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## The Vanishing Victim

By Robert Trainor

Copyright 2016

By Robert Trainor

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

## PREFACE

For all your mass shootings and wars

For all your guns and endless gore

For all the dead bodies lying around

Until they're buried in the ground

I loved you more than words can write

But murder ended our sweet embrace

In a world where might makes right

The fascist stench of the hangman race

They took you away from me in evil delight

By the speed of bullets in deadly flight

And I gasped at the horror of the sight

As my loved one bled out into the eternal night

## CHAPTER ONE

On the morning of Monday, April 20th, 2015, the Culver Gazette, the daily newspaper for Culver, Maryland, which is about fifteen miles north of Baltimore, ran the following story on the second page of the local section.

CULVER TEENAGER REPORTED MISSING

Kora Bradley, a senior at Culver High School has not been seen since Friday evening. Kora lives with her parents and two brothers on Williams Street in Culver, and her parents reported her missing yesterday. Friday evening, she had been working downtown at Carber's Tavern where she is a waitress, and numerous people observed her until she left around 5 P.M. Kora had told her parents that she was intending to spend the night at a friend's house, so they didn't expect her home until Saturday afternoon. When she hadn't returned by 8 P.M., her parents began to call Kora's friends and acquaintances, but they were unable to locate anyone who had seen her since she left Carber's. Finally, early on Sunday morning, they went to the police station and reported their daughter missing.

Kora is of medium build and about five feet two inches tall with light blond hair and blue eyes. On the evening she disappeared, Kora would probably have walked down Main Street towards Harper Avenue, which was the street on which her friend lived. The walk from Carbur's Tavern to her destination on Harper Avenue was almost two miles, and although Main Street is well-lighted, Harper Avenue has only an occasional streetlight.

"We're hopeful that Kora met someone she knew," said her mother. "But it's so unlike her to be gone for this long without phoning us. She's a very conscientious young woman, and we're extremely worried about her."

The following day, the Gazette ran a much longer article about the disappearance of Kora. Besides repeating much of the same information provided in the previous day's paper and also including numerous quotes from her friends and family, there was some new information. The police had retrieved tapes from stores on Main Street, and they showed Kora walking up Main Street towards Harper Avenue around 5:15 P.M. Of perhaps more importance was something that had been found about a half mile down Harper Road. Along the side of the road, in the direction towards which Kora would have been walking, there were indications of tire tracks. The person driving the car had then put it in reverse and turned hard to the right so that the rear end of the car had gone down a slight incline before the tire tracks came to a stop at the edge of a marshy area. The driver had then reversed direction and come out of the marsh and gone back onto Harper Avenue. It had rained briefly the day before these tracks were discovered, so it was impossible to identify the make of the tires, but detectives assigned to the case were working on the assumption that Kora was probably abducted here. However, with no other corroborating evidence, this could only be called an intelligent guess.

Friends and classmates of Kora's were interviewed by the police, and detectives came away with a strong suspicion that she may have been selling small amounts of marijuana. Two weeks prior to her disappearance, a high school senior had been found with three ounces of marijuana in her locker, and detectives were looking into any drug connections that Kora may have had at the high school.

Flyers with Kora's picture and description on it were printed up, but a week passed without any news of her or any clues that could point to her whereabouts. A tip line was established, and one theme that showed up in a few of the calls to the tip line was that Kora's disappearance was related to drugs. A number of callers claimed that she was selling drugs at the high school, and the police re-interviewed her friends. Most of them denied that Kora was involved with drugs, but there were a couple of people who said that she dealt small amounts of marijuana to some of her high school classmates.

Perhaps her disappearance was related to a boyfriend Kora had broken up with about a month before her disappearance. His name was David Randolph, but it turned out that he had an airtight alibi since he was in Virginia on the night that Kora disappeared. And so, although the case had generated an intense amount of publicity when the story first broke, it began to fade from the public consciousness with each passing day. Just another missing young woman...so many of them nowadays...sooner or later, her body will turn up...

