Chapter Six—Dalen #2
His expression changes slightly. “That question is exactly where I’d be careful. If you’re looking for signs that support one explanation, you’ll find things that seem to support it. If you’re looking for signs that support another, you’ll probably find those too.”
I think about the open door, the necklace, the text, the photograph, and now the phone call. “What do I do?”
“Talk to your wife.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “She already knows I’m worried.”
“Does she know you’re sitting here?”
“No.”
Dr. Petrov waits until the silence gets uncomfortable. “I didn’t want to scare her.”
He clearly doesn’t believe that’s my only motive. “Then decide whether keeping this conversation from her is actually for her benefit.”
I look toward the window again. “I don’t think she’s dangerous.”
“I didn’t ask if you did.”
My answer came too fast anyway. I rub my palms over my trousers. “Her sister said their mother got worse when she stopped sleeping.”
“That may be true. It may also have no relevance to your wife.” Dr. Petrov opens my chart on his laptop. “If Julie develops symptoms that concern her, she should talk to her physician. If she appears to be in immediate danger or becomes unable to care for herself, that’s different.”
I lean forward. “What if she refuses to see someone?”
“Has she?”
“No.”
He sighs quietly. “Then you’re solving a problem that hasn’t happened.”
I almost laugh because Julie has accused me of doing exactly that for most of our marriage.
Dr. Petrov gives me a long look. “Based on what you’ve told me, you’re describing a frightened woman who’s had several unsettling experiences and a husband who’s trying very hard to find an answer.”
“That sounds bad when you say it.”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t meant as criticism.” It still sounds like one.
I stand and straighten my jacket. “Thanks.”
“Dalen.”
I stop at the door.
Dr. Petrov’s mouth curves faintly. “Uncertainty isn’t an emergency.”
He knows me too well.
“I’ll work on that.”
“I’m sure you’ll put it on a schedule.”
I leave before he can enjoy himself.
JULIE TEXTS ME WHILE I’m walking back into Dorsey Capital.
Lunch?
I stop in the middle of the hallway.
I should be relieved she’s close enough to meet me. Instead, guilt hits me because I’ve spent the last hour discussing her with a doctor she doesn’t know I visited.
Yes. Where?
Her answer comes immediately.
Downstairs. I brought sandwiches. Don’t get excited. Laurent picked them.
I change direction and head to the lobby. Julie is sitting at one of the small tables near the windows with a paper bag between her feet and two drinks in front of her. She smiles when she sees me, and for one irrational second, I want to turn around and go back upstairs.
She stands when I reach the table, and I kiss her. She touches my jaw and looks into my eyes. “You look weird.”
“I had a meeting.”
“You have meetings every day.” She studies me for another second.
“This one was annoying.”
She accepts that and sits down.
I hate myself a little.
Julie opens the bag and hands me a sandwich. “Turkey, no mustard, because you have the palate of a six-year-old.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Mustard ruins sandwiches.”
She snorts as she unwraps her own. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You married me knowing this.”
“I was blinded by money.” She smiles and steals one of my chips.
For ten minutes, we talk about everything except the reason I left the office this morning. She tells me Patricia’s contractor finally moved the island and sent her a photograph of the finished work with no message. “I think that’s his version of surrender.”
I take a bite of my sandwich. “Frame it.”
“I might.”
She reaches for her drink and knocks the straw wrapper onto the floor. It lands near my shoe, and I pick it up.
When I straighten, she’s rubbing her temple.
The movement catches my attention before I can stop it. “Headache?”
Her hand drops. “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” She folds her arms and studies me. “Why are you so interested in whether my head hurts?”
“I told you. You’re tired.”
“I slept eight hours Friday night, almost eight Saturday, and seven last night.”
Monday. She’s right.
“You’re keeping count too.”
She stares at me.
I shouldn’t have said that.
“I know when I go to bed,” she says slowly.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
Julie pushes her sandwich wrapper aside. “How did you mean it?”
