In Pursuit of Justice Read Online Free Page B

mansion. A bottle of imported champagne sat chilling in a silver ice bucket beside them and the appetizers—grilled figs and sweet sausages—had just been placed in the center of the linen-draped table. Despite the elegant décor and the intimate atmosphere, she had a feeling that her dinner companion was absorbed in something other than the fine meal and her own stellar company.
    “Hmm? Oh, no.” Catherine reached for her hand, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. I drifted away there for a minute. Work.”
    “Don’t apologize; I know the feeling. Even been guilty of it a few times myself. Anything you can talk about?”
    “No, not really.”
    Rebecca nodded understandingly. “No problem.”
    “Thanks.” Fortunately, Rebecca had appreciated from the first that Catherine’s work was something that she could only allude to in the most general of terms, for obvious reasons of patient confidentiality. It had been just that conflict that had brought them so explosively together just a few short months before. It was one thing, however, to have the barrier exist professionally and quite another to have it crop up in their personal dealings. Because she’d never before had a relationship that had been so central to her life, Catherine had never had to contend with the fact that she couldn’t discuss some of the ramifications of her work with the person closest to her. She was still learning how to navigate those murky waters, and, thankfully, Rebecca, who was used to compartmentalizing her life, didn’t push. It helped defuse the awkwardness, but there were times—like tonight—when Catherine wished she could talk. The session earlier in the day kept returning to her thoughts.

    “Let’s get the paperwork out of the way first, okay?”
    “Sure.”
    “No significant medical, surgical, or psychiatric conditions in the past?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Ever been hospitalized for any reason?”
    “No.”
    She’d wait to ask about the obvious bruise under the left eye and what looked like finger marks on the neck. “Any drug allergies or current medications?”
    “No.”
    “Recreational drug use?”
    “I drink now and then. Nothing else.”
    “Do you smoke?”
    “When I drink.” Faint laughter.
    Catherine smiled. She had found that with new patients it was best to start with something basic and unthreatening such as reviewing the data the patient provided on a standard medical questionnaire. It established a bit of rapport, although the young woman in her office didn’t seem particularly nervous. Upright posture, no apparent tics or nervous habits. Her button-down-collar pale blue cotton shirt and dark tan chinos were meticulously pressed, her oxfords polished and shined, her thick wavy hair cut short, no make-up. If anything, the clear-eyed brunette with the sharp blue gaze was watching her with just a hint of suspicion—or was it something else? Intense curiosity? Not unusual from patients, but it usually developed later in the course of treatment—that need to know the therapist as a person and not as someone who merely existed for fifty minutes once or twice a week and to whom you exposed your most intimate secrets. But about whom you knew almost nothing.
    “My secretary, Joyce, made a notation that we’ll be billing insurance,” Catherine remarked, checking the intake form. It was Saturday, and she didn’t usually see patients, but after Rebecca had left with all her belongings in tow, the apartment had seemed so empty—almost lifeless—that when she’d picked up her messages and found one about a request for a semi-urgent appointment, she’d decided she might as well work. “I see you have a good plan that doesn’t cap the number of visits, so that will be simple.”
    “I don’t think I’ll be coming long enough for that to be an issue.”
    Her tone was level and matter-of-fact, no hint of aggression or combativeness. Just a statement.
    “And that brings me to the next question,”