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Jeanne studies Peter. He has had little to say, and she isn’t asking questions. He fidgets under her stare until he can’t handle the pressure anymore. “Jeanne, is something wrong?”
Her lips purse. She starts to shake her head, but stops mid-sway. “A man from the United States Marshals came to see me yesterday.”
The anxiety is so real, he can almost see the tsunami of trepidation building before it crashes into him. He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him they’ve found out about Jeanne, but he’d hoped seeing her this long with no interference meant Dougy wasn’t keeping too close a watch on him. His mouth twists as he tries to find the right words to say.
Did they tell her who he is? Does she know about his dad? He’s not sure how to explain the situation without giving away more than he has to. He embraces the silence, although he can’t unwind his screwed-up face.
“Peter, is there a reason the U.S. Marshals would contact me regarding your therapy sessions?” Jeanne’s tone is cold and detached.
He shakes his head. Best to play dumb in situations like these. She sinks in her chair. Her slender hands meeting, fingers extending into steeple formation. She presses the tips of her fingers against her lips as she considers him. She looks angelic. Or perhaps like an innocent child in prayer. Peter wonders which deity a therapist prays to?
“He showed me your picture and asked if I knew your name,” she ventures.
Doing his best to look neutral, he says, “My name is Peter Samuel Wilson.”
“That’s what I told him.” Her face droops. Lines seep from the corners of her eyes and trace the edges of her mouth. She looks tired. “He said he’s investigating a crime you may have committed under an alias. He looked through your file to see if I had any other names listed for you.”
He doesn’t respond. The only sound in the room is the ticking of the damned clock. The old-fashioned mechanics echo in his brain. Peter looks up at the timepiece and wills the battery to die. The second hand waves in defiance as it passes the numbers painted on its face. All that time at the store, and he’s forgotten to buy a replacement.
“Peter,” Jeanne says in a soft voice, “have you ever been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder?”
The question catches him so off guard that he lets out a burst of laughter. He’s not sure how to answer. Some profiler assigned most of the personalities he’s had. “No,” he finally says. “I’m fairly certain I’ve only got the one.”
She leans forward, her expression severe. “Do you ever experience hallucinations, or find yourself surrounded by people or things that don’t really exist?”
He can feel his eyebrows press against one another as he tries to figure out where her questions are leading. “I don’t do drugs, Jeanne.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She blows a quick rush of air out her nose. “What I’m asking is if you ever see things no one else can see when you haven’t been drinking or taken any medication.”
Hands unfolding, Peter spreads them across his lap, palms up. “The only hallucination I’ve had was when I was nineteen and had my wisdom teeth pulled. They had me so doped up, I thought I had a family of hamsters living in my mouth. Found out later they were cotton balls the dentist left behind.”
The therapist’s mouth cracks the tip of a smile. She bites her lip. “I want to believe you, Peter. The man I saw made it sound like you have a history of instability.”
“He said that?” His eyebrows shoot so far up his forehead, he has to rub them with his hand to settle them back into place again.
“Not in so many words. He asked if you’ve ever mentioned having a previous life. He inquired about places you may think you’ve lived, or other names you think you’ve had.” She finally looks like she’s starting to relax. Her hands move to her lap and she tilts her head. “Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t think so. Did the marshal bring anyone with him?” Peter hopes she describes Inspector Douglas, so he has a reason to raise hell later.
She nods. “A woman waited outside. Cheryl said she just stood on the sidewalk in the rain the whole time he was in here.”
“What did she look like?” Peter does his best to keep his thumb from jumping around. In his concentration over his hand, his toe taps nervously.
“I’m not sure. You’d have to ask Cheryl.”
“I don’t know any marshals. But I’ll bet the woman was Special Agent Jones.” Peter frowns. He likes Mac. He doesn’t want to see her as an enemy.
Jeanne lets out a sigh and the sound washes over him with the serenity of a forest stream. He wants to forget what they’re talking about. He imagines her beside him, sighing with pleasure as he traces her neck with his lips.
“You’ve dealt with these people before?” she asks, alarm ringing in her voice.
He snaps out of his fantasy. “Yes. I’ve known about them for a while, now.”
Leaning forward, she presses her elbows into her knees so hard it makes an indent in her slacks. “Peter, are you in trouble?”
He can’t help chuckling. It seems whoever the U.S. Marshal was; he didn’t tell her anything. And if Mac never came in the building, he doesn’t have to worry about her, either. Maybe they’re just covering their asses. At this point, why they’d bother Jeanne doesn’t matter.
“Jeanne, if I wasn’t in trouble, I probably wouldn’t need therapy.”