Free Delirious by Daniel Palmer Page A

experiences. What it is that made you feel you needed to speak with me so urgently. We’ll put that story into context. I could run through a series of questions that a psychiatrist or someone in a position to form a diagnosis might ask. Take notes if you want. It’s more of an exercise, you see, not really a formal assessment. Think of it as a case study. Just an information session. Got it?”
    Charlie nodded. He didn’t ask why but accepted that Rachel was willing to extend herself beyond the boundaries of what she knew was ethically and perhaps even legally correct. He decided, fighting back his initial hesitation, to open up to her. Charlie went through the events of the last several days, careful to mention details he hoped would convince Rachel, and even himself, that Anne Pedersen was real, that their meeting had taken place, and that he wasn’t the author of the PowerPoint discrediting his InVision product.
    Rachel listened intently and gave no indication of her verdict. “Charlie, now I understand your reluctance to be honest about the situation.”
    “You do?”
    “Yes. But if I had known beforehand, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet with you.”
    Charlie looked down. “I understand,” he said.
    “But I do want to help.”
    “Could it be related to work? The pressure I’m under, I mean.”
    “I don’t know the answer to that. You would need to be properly evaluated.”
    “Listen, I don’t think I’m crazy. I really don’t. I mean, what if I’m being framed? Set up by someone jealous of my success?”
    Rachel pursed her lips. “Charlie, suspecting that people may be planning to hurt you is actually a symptom of schizophrenia.”
    Charlie laughed. “Now that’s a catch-twenty-two. Somebody may be messing with me to make me think I’m going insane, but to suspect that means I’m insane?”
    “It’s not that simple, but I agree, it complicates matters,” Rachelsaid. She stood up, moving away from behind her desk so that she was now closest to the door.
    Charlie shrank at the implication
. Perhaps,
he thought,
she feels threatened.
Since they were together alone in her small office, she must have sensed danger.
    Maybe she’s smart to be afraid
.

Chapter 9
    M onte pressed his cold nose against the stubble of Charlie’s cheek and licked at his face. The affection was enough to wake Charlie from a night of disjoined dreams and fitful sleep. Sun splashed through the large bay windows in Charlie’s bedroom. The warm light, normally welcomed, was a painful reminder that on any other Thursday he’d be at work at this hour. Charlie ran his fingers through his short hair and then gave Monte some requested attention. The dog walkers would be here around noon. Charlie wasn’t certain if it was close to that hour or not.
    The calluses on his fingertips were raw and peeling from his marathon practice session, which had lasted well past midnight. He rarely played his prized Gibson ES-175, preferring to treat it more like a showpiece than an instrument. It had been outdoors only for transport from the music store to his apartment in California and briefly again for the move to Boston. It would be the guitar he’d use if he could ever get loose enough to feel inspired to play a live gig. Last night he’d uncorked the Gibson, expecting from it some magic, but ultimately he’d been disappointed at his perpetual inability to improvise. At least for now, the Gibson would stay indoors.
    Dressed in a white T-shirt and a pair of green hospital scrubs, Charlie made his way to the kitchen, and Monte followed. There he made coffee from his French press and, once brewed, took his cup into the living room, again followed by Monte, and gazed out the window at the traffic bustling below. It was earlier than he thought, 8:30 a.m., but still much later than he and Monte were accustomed to starting their day.
    Charlie’s apartment in Boston’s Beacon Hill was the entire third floor of a brownstone on the south side