Lincoln chimed in, using a dopey voice. “‘This isn’t an assault, it’s a matter of record. Close the case.’ We’re gonna get creamed in the media if they ever find out. They’re trying to cook the numbers again, make it look like the assault rates have dropped. You should see what they’re doing in Sex Crimes. Driving us all crazy.”
Tell Huston
Lincoln nodded. “We did. She’s fighting it for us, but the chief made new guidelines again. Rumor has it he has a job offer. Supposedly, he’ll be gone by Christmas, which is going to make an even bigger mess. When someone from the outside starts looking at these figures, we’re all going to come under fire.”
He shook a sheaf of papers at her, and she shook her head.
I won’t let that happen.
Marcus sat back at his desk. “Wish Fitz would come back. Have you talked to him?”
She shook her head. She wanted Fitz back, too, though she didn’t see how either of them would manage to lead, between her lack of a voice and his lack of spirit. Fitz had lost too much, and Taylor didn’t know if he was going to recover. She’d tried going to see him, but they’d ended up sitting in silence until Fitz’s one good eye started to leak, and she knew that when he looked at her, all he could think about was the Pretender, and what he’d taken away from them all. She was waiting for him to reach out; pushing herself on the people whom she loved but who were not thrilled with her had gotten too hard. Between Fitz and Sam, the blame lay squarely at her feet, and right now, forgiveness was too much to ask of them. She understood that completely. She wasn’t ready to forgive herself, either.
They chatted a bit more, catching up, until Renn asked, “What time’s your sit-down with Victoria?” He was the only one of them who willingly saw the shrink. He had his own battles and demons—coming from the goth world, being gay, losing his fiancée to suicide over his doubts about his sexuality, fighting for respect amongst his peers—all of this had led him to mighty introspection. He and Willig were big buddies.
Taylor glanced at her watch, the gold-and-silver Tag Heuer Baldwin had given her for her birthday. She bolted upright—she was going to be late.
Lincoln grabbed his leather portfolio with his notes. “I’ll walk you, I need to get over to the courthouse. Judge Oscar will wring my neck if I don’t present my glorious self on time.”
Taylor hugged Marcus and Renn goodbye, agreed to dinner soon, and let Lincoln escort her from the room. Just spending some time with the guys made her feel immeasurably better. Lincoln kept up a cheery discourse while they walked, and Taylor felt damn near normal for the first time in weeks. Benedict was right, getting back into the swing of things would help. She could feel the words bubbling in the back of her throat, just ready to spill out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At the door to Willig’s office, Lincoln bussed her on the cheek and left her, poised and ready to embark on yet another journey to regain herself.
She stood there for a minute, staring at the frosted glass. Dr. Willig was a good woman, smart and compassionate. Taylor would have to let her in, at least a little bit, if this was going to work. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Willig was engrossed in a book, her stocking feet up on the corner of her desk, calmly munching an apple as she read. It took her a second to notice Taylor. She dropped the book onto her desk and sat upright with a smothered exclamation.
“Lieutenant, I’m so sorry. I was reading.” She pointed at the book, blushed a bit at stating the obvious. “My little sister’s latest book comes out Tuesday, and I’m playing catch-up before I read the new one.” She handed the book to Taylor. It was called The Orchid Affair, by Lauren Willig.
Pretty cover. I never figured you for a romantic, Victoria.
“Night and day, my mother always called us. I’m much too empirical to be a writer, and she’s much too creative to be a doctor.”
Taylor smiled. She’d always wanted a sister. Sam had filled the role of surrogate since they were five. Sam had always treated her the same way. Treachery, truly it was, for Taylor to let such a horrid fate befall her best friend. She gulped back a cry of sheer frustration as Willig watched.
“You know, if screaming will help, the office is basically soundproof. I can’t imagine anyone would mind.”
Taylor gave it serious consideration before dropping into a chair in front of Willig’s desk. It wouldn’t work anyway. She’d been trying. At home, on the back deck, where only the squirrels and beer bottles were there to hear her, not even there. Nothing. She was stuck with mumbling her Ms and the occasional laugh.
“Fine. I’ll do the talking. Dr. Benedict told me about the deal he made with you. He’s a dodgy one, I’d be careful.” She said it with a smile. She obviously liked the man.
As Willig talked, she moved around the room, assembling a tray of materials. Taylor watched expectantly. Willig was pretty in an unconventional way, dark tumbling hair that she swept back over her shoulders, eyes spaced too far apart, a thin gold chain with a delicate cross around her slender neck. She wore a subtle perfume and dressed well, in a brown cashmere wrap and green corduroy trousers. Sober and inviting all at the same time, like a forest. Depth and breadth unknown, but on the surface quite striking.
Taylor truly didn’t know what to expect, and when Willig locked the door, sat down across from her and showed her the tray, she became even more confused. There was what looked like a Walkman, with a headset and two pods.
“It’s for EMDR,” Willig said. “We’re going to rewire your brain.”
EMDR—Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, Willig explained—was painless. She ran through the procedure. At its most basic, EMDR used several kinds of cognitive therapies to heal the unseen wounds of trauma victims.
“We have a lot of success using this on PTSD. The more we actively utilize the specific methodology, the more we can blur the lines of anxiety in your mind. We’ll interlace the moments of fear with moments you control, happy thoughts, and literally desensitize you. It works wonders. I’ve used it to treat several PTSD patients, with great success.”
Taylor started to shake her head, but the doctor cut her off. “Seriously, Lieutenant, you’ve got classic symptoms of PTSD. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Post-traumatic stress disorder affects millions. It’s not reserved for abuse victims or soldiers. Car accidents, intense illness—anything and everything can trigger it. For you, getting shot in the head by a serial killer who’d planned to do much worse, this is rather uncomplicated. You nearly died. It’s a miracle you didn’t. It’s a miracle that your brain seems okay, physically. You just can’t talk now because you’re scared.”
Taylor wasn’t liking this. She wasn’t scared. Hurt, angry, frustrated, yes, but scared? Hell no. She stood up, tossed the pods back onto the tray. They fell with a short bump. She’d missed her target and they sprawled on the floor like black worms.
“Come on, Lieutenant. I thought you wanted to get better. If that’s going to happen, we’re going to have to be honest with each other.” Her voice softened. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
She searched Taylor’s eyes with her own, was apparently satisfied with what she saw. Willig gestured for Taylor to take her seat. Taylor breathed deep, closed her eyes, and sat. Let Willig think what she wanted, all Taylor really cared about was getting back to normal. And if that meant letting Willig think she was afraid, so be it.