## CHAPTER TWO

For a little over eight years, I had worked as one of three psychiatrists at a treatment center for alcoholics and drug addicts. The work was challenging but depressing, and I often wondered if I was really making much of a difference in people's lives. Dealing with addicts isn't easy—for one thing, almost all the patients I saw were referred to me by the state government for mandatory counseling. Many of them were criminals who were hoping to reduce their sentences by playing along with the system, and there was another large group that needed to see me before they could be prescribed certain kinds of drugs.

It wasn't long before I began to think of myself as a bureaucratic psychiatrist—just someone who shuffled papers around and gave the stamp of approval to those who had learned to jump through the hoops. Occasionally, I would meet someone who was genuinely interested in the advice I gave them, but I was strictly regulated as to the amount of times that I could see a particular patient—no more than six times in a two-month period and no more than twelve times in a year. This made it almost impossible to really help a person because the roots of substance addiction are deep and not easily uprooted.

During my first year at the clinic, I married Amber Davidson, whom I had met while I was in graduate school. She was a year younger than me, and after our marriage, she took a job as an elementary teacher in a school about five miles from where we were renting a four-room apartment in Culver. Later, she transferred to Culver High School where she was now teaching English. Amber may not have been the most beautiful woman in town, but she was everything I had been hoping to find in a woman—lively, intelligent, and with a sincere desire to help other people. And with her long auburn hair, green eyes, and slender figure, she was certainly the most beautiful woman in my orbit.

Amber and I were planners, so we began our marriage by saving money so that we could buy a house. We wanted to have a family but our motto was: No house, no family. The idea of bringing up kids in an apartment where we were subject to the whims of a landlord was not something that either of us found appealing. But, taken together, our salaries came to slightly over sixty thousand dollars, and so, back in 1993, after we had lived in the apartment for two and a half years, a local bank gave us the green light to purchase a house.

It took us almost six months, but we finally found a place that we both liked in a pleasant suburban section on the northern edge of Culver. The house had a large yard and three bedrooms--that was important to us because, even then, we were planning on having two kids. I don't know why we settled on that number, but that's what we agreed to, and that's the way it turned out. Kym was born in 1997, and Jason came along in 1999.

For a long time, I had been hoping to leave the clinic and establish my own practice, but it can be very difficult financially when one starts out. With no established clients, I would be competing for a rather limited amount of patients, and I knew that the first couple of years could be really difficult. Even so, I just had to break away from the clinic and the constant parade of drug addicts who were connected to the state health care system. It wasn't that I had anything against drug addicts and alcoholics as a group, but I longed for a setting where I could engage in long-term counseling that might really alter another person's life.

With two children, Amber and I didn't have a big cushion of money in the bank, but we managed to save up enough so that we could get by for six months or so until, hopefully, I could establish a positive cash flow in my own practice. I can still remember that first day, the day I opened my own office on Wilshire Street in Culver. Wilshire Street is a shady, tree-lined street in a well-to-do neighborhood, and I had rented out office space in a small commercial building at the rather reasonable price of eight hundred dollars a month. Later, when I became more successful and could afford to hire a part-time office assistant, I moved across town to a much better place that was more in line with the general image that psychiatrists usually like to portray—the expensive couches, the oriental rugs, the elegant paintings on the wall.

But when I began my own practice, it was rather stark. I had a small waiting room that had a desk and two chairs in it, and off of that was the room where I saw clients. And even though there was a rug, two chairs, and a couch in the room, no one would have called my office ostentatious. In fact, the setting was so stark that Amber and I spent a week jazzing it up by painting the walls and redoing the hardwood floors before splurging on a new couch and an expensive chair. We also drove to my parent's house in Pennsylvania and came back with three paintings and an assortment of classy knickknacks that allowed me to at least pretend that I had a successful practice.

It was, as I had expected, very slow going at first, but after about a year of really struggling, business began to pick up. I received a very fortunate break when a psychiatrist I had known at the clinic, who had gone into private practice about five years before I did, moved to Massachusetts and referred all his patients to me. Another thing that benefited me greatly was that most of my patients were quite enthusiastic about me and often told others how much I had helped them, which led to a substantial increase in my clientele.

