Out of the Shadow (12 page)

Chapter Nine

With a rap on the microphone, I cleared my throat. "We’re about to begin this morning’s lecture. Please take your seats."

I glanced around the conference room. Adrian entered from the rear and made his way to the coffee table. Others wandered back to their seats. I waited patiently for the chatter to subside.

When all were seated and the room fell silent, I continued.

"Good morning! I hope you had a refreshing night’s sleep and are ready for a full day of Rebecca Rosen and company. As you may recall, I left Becca after a harrowing chase by an unrecognizable stranger." I saw numerous nods in the audience. "The next morning, Becca awoke with a horrible headache, and unrelenting doubts about whether she had been stalked, or had merely imagined it. Had it actually happened, or had she experienced a post-traumatic triggered hallucination? At the encouragement of her mother, during her daily call, Becca agreed to report what she had experienced to the police, and stopped by the station on her way home from work. She followed the officer on duty down a long hallway to Sally Mills’ office..."

Whether it was the Wanted posters over the intake desk or the hollow echo of footsteps against concrete floor and bare walls, something about the police station always gave Becca the creeps. A sour scent of suspicion and a subtle sense of fear permeated the precinct on Market Street, left behind by the ghosts of prior arrests and interrogations. Becca followed the cop on duty to Mills’ office and entered at Mills’ prompting.

Mills had been working on a file, but closed it when Becca took a seat across the desk from her. "What can I do for you today?"

Becca plunged into an explanation of her recent stalking ordeal, doing her best to ignore Mills’ overtly cordial but obviously officious demeanor. No matter what she said or how she said it, Mills never seemed terribly convinced of her veracity. It came as no surprise when, at the completion of her story, Mills looked at her with an incredulous stare.

"You never saw the man’s face, and you’re not even certain he was the one following you onto the subway car? Is that correct?"

What could she say to sway Mills? She was tempted to exaggerate the story to make it more convincing, but equally determined to remain honest. If caught in the tiniest of lies, she would only look more culpable. "No, I’m not certain, but it appeared as if I was being pursued."

Mills jotted a note. "Besides a sense of threat, do you have anything else we can go on?"

Becca shook her head, feeling foolish. "I guess I shouldn’t have reported this incident."

"It’s not that, it’s just that you’re not giving us anything substantial, which seems to be pretty much the story with this case. If you expect us to follow up, we’ll need more than a gut feeling and a black trench coat."

"I understand." Becca glanced down at her foot, in perpetual motion, and back up, in time to catch Mills watching her. "Do you have any new leads?"

The policewoman frowned. "There is one thing. I’m glad you showed up today because we were about to ask you to come by anyway." She opened a file and glanced down at it. "We found a hair attached to the bloody rag wrapped around your butcher knife and we’ve analyzed it. We need to take hair samples from everyone associated with your husband—including you. I’d like to take one right away."

The hair might finally vindicate her. "Doesn’t the color tell you anything?"

"Not enough. We’ll need the sample."

"I have nothing to hide. I’ll give you whatever you want."

"Good," the cop said. "By the way, have you hired a lawyer yet?"

Any sense of relief had been short lived. "Why are you asking?"

"Just precautionary."

"Does that mean I’m your primary suspect?"

The detective’s gaze didn’t waver. "Until we have more to go on, you’re the only suspect. Stay close to home." She rose. "Come with me and we’ll take the sample."

Becca rose, but could no longer hear the din of the bustling police station over the roar of blood in her head. As she suspected, the police had short-listed their suspects and would not be looking further. She fought off a mental image of herself in a striped suit behind bars. For the first time it dawned on her she might be the only one who could vindicate herself. The only one with the motivation to find the real killer.

But could she identify him on her own?

A knock on the door surprised Becca. "Who is it?"

"Evan. Let me in."

Damn. "Wait a sec." She plucked a tissue from a box at her side and wiped away tears streaking down her face. With a couple of deep, calming breaths, she quieted her sobs. In the bathroom, she washed away the long black trails of mascara streaking down her cheeks, and drew a comb through her disheveled hair. She didn’t want to look like the poster child for despair.

Evan knocked again. "Are you going to leave me out here all night?"

With one last glance in the mirror to make certain she had erased all evidence of her outburst, she opened the door and let him in.

            Evan's gaze traveled around the room at the mess Becca had left in her normally ordered apartment, then fixed on her. "Are you okay? Have you been crying?"

"Come." She led him to the sofa and took the seat beside him. "I guess I’ll never have much of a career as an illusionist. Talk about wearing your emotions on your sleeve! Mine are written across my forehead in neon."

"What’s wrong?" he asked, sounding concerned. He took her hand and held onto it tightly.

"Nothing that Gloria Allred or a one-way ticket to Paraguay couldn’t fix."

"No joking. I want to know what's happening with you."

"The police believe I murdered my husband. They told me as much today."

"Oh..." He caressed her hand. "How could they possibly think it was you?"

She wiped away a tear. "They don’t have another suspect. I guess I’m it."

"I don’t believe this," he stammered. "I never thought—"

"No one did, except the PPD."

"What motive could you possibly have?"

"They have a witness who’s willing to testify I was having marital problems. Somehow they’re building a case around it."

He made a face. "If every wife who’s unhappy with her husband were to do him in, there wouldn’t be too many men left."

"The cops don’t see it that way. To make matters worse, David and I were the only known persons in the apartment that night."

"I’m sure they’ll find another more plausible suspect."

