Butterfield Institute - 01 - The Halo Effect Read Online Free Page A

a long time. I know these guys. I have…hell…I have a
relationship
with them.”
    “Cleo, I’m not sure that I understand. Does Caesar know you are still going to bed with other men?”
    “Well, see that’s the thing. Technically I’m not. I don’t have what you’d call regular sex with most of them.”
    “Regular sex?” I laughed. “I don’t make judgments, but there is no such thing as regular or irregular sex, as far as I’m concerned.”
    “See, that’s why I like you. We’re on the same side in all this. The logical side. The side that doesn’t make sex into some religious experience that saves souls or plummets you into hell.”
    The clock chimed and the bell-like sound drew her attention. “I guess my time is up?”
    I nodded.
    “Just one more sec?”
    I nodded again
    She reached down and pulled out the Tiffany shopping bag she had brought with her. I’d noticed it when she walked in but hadn’t thought much about it.
    From inside, she extracted a bulky manila envelope, which she held in her hand for a few seconds and caressed as if it was a velvet pillow, or a man’s thigh.
    “I printed this out for you. Like I said, no one has seen the whole thing yet or even knows I finished it. It’s my first draft. I still have a lot of work to do. Not to mention better disguising the guys I write about…” She smiled. “But I really want you to read it.”
    “Does Caesar know you’re giving it to me?”
    “No.” She stood up.
    Even though she was getting ready to go, I didn’t want her to miss what I thought might be a moment of insight for her.
    “Does keeping that from him make you feel good or bad?”
    Her head tilted to the side and a half smile played on her lips. “Good. And bad.” She sighed. “But here’s the thing. If we are going to talk about whether I can really go through with publishing this book, you have to read it. I mean, if I do publish it, I need to be able to give Caesar a really good reason I still sleep with clients. I want to publish my book, but I don’t want to lose him in the process. So…”
    She took the last step to the leather chair where I sat.
    Holding out my hands, I took the package from her.
    It wasn’t light and somehow that surprised me. Everything about Cleo Thane was. From the lilting voice to the blond hair to the pastel-colored clothes she favored—so different from the almost all-black uniform most of us New Yorkers wear—to her pale gray eyes and barely pink lips. Even her perfume, which reminded me of spring and had a base note of lilacs, was light.
    There was nothing heavy or dark or ominous about the woman who handed me her confession.
    Nothing except for what was actually in that envelope: all the secrets she hadn’t yet told me or anyone else, but that would, in the end, be like the pins a collector uses to secure butterflies to a board after he has captured and killed them.

3
     
    A fter Cleo left my office I pushed the play button on my answering machine, and while the morning’s messages repeated, I walked to the window, opened the door to the balcony, stepped out and looked down.
    The first message was from my divorce lawyer, telling me that the papers had been signed by the judge and my divorce was final. We’d expected it to happen that day, but there was always a chance that the paperwork would be delayed.
    I rubbed my fingers against the gritty stone surface of the balustrade. I was conflicted about having ended my marriage. Yes, it was the right thing to do and I would have championed this divorce if it were for any of my patients. But, despite our problems, I had liked the calm of my life with Mitch. That we had wound up at a place where there was a lack of passion hadn’t been a surprise to me. Many marriages wind up lusterless. But it depressed my husband and he couldn’t live with it. Ex-husband, I reminded myself.
    The next message, from an insurance company, droned on while the sun disappeared behind a cloud and peeked