Can I have some privacy?” She requests, tone sweet as sugar and just as deadly.
“Girl, no. Get back in here with your daddy’s phone, so we can all talk to Uncle Cal and Uncle Beck about this supposed White House visit together.”
Another bemused look passes between Cal and I.
We haven’t actually said anything yet, so this talk is just as one sided as my therapy session was.
Riley huffs, mumbling under her breath as she follows her mom back to wherever her dad is, and I bite back a laugh at this display of her newfound attitude.
Hunter complains about it every time we speak, but this is our first time witnessing it.
Even over the phone, the potency of her indignation is clear as if Rae’s lack of patience when she warns her to get it under control immediately.
“You’re not giving your mama attitude again are you, Ri?” Hunter asks when they finally make it back to him. Judging by how clearly we can hear him, he’s the one holding the phone now.
“I just wanted some privacy,” Riley says, sounding like she’s got her lips poked out.
“And I’m sure your mom understands and appreciates that, baby, but just because you ask for something doesn’t mean you’re going to get it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
The line is quiet for a second, and then the car is filled with the sound of wet kisses and Riley’s happy squeals.
“Well, this has been a delightful little after school special,” Cal says. “But I’m just wondering where Beck and I fit in?”
“Damn, Little Drake, I forgot you were there.”
Cal rolls his eyes at the nickname. “You’re lucky your daughter’s in the room, nigga.”
“Riley, step out for a second.”
“No!!! I want to talk to Uncle Cal and Uncle Beck about visiting the White House!”
“You can come visit whenever you want,” I tell her, needing this chaotic phone call to come to an end so I can mentally prepare for being trapped inside the place Riley is so desperate to see.
She gasps. “Promise, Uncle Beck?”
“I promise, Nugget.”
“But the timing of the visit is up to your mom and dad,” Cal adds, turning onto the private drive that leads to the employee lot. “When you come, we’ll roll the red carpet out for you. You can meet the First Lady and everything.”
His eyes turn to pools of melted copper when he says that, and I smile at the thought of introducing Riley to Selene. The display of joy dies a painful death when Riley asks her next question.
“What about the President? And the Vice President? I heard they’re best friends. Is that true?”
She’s rambling now, and because we’re approaching the gate where we’ll have to identify ourselves and produce our IDs, Cal rushes to end the call, promising Riley and her parents that they’re more than welcome to make the trip up anytime.
“It’ll be nice to have them here,” I say to Cal as we make our way to the office to debrief with Agent Granger before he ends his shift.
He adjusts his tie, tugging at the knot he must have made too tight. “I agree. I’d love to see them.”
“Gotta keep Riley far away from Aubrey’s bitch ass, though,” I mutter under my breath, turning the knob to open the office door.
Cal grunts his agreement and grunts again when I stop abruptly and he runs into my back. “The fuck, Beckham?”
I step to the side, showing him the obstacle I’ve just encountered.
Jordan St. James stares back at us with wide green eyes that hold both contempt and the exhausted wariness that has become synonymous with her name in my head.
There isn’t a single hair out of place on her head or even a hint of a wrinkle on any of the designer items that make up her outfit for the day, yet she still reads as wild to me.
And it’s not a dangerous kind of wildness; it’s the other kind.
One made of fear and the anger you feel when you’re not used to being afraid.
Behind her, frozen in a crouch that suggests his brain hasn’t decided if it wants him to sit or stand and come to Jordan’s aid, is Sam Granger with the smallest smudge of lipstick on his face.
He watches us watch Jordan, his own brand of fear filling the room with the scent of pleas that have yet to be spoken.
I know the ask. After all, I’ve made the request a million times to Agent Shaw and the rest of her team: don’t say anything, don’t do anything, just please, let us have this.
Cal recognizes it too. He steps to the side creating a path for Jordan to pass between us, and she takes the out immediately, leaving the three of us behind without so much as a second glance.