On the morning of Friday, May 1st, two weeks after the disappearance of Kora Bradley, I had an appointment with a woman named Brianna Edwards, who had been referred to me by the State Department of Mental health. Ordinarily, I didn't take on cases like this anymore, but since I had some openings in my schedule, I made an appointment with her.

I recognized the name Brianna Edwards because Shonda, her daughter, had been a friend of Kym in junior high school. Although Brianna had come to our house a couple of times when Kym was in the eighth grade, Amber had first met Brianna when she had gone over to her house to give Kym a ride home. The two mothers liked to take the girls out shopping on the weekend sometimes, and occasionally, they would go to a roller skating rink together. At first, my wife had been very enthusiastic about Brianna and would praise her so much that it began to become annoying. "She just has so much energy, Casey. I mean she works two jobs because that husband of hers always seems to be out of work, and I know the kids are driving her crazy."

Shonda was the oldest of Brianna's five children who now ranged in age from seventeen to nine. "I don't know how they make ends meet," said Amber. "To tell you the truth, I'm always afraid that she's going to ask me for money, but she's very proud and stubborn when it comes to things like that. She won't even let me pay for the kids' ice cream cones, for crying out loud."

"Doesn't Tom work at all?" I said.

"Sure, but it's mostly off-and-on seasonal work. I think he pours concrete or something, and I guess it's good money when the work is there, but he hasn't worked in over a month, and I know they're hard up for money. I just hate it when people are going through things like that."

A couple of months later, Amber told me that Brianna's husband had left her and the bank had foreclosed on her house, so the whole family had gone to live with Brianna's mother on the other side of town. After that, Amber didn't seem to mention Brianna much anymore, and I figured that because Brianna and her family were living farther away, Kym and Shonda had just drifted apart.

But it was strange to me that Amber had lost touch with Brianna because she wasn't one to let go of relationships. "Have you seen Brianna lately?" I said on the day after I had made the appointment with Brianna. "Oh, Brianna..." Amber seemed distracted by my question and stared off into space for a couple of moments. "It's strange that you should mention her, Casey, because I saw her this past weekend."

"Whereabouts?"

"It was at a coffee shop downtown—I had gone in there to get a hot chocolate, and I saw her sitting at a table with this mean-looking guy who was wearing cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat. Really weird guy, and I could tell that Brianna didn't feel comfortable talking to me while he was around, but almost as soon as I sat down with them, he said he had to leave. I could see that Brianna was upset about something, but when I asked her what was troubling her, she didn't say anything. It was totally bizarre because when I say that she didn't say anything, I mean she just sat there for another two minutes staring down at her coffee. I didn't know what to do. Finally, I heard her mumble something, but I couldn't understand what she had said. And that was it! 'Brianna,' I said, 'are you OK?'"

"'No, not really,'" she said. And then she said, "'Do you believe in demons, Amber?'" After that, she went into this long rant about how she was being chased by a demon because of something that had happened in her past. She just wouldn't stop, Casey—she was like a woman possessed or something. On and on about how some demon was pursuing her, and then she told me that she was afraid to cross the street because she was convinced that the demon knew how to drive a car and was going to run her over. Have you ever had a patient who was afraid of a demon?"

"Not very often, but I've had a few. Usually, though, they don't use the word demon but call what they're afraid of the devil."

"So it's like a religious thing?" said Amber.

"No, it's more about an inability to handle fear. Everybody has fears, but when a person can't cope with their fears, then sometimes, those fears build up into powerful forces like demons or devils. And once the demon begins to exist as a reality in a person's mind, it becomes very hard to convince the person that it was self-created."

"OK," said Amber, "but—I'm just playing devil's advocate here—couldn't the demon be like a kind of ESP?"

"I don't see the connection at all."

"Suppose, like Brianna, a person was afraid that a car was going to run over them, and then one day, a car did run over them. I'm sure you wouldn't say that a demon was responsible for that. Right?"

