Chapter 7
Dr. Bartholomew Shaw’s office
“How long has this been happening?”
My gaze skids to the bare maple tree outside Bartholomew’s office. “A few months.”
“The migraine pain actually subsides?”
“It doesn’t just ‘subside.’ It diminishes completely. Not even a subtle throbbing remains. Only…blissful reprieve.”
“Fascinating. I wonder what could be the cause. Have you noticed a specific trigger that leads to these pain-free instances?”
“Mm-hmm. It took me a while to connect the dots, but—yes.”
“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense!”
My brows furrow. “It’s the girl.”
“The witness? The one you left alive after she gave you a cookie? Have you two…been seeing each other?”
“Definitely not. We have barely exchanged a handful of sentences since we met. However, it seems that only her proximity is needed to facilitate my relief.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“Can you guess how many meetings with the Cosa Nostra leaders I have attended in the past two decades?” I ask.
“Uh… I don’t know. A hundred? Your people seem to enjoy discussing internal matters until you’re blue in the face.”
“Fewer than a dozen. I detest the hours-long rambling about shit that could be resolved with a couple of emails. Now, guess how many I showed up for in the past two months?” I pause, giving him an opportunity to answer, but he merely shrugs. “Thirteen.”
“Because of your cookie girl?”
“Yes. Out of all those times, I only suffered a migraine once.”
“Was she there?”
“No. She unexpectedly changed her shift that day. Her mom was sick. If I had found that out in time, I would not have bothered to go to the blasted breakfast meeting. That is when I became completely convinced that being near her somehow stops my migraines.” I slip my glasses off, pinching the bridge of my nose as the memory from earlier in the week assails me.
“A few nights ago, the pounding in my temple was driving me insane. I could not sleep. Was seconds away from ripping my own head off. So I got in the car. Drove to her place and parked across the street. At four in the fucking morning.”
“And? The pain stopped?”
“I fell asleep, head slumped on the steering wheel, less than five minutes later.” I glance at my shrink, clocking his stunned expression.
“So, tell me, Barty, what the hell is going on? How come, for years, nothing has worked on my migraines? But now, all of a sudden, they seem to be miraculously cured by the presence of one specific woman? Because—let me tell you—this kind of pisses me off.”
“Your migraines are clearly psychosomatic. Neurologically, there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with you.
As you know, migraines do not have a single cause.
Stress, anxiety, depression can all act as triggers.
What brings them on—especially in your case—is anyone’s guess.
Likewise, in terms of their abatement. I cannot fathom a single reason why you’d have such a profound reaction to this woman.
That’s something only you may be able to uncover, and only if you’d be willing to dig into that psyche of yours.
I can help you, of course, if you would allow me.
Maybe if we look deep enough, the answers will come.
But we both know you’ll never go for that, don’t we? ”
“There’s nothing to dig for. I’m not here for therapy, doc. I only come around ’cause I like shooting the breeze with you.”
“Yes, you’ve made that perfectly clear.” He sticks the end of his pen into his mouth and chews on it thoughtfully. “Why don’t you ask her out? If this girl has such a significant impact on you, don’t you want to get to know her better?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She’s a nobody. At best, I somehow convinced myself that her presence stops the pain. The same way I apparently manifest these damn migraines. If that’s the case, she’s nothing more than a walking dose of Aspirin. Why the hell would I date her?”
“You like her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Have you noticed you’ve started to cuss? And you’re using actual contractions.”
“Goddamnit, Barty. What does that have to do with any of this shit?”
“Maybe nothing. Just an observation.”
“So what? Your professional assessment is that I’m interested in the girl because I’ve thrown out an odd swear?”
“How do you explain sending your car to take her to her ailing mother?”
“Christ. I knew you’d see more than there is in that meaningless act. The woman was frantic. I figured I’d be nice.”
“You don’t do ‘nice,’ Adriano. Everything you do is premeditated. That’s your constant state. The only time you might slip ‘nice’ into your actions is if you’ve already weighed and determined the benefit.”
He leans over his desk, accidentally knocking over a bowl filled with glass marbles. The tiny spheres scatter across the tabletop, rolling off the surface onto the floor. A piercing pain detonates in my head with every strike of the colorful balls against the hardwood.
“You must like her,” he insists while I wince in agony. Every dinky plink and plonk stabs dagger-like inside my brain. “And that’s not a bad thing. Who knows, she might like you back.”
“As I said before,” I snap, “I have no interest in this woman. I’m starting to think you might suck at this shrink gig, Bartholomew.”
The last marble topples over the edge of the desk, emitting an echoing crack as it hits the floor, then it rolls under my chair.
The sudden stillness envelops the room, with only the quiet whoosh of an overhead fan disturbing the silence.
Barty’s usually sparkling eyes narrow into slits as he watches me intently.
The pen he’s chewing on is slowly being reduced to smithereens.
“I see,” he finally says. “In that case, I suggest distancing yourself from the girl. And I don’t mean just for her sake. Your psyche has obviously determined that her proximity is the reason for your relief. If you continue to seek her out as you have been doing, it may cause the opposite effect.”
“Meaning?”
“Your migraines may intensify.”
“I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that.” I take a look at my watch and rise. “Same time next month?”
“Sure. I’ll pencil you in. Just one more question, if I may, before you go?”
“Make it a good one, doc. My life is incomplete without your questions.”
“What color are her eyes?”
I stop at the threshold. “Why? What does it matter?”
“Just…humor me.”
“Amber. They are like pools of warm honey, with faint coppery freckles that make them look like twinkling stars. There’s a slightly higher concentration in her right eye.”
“Mm-hmm…” He pulls the pen out of his mouth with a pop. “And what color…”—a squeak erupts from his office chair as he spins in it, making two revolutions before he stops with his back turned toward me—“are my eyes?”
My forehead furrows as I try to remember. Blue? Gray? Who the fuck cares?
“Well?” The squeaking persists as Barty rocks back and forth. “It can’t be that hard. We’ve known each other for a decade. Surely you’ve noticed in all that time.”
“Brown,” I spit out. It’s the most common shade.
A quiet chuckle comes from behind the leather backrest of the chair. “See you next month, Adriano.”