Johnithan Kellerman – Bad Love

When I got back, Robin looked at me reproachfully. Her hair was up and the water’s soapy surface reached just below her nipples.

“He’s fine.” I got out of my clothes. “Enjoying the slumber of the truly virtuous.”

“Well,” she said, putting her arms behind her head and watching, “I suppose it’s best.”

“Forgiven?” I said, sinking into the heat of the bath. She contemplated. Breathed in. Smiled.

“I don’t know. ..”

I kissed her. She kissed back. I touched one breast, kissed a soapy nipple.

“Umm,” she said, breaking away. “Well. ..

“Well, what?”

“You can forget Mr. Cruel and Mr. Heartless, but I think it’s time to take a meeting with their partner-what’s his name?”

Thursday morning she was up and out of the shower by six-fifteen. When I got to the kitchen I expected to see her dressed for work, that restless look in her eyes.

But she was still in her robe, drinking coffee and reading ArtForum.

She’d set out food for the dog and only a few bits remained. He was at her feet and looked up at me only briefly before returning his head to the side of her leg.

She put the magazine down and smiled up at me.

I kissed her and said, “You can get going, I’ll be fine.”

“What if I just want to be with you?”

“That would be great.”

“Of course, if you have other plans “Nothing till the afternoon.”

“What’s then?”

“Patient appointment out in Sun Valley at three-thirty.”

“Making a house call?”

I nodded. “Custody case. Some resistance and I want to see the kids in their natural environment.”

“Three-thirty? That’s good. We can hang out together till then.”

“Terrific.” I poured myself a cup, sat down, and pointed to the magazine.

“What’s new in the art world?”

“The usual foolishness.” She closed it and pushed it aside.

“Actually I have no idea what’s going on in the art world or anywhere else. I can’t concentrate, Alex. Woke up in the middle of the night, thinking about everything that’s been happening to you and that poor psychiatrist up in Seattle. Do you really think there is a connection?”

“I don’t know. It was a hit-and-run, but he was eighty-nine and couldn’t see or hear well. Like Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar-did you get any sleep?”

“A bit.”

“Was I snoring?”

‘No.

“Would you tell me if I was?”

“Yes!” She gave my hand a gentle cuff.

“Why didn’t you wake me to talk?” I said.

“You were deep asleep. I didn’t have the heart.”

“Next time wake me.”

“We can talk right now, if you want. This whole thing’s giving me very definite creeps the more I think about it. I’m worried about you-what will the next call or mail delivery bring?”

“Milo’s looking into it,” I said. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back hard. “You can’t think of anyone who’d want to get back at you? Out of all the patients you’ve known?”

“Not really. When I worked at the hospital, I saw physically ill kids.

In practice, it was basically normal children with adjustment problems.” The same kinds of patients Grant Stoumen had treated.

“What about your legal cases? All that custody garbage?”

“Anything’s possible, theoretically,” I said. “But I’ve gone through my files and found nothing. The conference has to be the link-bad love.”

“What about that madman-Hewitt? Why was he shouting it?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

She let go of my hand.

“Guess I could switch anything else.”

“Be serious.”

“Okay-what happened to Becky Basille is the extreme. It’s a long way from tapes and a crank call and a mangled carp to murder.”

“He killed his therapist, Alex.” careers. But I’m really not good for The look on her face made me add: “I’ll be careful-scout’s honor. I’ll call an alarm company-get a referral from Milo.”

“You won’t consider moving out-just for a while?”

“Let’s just see what happens over the next few days.”

“What are you waiting for, Alex? Things to get worse? Oh, never mind, let’s not bicker.”

She got up, shaking her head, and went to the coffeepot for a refill.

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