"No, of course not," I said.

"So...what would it be then? Just a coincidence?"

"It could be a self-fulfilling prophecy," I said. "You know—the opposite of positive thinking where some desirable event is imagined."

"But couldn't it also be ESP? It wouldn't be like the person had a vague feeling of disaster; rather, it would be a very powerful feeling that something bad was going to happen to them."

"Ah...no, I don't think they're the same."

"Why not?" Amber was a great amateur debater, and we often had interesting discussions on some very obscure topics. The way she would stare at me with those clear, penetrating hazel eyes!

After thinking about it for a few seconds, I said, "I guess, under certain conditions, a demon could be a kind of premonition. The problem is that when you talk to people who are suffering from delusions of this kind, you can see that it's more of a phobia or obsession or compulsion. For instance, I've had patients who will literally check the door a dozen times to make sure that it's locked before they go to bed."

"Really? Why would someone do that?"

"The superficial answer is that when they check the door for the twelfth time, they can't quite remember—positively remember—if the door was locked when they looked at it the previous time. But the deeper answer lies in the psyche of the person involved. Why, for instance, have they become so afraid of an intruder? Why do they doubt what they saw the last time they checked the door? When you look at it closely, it's all based on fear, and fear is at the root of the demon complex."

"But still," said Amber, "couldn't fears be premonitions?"

"They could, I suppose, but in that case, you'd have to answer the question as to why so many fears prove to be groundless. You must see that a lot at school because kids have so many groundless fears."

"I disagree with you, Casey—in my experience, a lot of fears are grounded in reality."

## CHAPTER THREE

The next morning, at nine o'clock, I met Brianna. She was a woman of mixed race—later, I would find out that her maternal grandparents were both white, while her paternal grandparents were black and Hispanic. She was well above average height, had a good figure, and her face was somewhat long with sharp angular features. Her eyes were brown and quite expressive, but the expression was usually one of distrust. Or perhaps suspicion is a better word. She could have been exceptionally beautiful, but the years were beginning to take their toll, and it didn't help that she wasn't really taking care of herself. She was missing a tooth just to the right of her center teeth, and her hair had also been neglected—it fell to her shoulders and framed her face in a way that accentuated her features, but it was obvious that she hadn't combed it in a while.

"Brianna," I said after I led her out of my office and into the room where I held sessions, "how are you?"

"I'm OK," she said indifferently.

"Why don't you take a seat—you can sit either in the chair or on the couch."

Brianna hesitated for quite some time before she chose the chair. Once she was seated, she said, "Mr. Garrett, the—"

"Brianna, you can call me Casey—I think it will be easier for both of us if we relate on a first-name basis. Also, if you don't mind, I'd like to tape our conversation—this is something that I do with all my clients so that I can go back and listen again to what was said. It's amazing how much of a conversation can be misinterpreted or forgotten even by people who are trained to listen. You don't mind?"

"No, I don't mind, but what I wanted to say was that the only reason I'm here is because the state agency sent me. They seem to think that I'm...I don't know what they think, but the person I saw thought that it might help me to talk to you. I know you're a psychiatrist, but I don't see how that would help me."

"A lot of people feel that way, and I think you'd find it beneficial if you could view this as a regular conversation that you might have with someone you know. In other words, don't put too much stress on the fact I'm a psychiatrist. Many people I see are nervous about talking to me for the first couple of sessions, but that's natural because it takes a little while to establish trust. Can you tell me why you were at the State Agency of Mental Health?"

"I wanted to get some Lorazepam, but they said I had to see you first."

"OK, Brianna, before we begin, let me tell you something about the rules that govern these conversations."

"Rules?" she said, with an enigmatic laugh.

"Yes, but these rules were established to protect the person who is in your position."

"And what position would that be?" said Brianna, in a soft but sharp voice.

"Brianna, I'm talking about the doctor/patient rules on confidentiality. These rules are very strict, and I always go over them with everyone that I talk to in this room because once you understand these rules, you should feel much more comfortable about talking to me."