People move around us carrying coffee and lunch bags. The lobby suddenly feels far too public. I lean closer. “I worry about you.”
“I know that.”
“Then that’s all this is.”
Her gaze stays on me.
I don’t know if she believes me.
Julie reaches for her sandwich again. “My head doesn’t hurt. My contact is dry.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were wondering.” She points at me with the sandwich when I don’t deny it. “Dalen.”
“I’ll stop.”
She’s still frowning. “You said that this morning.”
She’s right again. I put down my lunch. “I’m sorry.”
Some of the irritation leaves her face, but she doesn’t reach for me.
I want to tell her everything. Meg’s call. The screenshot. Dr. Petrov. Every thought I’ve had since Friday.
Then I imagine telling her I consulted a physician without her knowledge because her sister told me their mother once heard people who weren’t there.
I imagine what that would do to her when we still don’t know whether someone has actually been inside our house. I choose the easier option and keep my mouth shut.
Julie finishes half her sandwich and pushes the rest toward me. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
She scowls at me.
I hear myself and close my eyes briefly. “Forget I said that.”
She gives a humorless laugh. “Excellent plan.”
I rub a hand over my face. “I’m screwing this up.”
“Yes.” At least she sounds more tired than angry.
I reach across the table, palm up. She looks at my hand before putting hers in it.
Relief comes quickly. “I love you,” I say.
Her fingers curl around mine. “I love you too. That’s why I need you to stop looking at me like I’m a problem you’re trying to solve.”
The words hurt because she’s right. “I will.”
I mean it, and for the rest of lunch, I manage to.
AT FOUR-THIRTY, MEG calls again. I let it ring twice before answering. My stomach clenches with dread. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I wanted to see how Julie is.”
I swivel my chair toward the windows. “You could call her.”
“I did. She didn’t answer.”
“She’s working.”
“I know.” Meg is quiet for a moment. “I keep thinking about Mom.”
I close my eyes. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t keep bringing your mother into this.”
“I wish I didn’t have to.”
I turn away from the windows. “You don’t.”
Meg gets quiet again. I look at the photograph of Julie on my desk. It was taken on our anniversary last year. She’s barefoot on the hotel balcony, wearing one of my shirts over her dress because the wind turned cold after dinner.
“What happened with your mother?” The question is out before I can stop it.
Meg doesn’t answer for several seconds. “When she got bad?”
“Yes.”
“She stopped sleeping first.” Her voice grows quieter. “She’d go a couple nights with almost nothing. Then she’d sleep half the day and wake up confused. She’d forget conversations. Move things. Accuse us of moving them.”
I grip the phone harder. “Julie said your mother was depressed.”
“She was. There was more.”
“What does that mean?”
Meg exhales. “Mom was paranoid.”
The word is ugly. I don’t like hearing it attached to the woman Julie spent years taking care of, or what it implies.
“She thought people watched the house,” Meg continues. “She thought Dad came back sometimes. Once, she made Julie check every closet because she was sure someone was hiding.”
“Julie told me about the police call.”
“Yeah.” Meg pauses. “Julie never tells the worst parts.”
I don’t answer.
“She protected Mom,” Meg says. “She protected me. That’s what she does.”
I look at the city beyond the windows. “What diagnosis did your mother have?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I was a kid.” Meg sounds defensive now.
Julie was barely older.
“There were doctors and medication. Mom went to the hospital once.”
Julie never mentioned a hospital. I sit straighter. “She was hospitalized?”
“For a few days, I think.”
“You think?”
“I told you, I was little.” Frustration edges Meg’s voice. “Julie would know.”
“Then I’ll ask Julie.”
“Don’t.” The answer comes so fast that my hand tightens around the phone.
“Why?”
“Because she’ll shut down. She’s my sister, Dalen. I know how she handles this stuff.”
Something in that answer irritates me. “You don’t know her better than I do.”
“I didn’t say I did.” Meg sighs. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to push her so hard she stops telling either of us what’s happening.”
I think about lunch.