Free Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know by Donna White Glaser

him Sigmund, in honor of the Father of Psychology. After all, the nightly vigils were as therapeutic as anything I had to offer my clients. Maybe I should prescribe cats.
    The third night, after finishing the morsels in his dish, Siggy strolled a few inches away from the bowl and sat down to stare at me. I waited. His ears twitched back and forth like radar, testing the air for safety vibes. I concentrated on exuding an aura of trustfulness. Apparently I sucked at aura emissions, because Siggy bolted for the bushes. Maybe next time.
    I decided to stock up on cat supplies.
    Thursday was my late day at the clinic, but my last client canceled, so I ended up leaving at 6:30. Marshall had just finished up whatever administrative types like him do and walked me to the parking lot. I felt bad that I hadn’t told him about Wayne’s reappearance the other day. I didn’t want to have to explain why I hadn’t reported it to the police. He’d logically ask why not, and, since he didn’t know I was in recovery, I couldn’t explain that I’d had a near relapse. Again, honesty ditched in favor of what— you- don’t-know-won’t-hurt— me . I’d been worried that Mary Kate might tell, but so far she hadn’t. At least as far as I knew.
    Still, I was grateful for his company. Even though the last few days had been Wayne-less, I was jittery and on-edge all the time. As we walked, I kept an eye out for decrepit vans and smiling assholes.
    Marshall continued past my Focus toward his own Saab parked farther down. “Whoa, you’ve got a flat.”
    I walked around to the passenger side and gazed at the puddle of rubber my formerly round tire had turned into. “Huh.” I looked at Marshall, deadpan.
    “ You don’t know how to change a tire, do you?”
    “ I could figure it out,” I said. “If I had to.”
    With a good-natured sigh, he set his briefcase down and waved his hand in an “open this” gesture at the trunk. My brief fling at feminism extinguished, I popped the trunk and commenced supervising the boss. Mary Kate joined me about five minutes later, and we had a fine time watching Marshall work. I could get used to this.
    After wrestling the tire off, Marshall pointed out a nail embedded in the tread. I supposed it was possible that I’d picked it up on the road, but the image of Wayne pounding it into my tire fit better. I looked at Mary Kate, who waggled her eyebrows at me, making significant eye contact. This was Mary Kate being subtle.
    Meanwhile, Marshall had rolled a teeny tire the size of a Cheerio from my trunk to the empty socket.
    “ Is that thing big enough?”
    “ Don’t drive far and don’t go too fast. This is only to get you to the service station. Do you have someplace that you usually go?”
    “ Yeah. An old family friend runs an auto repair shop in town. It’s closed for the night, but I can get there first thing in the morning.”
    “ I suppose you’re telling me you’ll be late.” Marshall frowned in mock severity.
    “ I’ve got a real understanding boss,” I said, smiling.
    I got another sigh in answer and, for a moment, just a flash, I thought I saw Marshall’s eyes travel the length of my body. Mistake. Had to be.
    Since my imagination seemed stuck in overdrive, I decided it was better to not assume that Wayne was responsible for the flat until I had more evidence.
    Keeping an open mind lasted twenty-four hours until the next flat tire. This one was on the driver’s side, and I was alone when I discovered it. I briefly debated asking Marshall for help, but I’d had enough of the damsel in distress crap. How hard could it be? Copying what I’d seen yesterday, I wrestled the tire off and stood panting, hands on hips. Yay, me!
    The sound of clapping made me whip around. Thankfully, instead of Wayne, Marshall leaned against his car, shirt sleeves rolled up, briefcase on the ground, watching my progress.
    “ You couldn’t lend a hand?” I said, heart still thumping with residual