"OK," she said in a flat tone, "what are the rules?"

"Brianna, everything we say in here, stays here. Except for a couple of unusual exceptions that I will talk about later, I can never divulge anything that we said here to anyone else. I've been calling this a rule, but it's more than a rule—it's the law. I could be sued if I were to talk about anything you say here to anyone else. That includes, for instance, my wife. You can, if you wish, talk about our conversations with anyone you choose, but I am not allowed to do so."

"I see," she said noncommittally, as she fiddled with the cloth on the arm of the chair that she was sitting in.

"The advantages of this law to you may not be entirely obvious, but when you stop and think about it, this is a unique relationship that we have. Because, generally, when you talk to another person, there is the possibility that the person may repeat what you told them to someone else. Even worse, what is repeated might not be what you actually said. So even though a person may only subconsciously realize it, a normal conversation has some restraints built into it. If, for instance, you were considering divorcing your husband but needed to keep that intention secret, you would probably not tell anyone what you were planning to do. Perhaps, if you had a friend that you really trusted, you could tell that person. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes—this sounds like something I saw on TV about a lawyer and the person he was defending."

"That's right—it's the same thing, only here, instead of being called the attorney/client privilege, it's called the doctor/patient privilege. But practically speaking, they're the same thing, and so, just like a defense attorney is wholly on the side of the person whom he's defending, I'm entirely on your side in any conversations that we might have. I may not agree with you, or I may offer suggestions that you ignore, but that doesn't change the fact that nothing you say to me can ever leave this room and come back to harm you. As for the tapes I make of conversations with my clients, they are locked in my safe when I leave here at night, and in my fifteen years of counseling people, I can tell you that no person outside of myself has ever listened to any tape that I have made. Also, I always erase these tapes when my sessions with a client have come to an end."

"What about...do you write up summaries of what we talk about?"

"Only in the vaguest possible manner. So if someone told me that they slapped their wife in the face and felt guilty about it, I might, in writing up the case for the person's file, say that the person was having some difficulty relating to his wife but was hoping to work out a successful resolution. Since I do keep the files for a couple of years, I am cautious about committing anything specific to a piece of paper, and I would certainly never put into writing anything that could compromise a client—whether that compromise was with their family, their work situation, or the law."

For the first time, Brianna seemed to show some interest in what I was saying. Not much, but a little. "So what are the exceptions that you were going to talk about? Nothing like the fine print," she said, with the barest hint of a smile.

"There are really only two exceptions. The first exception occurs around the issue of suicide. If I feel that you are likely to commit suicide, then I am obligated to seek care for you. Practically speaking, this means that you would be taken to a treatment center for a few days. However, when I speak of suicide, I am not talking about someone who says, 'There are some days when I'd like to take my life.' Or maybe the person might say, 'I was so depressed yesterday that if I had a gun, I would have shot myself.' These types of statements are fairly common in this kind of setting and would not justify my breaking the doctor/patient privilege. Of course, if a week after telling me that you would have committed suicide if you had a gun, you then told me that you had just purchased a gun, it would be an entirely different situation. I would then want to know why you had purchased the gun, and I think it highly likely that I would be forced to seek help for you. Please bear in mind that this exception to the doctor/patient privilege is solely for your own protection. Also, although I would be allowed to disclose the fact that you had told me you were suicidal and had bought a gun, I would not be allowed to tell anyone about anything else you said to me that is not directly connected to the suicide issue. This means I would not be able to talk to anyone about your relationships or anything of that nature."

"Alright," said Brianna, "but how do I know that you would do this? It all sounds nice enough, but what's to prevent you from talking to someone like Amber about the things that we discuss? I'm not saying that you would, but what's to prevent you?"

"First of all, you could sue me for malpractice, and secondly, I would lose my license to practice in this state. The laws about doctor/patient privilege are very clear, Brianna, and they're strictly enforced."

"But who would really know what to believe? Suppose you did tell Amber about this conversation--how would I know?"

