[email protected]
Chapter 10, continued
Don could feel himself snarling, "You're not listening, Mills. Funny. . . I thought that you were supposed to be good at that, it being your job. What I need is to know exactly what I said that day. I am not suffering any dellusions. I need you to tell me, or I need to see my file. One way or another, it will happen. At the risk of sounding clich�, do you want to do it the easy way, or the hard way?"
It was Mills's turn to snarl, "You have no power to tell me what I can or cannot do, Donald. I'm sorry. I have other things to do with my time if you do not want to speak with me. You are always welcome on Fridays at four. My billing process has changed slightly, you may check with my secretary on the way out if that is something that worries you. It was nice to see you again."
Mills stood and turned in his prissy, educated manner, heading for the door as though he had won some triumphant victory. Don remembered how the doctor had acted the same at the end of each therapy session. As though every bit of pain Donny had gone through to explain what was going on was just another step toward his paycheck. As though things would get better by talking about it. Don was out of his seat in a flash. He slammed Mills into the wall, his heart racing and fury pounding like a hammer in his head. "I need that file, Mills," he whispered, his voice forced and deadly. "Go fucking get it." Only after the words slipped from his mouth, did Don realize what he was doing. His hands flew from the man's shoulders into the air, and he slowly backed away. "I'm sorry," his voice was a whisper again, but this time it was weak and powerless, a cough that had barely managed to escape his throat. Realization hit him again, and Don stopped backing away, reversing his motion and running for the door as quickly as his feet could take him. He threw a final glance into the room, and saw Mills still against the wall and watching him, his eyes thoughtful and dissecting. With a slight shiver, Don sprinted from the office, and only began to breathe again in the safety of his car.
It took Don three tries to get his key into the inanition, his hands were shaking so badly. He had no idea what had gotten into him. Stress, he told himself, it's all the stress. It could have been. He didn't know. Slowly, he pulled out of the parking lot and turned toward his house. He had not gotten the file or the information that he needed. But now, back on the road with the psychologists office shrinking in the distance, it seemed much less necessary after all. Lots of kids had delusions. . . was it so unlikely that he and Mara Richard had both dreamt of two boys in a forest? No, no, not at all. He shook his head at himself. Stress, stress was definitely taking its toll on him. It had all merely been a trick of the moment. With a sigh of relief, Don reached into his pocket and dug out his cell phone and dialed Jen. Two minutes later, he was bending the car into the smooth parking lot of the offices of Andrew and Melody Honeycut. As he slammed the door shut, the words "May this be a warning" echoed in his head one last time. Don shivered, and then laughed at himself. No, it was all just a strange coincidence. That's all.
* * *
Honeycut Investigation shared its building with both an insurance agency and a high-income real estate agency, and the whole place had a very different air than that of Calder and Fox. Rather than the warm, yet efficient atmosphere of Don's offices, here it was brisk and impersonal. Don felt as though he has stepped into a television law series rather than a business much like his own. A young looking secretary looked up as he entered and pointed him in the direction of the Honeycuts. There again, he was greeted by a secretary, this one older and less amicable. He gave his name and was told cooly to have a seat.
In the moments of waiting, Don located his notebook and scanned over his notes, which were still flipped open to the last page he had written two days before. He almost laughed out loud when he realized that only two days had passed. It seemed more like a lifetime, and he was no closer to an answer than he'd been at the start. After several minutes, the form of Melody Honeycut appeared in a doorway to his right, a tense and concerned expression hung on her face, weighing down the corners of her mouth like chains. She beckoned to him, and Don rose obediently, and with a final glance at his notes, reminded himself to tread carefully, for here he was on unsteady ground.
"Good Afternoon," Melody greeted him, her voice courteous but guarded. "What can I do for you?"
Don surveyed her. At fourty-something, Melody Honeycut wore her age well, like a conservative dress that still clung to all the right places. Her hair was tied up without style or importance, and gave her a look of simple grace. In fact, had worry not been scraped into every tiny line on her face, Melody Honeycut would have been stunning. But as it was, she looked. . . terrified. Don frowned. That was interesting. "I have a few questions I would like to ask you about the Richard case," he said out loud, "there are a few things I just need to clarify."
Melody nodded her head, almost bowing, as though conceding to the opponent's terms. "I thought you might," she said, the shadow of a smile floating across her face. Don worked not to let his frown deepen and took a deep breath. Please, he thought, let her give me answers, not more confusion. . . She was still talking, explaining that she'd known Kate Richard forever, leading him into her office to take a seat. It was a small room, filled mostly by a large mahogany desk and lit by the light of a window that took up one wall. She motioned to Don to take a chair opposite the desk, and seated herself there. She folded her hands on her desk, and looked Don straight in the eyes. "All right," she said, her voice shaking slightly on the words, but her chin held high and her shoulders set, "ask me what you need to."
[email protected]