Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

“She wanted approval from me, Milo. I couldn’t tell her you were gay because I didn’t want to violate your privacy. And I couldn’t warn you about the way she felt because of confidentiality. She got really upset and left. Now this. I feel like I’ve really screwed up, but I don’t know what I could’ve done differently.”

“You coulda told her about me, Alex. I’m not your patient.”

“I didn’t think it was appropriate to get into your personal life. She was the patient; I was trying to keep the focus on her.”

“Jesus.” His cheeks turned to bellows and he blew out beery air.

“Has she ever shown any romantic feelings?”

“I don’t know,” he said furiously. “I guess looking back . . . I mean, she hung around, phoned, but I figured it was a cop-victim thing. Looking for big brother.” Rubbing one eye. “Pretty fucking dense, huh? Goddammit! I’m an asshole to let it get this far. All these years I’ve been careful not to get personal with victims or their families. So why her?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “You gave her support, and when it became clear she needed something more, you referred her to me.”

“Yeah, but there was more. In my head. She probably picked up on it.”

“More what?”

“Involvement. I’d find myself thinking about her. Worrying. Couple of times I called her, just to see how she was doing.”

He slammed a big hand down on the table. “How else could she take it? What am I, brain dead?”

He shook his head. “For chrissake, she was only a juror. I’ve dealt with thousands of victims who had it a helluva lot worse. I must be losing it.”

“You didn’t put her head in the oven.”

“Neither did you, but you still feel like shit.”

Both of us drank.

“If I hadn’t tried to help her,” he said, “I wouldn’t know about her head being in the oven, would I? And you and I would be sitting here talking about something else.”

His glass was empty and he called for a refill, looking at me.

“No, thanks.”

He said, “Ignorance is bliss, right? All the talk about insight and self-understanding, but far as I can tell, being a good ostrich is the key to psychological adjustment. Christ, now I have her sitting on my shoulder. . . . So what do I do, tell her, Gee, honeybunch, if I went for women you’d be at the top of my list? Might as well shove her head back in the oven.”

“There’s no need to do anything right now,” I said. “Let’s see how she handles the seventy-two hours. If the psychiatrist at Woodbridge is good, she’ll know how to deal with it.”

“Seventy-two hours . . . praise the law.”

“There’s more you need to know about.” I told him about Lucy’s summer as a prostitute.

“Oh, man, it keeps getting better. Just a summer fling, huh?”

“So she says. She confessed right after she told me how she felt about you. Asked me if I thought she wasn’t good enough for you. As if she was giving me a reason to reject her.”

“Not good enough for me.” He gave a scary laugh. “Remember I told you she reminded me of a girl in high school who became a nun? Someone else who convinced herself I was wonderful.”

This time he rubbed his face. Hard.

“Prom night back in Hoosierville. All the little virgins and would-be virgins from Our Lady on the arms of us pimpled lads from St. Thomas. I was eighteen and knew I was gay for a couple of years, no one to tell it to. Her name was Nancy Squires, and when she asked me to be her date I said yes because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Orchid corsage, tux, Dad’s car washed and waxed. Doing the Twist in the gym. Mashed Potatoes and the fucking Hully Gully. Drinking the fucking spiked punch.”

He looked into his beer glass.

“She was pretty, if you liked skinny and pale and tortured. Wrote poetry, collected these little porcelain doohickeys, didn’t know how to dress, tutored the boys in math. Of course the other girls treated her like a leper.”

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