"They don’t seem to be looking too hard."

"Too bad." He squeezed her hand. "I know this is a difficult time for you, but it’s important to stay strong and have faith."

"Don’t go philosophical on me."

"I know, I know," he said. "But you have it in you to cope whether you know it or not. You have to access your inner wisdom and courage at times like this."

This sounded a little pat, but she appreciated his desire to soothe her anxiety. She wasn't surprised the police would focus on her. Who else would they think did this? Isn't it usually the spouse?
 

"Right now my insides feel like mush. I’m going to need your support."

"You can take all you need; I give it to you freely. I’ll be by your side through whatever happens." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.  "Have you called an attorney?"

"I’ve interviewed a couple and I’m meeting with one tomorrow. If I’m comfortable with her, I’ll retain her."

"Good. That’s the first step."

"What’s the next step?"

"You’ll let me take care of you." He pulled her into his arms and held her close.

She tensed at his touch. Why did she always react this way? She wanted so much to trust him, but nothing seemed to overcome her reservations. It took her a good minute before she could relax in his arms.

Before she knew it, she clung to him; weeping against his chest, venting her anguish in unrelenting sobs that wracked her entire body. He held her near enough to feel the heat rising off his skin; smell the subtle but sexy scent of aftershave. She burrowed closer to him; never wanted to let him go.

He ran his hand over her hair; wrapped her in a comforting hug. When her breathing finally slowed, she glanced up into his eyes and, suddenly, she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anyone. For once, she didn't feel the need to pull back when he lowered his lips to hers. With his kiss, she sizzled with desire.

All at once, the desire transformed into fear. She pulled away. "I can’t."

He looked confused. "I don't understand...''

"I’m sorry, I have too much going on in my life. I don’t need any more complications."

"Ouch! I'm a complication then?"

She took his chin in her hand and turned his head toward her. "Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that. You mean the world to me. I need you more than you can imagine. I shouldn’t have said what I did. Just give me a little more time."

His eyes held hers. "Of course. I don’t want to be a burden to you."

"You could never be a burden to me. I’m crazy about you and when the time is right, I’ll show you exactly how I feel."

"I’m going to hold you to that promise,'' he said.

            "And I’m going to hold you, too."

According to one of my psychology professors at the University of Pennsylvania, no one can predict human behavior. This axiom has always proven to be true in my practice.

Becca’s next psychotherapy session confirmed the tenet one more time. Even while telling me the story of her encounter with the police, and her progress locating the right attorney, she had an unusual glimmer in her eyes, an expression I could only describe as joy. Intrigued, I questioned the dissonance between what she said and how she said it.

"I don’t know how to tell you this, Sarah, but I think I might be falling for Evan." She spoke so softly I had to lean forward in my seat to hear her.

Although taken aback by the suddenness of her revelation, I tried not to show her my surprise. "When did you come to that conclusion?"

"The other night. I’m as shocked about this as anyone. I didn’t know I could feel this way about anyone so soon after David’s death. It’s changed the complexion of everything."

"I see," I said, even though I couldn’t completely decipher what impact this news might have on Becca’s treatment. "Can you tell me why the change of heart?''

"Evan’s been there for me lately, in a way no one else has."

I took a sip of water and considered the consequences of Becca’s pronouncement. It would be premature for Becca to jump into a new relationship without resolving her feelings about the last one, but that wasn’t my primary concern. The best therapeutic work takes place when a client experiences an ego-dystonic state, or one of internal strife, rather than an ego-syntonic state, where they are no longer experiencing conflict or confusion. They’re far less apt to do the difficult and painful work of delving deeply into their subconscious mind when they’re no longer in distress. Something as simple as falling in love can become an impediment to therapeutic progress, and in this case, might be the ego’s way of distracting Becca from the real work which needed to be done.

"How do you think it will look to the police when they discover you’re in a new relationship?"

"I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that. I guess it might look fishy, but you know as well as I do my relationship with Evan has nothing to do with David’s death."

"Since you say you’re under suspicion, you need to consider how you will explain yourself."

"I’ll tell them the truth." She threw up her hands. "But they won't believe me. I can’t say... I’ll have to think about it."

"When you say Evan’s been there for you, can you explain what you mean?"

Her face lit up again. "I think he’s in love with me, too. He’s attentive and supportive, and the more time I spend with him, the happier I feel. Even with everything that’s been happening, having him around has been amazing."

"And you? What do you think you can offer him right now?"

She fidgeted with her fingers. "Good question. I’ve been such a mess lately, and I’m sure I take way more than I give."

"Let me ask you something. What do you know about love?"

Becca laughed. "What’s there to know? It’s a fabulous feeling. That’s what I know."

I shook my head. "You’re wrong. Love isn’t a feeling at all."

She squinted at me with doubt. "What do you mean? Everyone knows love’s a feeling."

"And you think ‘everyone’ knows best? They’re aware of what’s in their own best interest? What you’re feeling might not be love at all—but rather, infatuation. A delightful experience, no doubt, but a time-limited one. Infatuation is a temporary state. Love lasts."

She looked unconvinced. "So how do you define love?"

"To me, love is a commitment to nurture, respect, and support the integrity and growth of another person. Love doesn’t affect you like a drug, like infatuation does. It’s gentle and develops over time. Love can evolve out of infatuation, because our feelings of attraction cement us to another person long enough to experience them for who they truly are, but it’s a far richer experience with greater longevity."