"Yes...you do have a point. It's certainly possible that if I talked to a person about our conversations, you would have no way of knowing that I broke the privilege. But if I were to do that, I would be taking a great risk because, as I said before, I would lose my license if anyone discovered that I had broken the doctor/patient privilege."

"Have you ever talked to Amber about any of the conversations that you've had with your patients?"

"No, absolutely not. She understands that it's illegal for me to do that, and the most I ever say to her is that it was a hard day with a lot of difficult cases. Sometimes, the fact that I can't talk to her seems like a hindrance because she's an intelligent woman with a lot of good insights, but I assure you that I'm not about to break the law."

"It would seem like...I mean if someone told you about something awful that they had done...wouldn't that be a heavy burden to carry around? Wouldn't you want to talk to someone?"

In all my years as a psychiatrist, I had never had a client question me so thoroughly about the doctor/patient privilege.

"Yes, it can be a burden," I said, "but that's what I get paid for."

"Speaking of money...I really don't have the money for this kind of thing. I'll admit that talking to a psychiatrist is...it might be something that could help me, but unfortunately, I'm living day-to-day right now. I'm a month behind on my bills, and I've maxed out the two credit cards I have. I couldn't even write you out a check for ten dollars because I wrote out so many bad checks last year that the bank has closed my account."

"There may be a way around that, Brianna. Here's what we can do: Your first two sessions will be free, and during that time, I'll be able to determine if you fit into one of the diagnostic categories that the State of Maryland will reimburse me for if a person doesn't have the funds to pay for the sessions. I won't receive anywhere near the money I get for a regular client, but it will certainly be enough to make our sessions possible. I make a good living at this job, so I can afford to have some clients that pay less than others. I've seen many people over the years who are in the same boat that you are in financially."

"I guess there's nothing like being flat broke to bring on a big depression," said Brianna.

"That's right—a lot of times, depression comes from a buildup of various issues in one's life. It isn't just one thing, usually, but a combination of factors."

Brianna was looking down at the arm of her chair—she was still picking at the cloth with her index finger.

"There is," I said, "one other issue that I need to mention in regard to the doctor/patient privilege. It's the second exception that I talked about earlier."

Brianna looked up at me with her dark, brooding eyes. "Exception?"

"Yes—you remember how I mentioned that if you were on the verge of suicide, I could disclose certain aspects of our conversations?"

"Oh, that," said Brianna. "Why is it that there are always loopholes to everything? Who's to say that you won't go home to Amber tonight and tell her that you're afraid I might commit suicide? I'll tell you, Mr. Garrett—that's the part that makes me really nervous. I just don't want my dirty laundry spread all over town. It's not that I don't trust you or anything, but I would just assume, no matter what you or any other psychiatrist might say, that you would talk about this with your wife. Isn't Amber going to at least ask you how I am?"

"She might. And I would say something like 'Brianna is doing OK. There are certain issues she and I have decided to work on, but of course, I can't talk to you about them.'"

"But what if she really wanted to know? Suppose she demanded to know and wouldn't let you sleep with her until you told her my problems?"

"It doesn't work like that, Brianna. If...that's too paranoid. Amber isn't obsessed with you, and she knows that I'm not allowed to talk about any sessions that I have. The only conversations I have with her about my job are very, very general ones. She'll ask me what kind of a day I had, or another kind of conversation we might have is about some issue like paranoia. So she might ask me what I think causes paranoia and what the best way to deal with it is. But when we have a conversation like that, I don't bring up specific examples that relate to someone I am either seeing or have seen. It's totally off limits, and besides, it's not difficult for me to keep things from Amber because she's really not very concerned about my job."

"I just think...I met her not so long ago, and she seemed awfully curious about me."

"She was kind of concerned about you, but she was just trying to be a friend."

"So what did she say about me?"

"I don't remember what she said exactly—it was the day that she met you at the coffee shop."

"We didn't really meet there—I was just minding my own business, and she decided to take a seat at my table. So what did she say about what happened that day?"

"There was something about a demon—you were worried about a demon."

