Owen Messinger stared at the television set long after the KEY Weekend Evening Headlines concluded. He had been stunned to see Leslie Patterson speaking in the report. Her mother had told him only yesterday that Leslie didn’t want to go out of the house.
But with Carly Neath’s disappearance, Owen supposed Leslie felt vindicated and wanted to say so. Perhaps all this ugliness would end up being a good thing for Leslie. It might, in some bizarre way, make her feel better about herself. If the community saw that they had misjudged her and that she had been telling the truth, sympathy would flow her way and Leslie would get positive attention. She could use that.
God knew, he wasn’t getting anywhere with her. All these years and Leslie was still anguished about food and still cutting herself. His therapy wasn’t working at all with her on the cutting score. He was worried about that.
Owen went to the bar in his dining room and poured himself a double Scotch. He studied the amber liquid in the glass, unsure what he should do next. He had been working on his innovative approach to treatment with enough success that he was almost ready to publish. But Leslie was the fly in the ointment. His results with her negatively skewed the predicted outcomes of his study.
“Here, Cleo,” he called out. “Where are you, baby?” Owen walked over to his desk while he waited to see if the cat would appear. He sat down, determined to do something about the stack of mail that had been accumulating all week. First he sorted out all the catalogs and tossed them in the wastepaper basket. That act alone made him feel he’d made a nice dent. Next he separated out the bills. That left a couple magazines and just one envelope.
The black-and-white feline jumped into Owen’s lap as he took the letter opener and sliced open the envelope. He stroked the cat’s fur as he read the message inside.
YOU ARE A CHARLATAN.
THAT THERAPY OF YOURS HAS HAD TOO MANY VICTIMS.
IF THE POLICE OR THE MEDICAL COMMUNITY WERE TO FIND OUT WHAT YOU DO TO THESE POOR WOMEN, YOU WOULD LOSE YOUR LICENSE. BUT, IF YOU DECIDE TO GO TO THE AUTHORITIES, HERE’S MY CARD. I CAN’T WAIT TO TELL THE POLICE ALL ABOUT YOU.
OR, IF YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME, I’D BE GLAD TO TAKE YOU ON DIRECTLY. COME ON OVER.
LET THIS BE A WARNING TO YOU. CEASE AND DESIST BEFORE YOU DESTROY ANOTHER LIFE.
Owen picked up the white business card that had fluttered to the carpet. It read “Surfside Realty” and had Larry Belcaro’s name emblazoned on it.