Free Self-Defense by Jonathan Kellerman

more humiliation.”
    “Let’s talk it ou—”
    “I can’t. Not right now.
Please—I’ll come back. I promise. Soon.”
    “Lucy—”
    “Please let me go. I really need to be
alone. I really need that.”
    I backed off.
    She stepped out onto the footbridge.

CHAPTER 8
    Had I screwed up or was it something that
couldn’t have been avoided?
    Seeing a friend of his was a mistake.
    Who knew trauma counseling would turn into
this?
    Damn, what a mess !
    I tried to call her an hour later. No
answer. One more try, an hour after that, and I decided to give her time to
think.
    That evening, Robin and I cooked sand dabs
and home fries and lingered over the meal. I was preoccupied and tried to hide
it by being extra affectionate. She knew something was going on but said
nothing as we watched the sunset.
    Then she went to do some carving, Spike
fell asleep, and I got in the Seville and drove aimlessly up the coast, getting
off the highway at Ventura, for no particular reason, and gliding through dark,
empty streets. Lots of boarded-up storefronts and FOR LEASE signs. The
recession had hit the town hard, and seeing it did nothing for my mood.
    When I got back, Robin was in bed reading Command: Shed the Light.
    She closed it and dropped it on the
covers. “Why did you check this out?”
    “Research.”
    “Into what?”
    “The dark side.”
    “Such garbage. I can’t believe this is the
same guy we had to read in English.”
    “The critics couldn’t believe it either.
It killed his career.”
    “He used to write totally differently,”
she said. “ Dark Horses. That long poem about Paris: “The Market.’ I
remember Dark Horses especially because we had to analyze it in freshman
English. I hated the assignment but I thought the book was fascinating, the way
he turned the racetrack into a miniature world, all those quirky characters.
This stuff is dreadful. What happened?”
    “Maybe he used up his ration of talent.”
    “What a woman-hater! Seriously, what kind
of research are you doing?”
    “It has to d o with a patient,
Rob. Someone he’s influenced.”
    “Oh. Sounds creepy.”
    I shrugged and got out of my clothes.
    “Nice of you to empathize with your
patient to that degree,” she said.
    “That’s what they sent me to school for.”
I put the book on my nightstand and slipped under the covers. She rolled toward
me.
    “You sound upset.”
    “No, just bushed.”
    She didn’t say anything. Her huge dark
eyes snared mine and held them captive. Her curls fell over bare shoulders like
a shadow on the moon. I wrapped her in my arms.
    “Okay,” she said. “Do you have enough
energy to empathize with me? I’ve got all sorts of feelings.”
    I was still in my bathrobe when the phone
rang at 7:10 the next morning.
    “Dr. Delaware? This is your service. I
have a Dr. Shaper for you.”
    The name was unfamiliar. “I’ll take it.”
    A man’s voice said, “Who do I have?”
    “This is Dr. Delaware.”
    “This is Dr. Shapoor over at Woodbridge
Hospital. We’ve got a suicide attempt came in last night. Lucretia... Lowell.
She’s finally awake and claiming she’s your patient.”
    My heart rocked and rolled. “How is she?”
    “Stabilized. She’ll survive.”
    “When did she come in?”
    “Sometime last night. She’s been going in
and out of consciousness. Claims she’s never done this before. Has she?”
    “Not to my knowledge, but I’ve only seen
her a few times.”
    “Well, we’re putting her on a
seventy-two-hour hold —One second !” Then: “You know how those
seventy-twos go?”
    “Yes.”
    “She’ll be seeing one of our staff
psychiatrists. You can probably get some kind of temporary privileges—you’re an
M.D., right?”
    “Ph.D.”
    “Oh. Then I don’t know. Anyway—”
    “What method did she use?”
    “Gas. Turned on the stove and stuck her
head in.”
    “Who found her?”
    “Some guy brought her in. I just came on
shift and saw the message in the chart to call