Free Silent Victim by C. E. Lawrence Page A

crossed her long legs at the ankle. He noticed she was wearing heeled sandals—in a heeled shoe, he imagined she would be taller than he was, and he was well over six feet. “Are you on a case?”
    “Yeah.”
    “So is this episode related to that?” “Partly, yeah.” “In what way?”
    He told her about the visit from Ana, the shock of seeing her body, his fainting in the office.
    “That’s very upsetting,” she said when he had finished.
    “That’s not all,” he said, his palms beginning to sweat. “I had a—a phone call.”
    “What kind of phone call?”
    He felt the old reluctance to talk, to drive a knife into old wounds, to feel its sharpness. He wished he could just sit here for a while, drinking in the calming atmosphere, but that wasn’t the deal. And he knew perfectly well what the resistance was about, knew also that he had to overcome it. He took a deep breath.
    “It was about the red dress. A man’s voice—I didn’t recognize it. He said he knew about the red dress.”
    “But I thought you never released that detail to the public.” “We didn’t.”
    “So who is he, and how could he know?” “That’s what I’d like to know. It’s bringing everything back again.”
    “Your sister’s disappearance?”
    “Yes.” He almost wished she would say her
death,
because there was no doubt in his mind that Laura was dead. “Anything else?”
    He knew what she was hinting at, but he wasn’t ready yet.
    “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t talk about it.”
    “Okay.”
    “That’s it—
okay?”
    “I’ve never forced you to talk about anything—you know that.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. “What, you were hoping I would? You want me to push you into dealing with it, so you don’t have to make that decision?”
    He looked out the window at the softly fading evening sun, a pink glow in the western sky. Now, in late August, the light was fading earlier every day, as the sun weakened in its journey across the heavens.
    “Has it ever occurred to you that you might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? All the symptoms fit.”
    He gave a wry smile. “A rose by any other name … oh, I don’t know. When I’m like this I barely have enough will to make a cup of coffee.”
    “Do you think you’re ready to talk about it?”
    “You think I have to sooner or later.” It wasn’t a question—he knew the answer.
    She shrugged, a tiny lift of her elegant shoulders. “Not necessarily. It depends on the person. Some people seem to do all right without processing their pain.”
    “Look,” he said, looking her directly in the eyes, “you and I both went into this profession because we believed in the value of the therapeutic process. So why don’t you just say what you really think and stop trying to give me an out?”
    “Okay,” she said after a moment. “I do think you have to deal with it, and that you’re avoiding it, because when you finally do …”
    He knew the rest. Sooner or later, he would have to confront his long-buried feelings about his father’s abandonment. And then, he feared, his rage would rise up like a mythical beast, full and terrifying in its primitive fury, and swallow him up whole.

C HAPTER T WELVE
    The visit to Dr. Williams had left Lee feeling somewhat better—still shaky, but better. He was able to sleep, and woke up early the next day to rent a car so he and Butts could drive out to New Jersey and interview Ana’s coworkers at the Swan Hotel.
    Ana Watkins had no family left. Her mother disappeared years ago, and, as she had told Lee, her father had died recently. He knew from their sessions together that she was an only child. He also planned to track down the boyfriend, hopefully, and speak with him—anything to shed some light on what might have led to her becoming the third victim of a very bizarre killer.
    Butts met him at Enterprise Car Rental in Greenwich Village at nine o’clock, and within a half hour