Brianna looked around the room before she said anything. "For all we know, Mr. Garrett, there could be a demon in here. It's not like they wear clothes and comb their hair, so if there was a demon in this room, we'd never see it. That's what happens with demons—they sneak up on you when everything in your life seems to be going OK. But I suppose you think they don't exist—right?"

"I don't really know. The only thing I can say for certain is that I've never encountered one."

"So you say...so you say. Anyways, what was this second loophole that you wanted to talk to me about?"

She was looking directly at me now, and her dark eyes seemed luminous, maybe even hypnotic.

"Yes," I said, as I turned my gaze away from her. "The second exception to--"

"Why don't we just call it what it is—a loophole. If the cops come pounding on your door and want to know what we've been talking about, I'm sure you'd be squealing like a greased pig. No offense, Mr. Garrett, but I wasn't born yesterday. And a person like you, who has a lot to lose if you don't play by the rules of the game, isn't going to blow off no cop for some fancy privilege."

Annoyed, I said, "Ms. Edwards, if you don't feel comfortable talking to me, no one is forcing you to stay."

"Don't take it so personal, Mr. Garrett. You're just part of the game, and I know the rules of the game. I'm sure you do everything you can to keep your conscience clean and shiny, but all I'm saying is that if push comes to shove, you'll do what everybody else does when they find themselves with their backs to the wall. No prissy privilege is going to mean anything then. Anyways, what's the second loophole?"

"The second exception applies to crimes that you might be contemplating—crimes that you might commit in the future. In that case, I am required to break the doctor/patient privilege, especially if the crime is murder. For instance, if you said that you were planning to murder your husband, I would have to notify the police unless there was some reason not to take your threat seriously. And once again, I'm not talking about a very generalized threat such as 'I'd like to murder my husband.' I've heard that one a few times! The threat that would cause me to break the privilege would have to be quite specific and detailed—in other words, I would have to believe that you really were going to murder your husband. However, this exception that I'm talking about does not apply, for the most part, to crimes that you may have committed in the past. Not many people realize that if you were to tell me that you had murdered someone, I would not be allowed to notify the police. I know that all this probably doesn't apply to you, but for the sake of thoroughness, I need to go through the details of this exception with you. I hope you don't mind?"

"I'm all ears," said Brianna, in an enigmatic tone.

"Basically, Brianna, the rules governing the admission of crimes in a therapeutic setting follow common sense. Let's say that you told me you murdered someone five years ago but no one had, as yet, been arrested. In that case, everything you told me about the murder would be privileged information that could not leave this room. But let's say that a person had been arrested and convicted for the crime you committed and was now in prison. Here, in this case, the privilege would no longer exist because harm is being caused to another by my failure to act on what I know. That is the basic principle behind all this—if another person is being harmed or is likely to be harmed by your conduct, then I am obligated to report this to the police. This is why, to take an extreme example, I would have to report a serial killer to the authorities. But if a person had murdered someone because of a unique circumstance--such as murders committed by jealous husbands or wives—then I could not make that known to any other person."

"Sure...a person is going to give you a blow-by-blow account of how they did away with someone, and you're going to sit there and keep all that to yourself? Why? Why would anyone do that?"

"Brianna, the doctor/patient privilege is a very powerful tool because it allows a person to tell his or her psychiatrist just about anything with no fear of any reprisals. The basic underlying assumption of therapy is that a person must fully open up to the therapist. I've had years of training, but I can't help you unless I know everything that I need to know. Let's say, for instance, that you're a sixteen-year-old woman who is troubled by nightmares about her father. And maybe, in our discussions about your father, you've presented him as being a very decent man—kind and honest and gentle. However, the only reason you've told me that is because you're afraid that if you told me the truth about your father, it might get back to him, and then he would do what he's always done to you, which is to be violent and sexually abusive. And so, when I analyze your nightmares about your father, I wouldn't have any real clue as to their origin and would undoubtedly come to a wrong conclusion when I tried to interpret them for you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"You're saying, I guess, that this is our own private island and that no one is allowed to intrude."

