Free The Soul Hunter by Melanie Wells Page B

look. “Why would anyone leave a bloody ax on your doorstep?”
    “How would I know, Helene?”
    “Was this the ax that killed the girl in the paper? The one they found in the car?”
    “I think so.”
    “And your fingerprints are all over it.”
    “Yes.”
    “Do they think you did it?”
    “I don’t think so. They said they have a suspect. Someonebesides me. Jackson came by with a bunch of mug shots yesterday. He said they’d have an arrest by the end of the day. He didn’t mention that to you?”
    “He didn’t say anything about arresting anyone else. He just asked questions about you.”
    “That must have been disquieting.”
    “I’m getting used to it.”
    “I think he believes I know who did it.”
    “Well, do you?” She folded her hands and looked squarely at me.
    “Of course not. I do not personally know any ax murderers. And if I did, I would have said so by now. Do you really think I’m going to keep something like that to myself? Come on, Helene.”
    “Well,” she waved her hand dismissively “I had to ask. I thought maybe it was a patient of yours or something.”
    Hey. That hadn’t dawned on me.
    “Your luck hasn’t been too good lately,” she was saying. “You seem to have a knack for attracting problem cases.”
    I smiled a sardonic thanks.
    “Did you know the girl? What was her name?”
    “Drew,” I said. “Drew Sturdivant. I didn’t know her.”
    “Wasn’t she a student?”
    I nodded. “But not here. She goes to El Centro. Went to El Centro.”
    I drank some tea.
    “Did you tell them anything about last year?” I asked, hoping she hadn’t. “Jackson and…what was the other guy’s name?”
    “McKnight. Of course not. I’m on your side, remember?”
    “I forget sometimes.”
    “Oh, don’t be absurd. What are you going to do?”
    “About what?”
    “About the girl? And the ax? Aren’t you going to try to find out how that ax ended up on your front porch?”
    I stirred my tea. “I was hoping the police would do that.”
    “They probably will. But unlike me, they’re not on your side. And they don’t share your motivation. If it was one of your patients, you’re liable.”
    I shrugged. “Maybe they’ve already arrested the guy.”
    “Have you called Jackson today?” she asked.
    “I’m avoiding Jackson. Why would I call him?”
    “He’s got your fate in his hands. I wouldn’t make an enemy out of him if I were you. I’d become the man’s best friend.”
    She had a point.
    “Or try McKnight,” she said. “He seemed nice.”
    “Nice? A DPD detective?”
    “They’re just doing their jobs, Dylan.”
    I nodded, conceding the point.
    “His first name is Mike. He left me his number.”
    She wrote it down for me.
    “Mike McKnight,” I said. “Okay. I’ll call him after class.”
    “And look through your client files,” she said as I left. “That would make the most sense.”
    She was right. The first thing I’d learned from Helene, years ago in our first clinical supervision session, had become a slogan, almost, over the years. “Never forget,” she’d said, “that you’re working with unstable people. Unstable people do unpredictable things.”
    I put in a message for Mike McKnight and left to teach my class.
    Unstable people do unpredictable things. Indeed.

9

    I n the SMU counseling clinic, the catalog of unstable people runs the gamut. And I’m not talking about the patients. Aside from me—with my obsessive-compulsive inclinations and possible auditory and visual hallucinations—there is Marci, the office manager, whose savage mood swings hold us all in quaking fear of committing even the tiniest paperwork transgression; John Mulvaney, whose profound personality limitations finally disqualified him from seeing patients at all; and Kay-Ann, our eating disorder specialist, who lives on bagels and cream cheese and never, ever goes anywhere without a bag of peanut M&Ms, a pack of cigarettes, and a generous supply of chewing gum.