"That's a good way of putting it, except that this is even better than a private island because sometimes, people are rescued from islands, and the two people are then free to talk to others about what they said when they were together, but the island we're on will never go away. Forever and ever, our conversations, outside of the exceptions I mentioned, will remain our exclusive property. And unless you decide to tell someone what we said in these conversations, our words will never leave this room."

"OK, I'll think about it--maybe I will talk to you about some things that are troubling me. But I need some time to think about it. Why don't we make an appointment for next week, and if I decide to back out of it, I'll call you at least two days before the appointment and let you know. Is that...do you mind if we do something like that?"

"That's not a problem—a lot of people have hesitations before they enter into something like this."

"Maybe so, but I'm not like a lot of people."

## CHAPTER FOUR

Brianna kept her appointment, but she still seemed nervous about talking to me. "Mr. Garrett, I hope you don't mind, but I called Amber last week and talked to her about you for a while."

"You did? What for? She didn't say anything to me about it."

"I asked her not to. The reason I called her was to find out whether you were telling me the truth last week about how you don't discuss your cases with her. And she said, 'Oh, no, no. We never discuss what goes on with his psychiatrist stuff. I'm not really interested in it, but even if I was, he's not allowed to talk to me about any of the conversations that he has with his clients.'"

I was annoyed that Brianna had called Amber to check up on me, but all I said was "It's important that you trust me because as I said the other day, we won't get very far if you don't tell me the things that are going on in your life."

"Or have gone on in my life—right?"

"Yes—anything that seems important to you. There's nothing to fear from talking to me—I won't use it against you. My goal is to make these sessions worthwhile for you, and the hope is that you'll become a happier person who is better able to deal with life."

Brianna had a way of avoiding eye contact with me for minutes at a time, but then, suddenly, she would stare directly into my eyes with an unwavering intense gaze. With her eyes locked on me, she said, "You're not interested in me sexually, are you? Because...I just don't think it would work."

"Brianna, where did you ever come up with that idea? It's not because of something I said, is it? Because I certainly did not mean to imply anything like that."

"No, you haven't said anything—not that it would bother me if you did. But I think there's usually a sexual undercurrent anytime a man and woman of our ages are together. Maybe not right away, but the longer the two people are together, the more sexual thoughts can enter in. Remember last week when I was talking about the desert island?"

"About how our conversations were similar to two people who were on a desert island?"

"Yes," she said. "So what do you suppose would happen if you and I were really stranded on a desert island? Maybe for the first year or so, you'd hold on to your feelings for Amber, but as time passed, how could we not begin to become seriously attracted to each other?"

"Perhaps...but that's not really a good analogy. It's true that we're alone here, but when your appointment is over, we're not on the desert island anymore."

"But the thoughts would still exist," said Brianna.

"What thoughts?"

"The thoughts that we had while we were on the desert island. OK, so you don't like the desert island thing. Let's say that you and I were thrown into a box like a coffin for an hour. Our bodies would be touching, touching all over, and maybe you could hold out for an hour because of Amber, but during the time that we were in the box, you would have certain thoughts going through your mind. But those thoughts wouldn't disappear once you and I were let out of the box. They'd stay there, and as you drove home, they would be running through your mind. The sensual feelings you had and all that. The things that you could maybe have done because I seemed compliant. It's hard for me not to be compliant—I think that's one of my problems. And I can feel things, sexual things from men. Things that are like signals. Desires...you must know what I'm talking about."

"Brianna, everything you say may be true, but the relationship I have with you needs to be totally professional. I didn't mention it last week, but it's completely unethical for a psychiatrist to have a sexual relationship with one of his patients. It's also against the law."

"OK, but who would know? You're not allowed to talk to anyone about anything that goes on in here, so who would know?"

"I'm not allowed to talk to anyone, but you are."

"Mr. Garrett, I think you underestimate the power of attraction between men and women. Maybe you've been trained to be all clinical and antiseptic when it comes to the women you meet here, but the truth can come out in unexpected ways."

"What truth would that be?"

"The truth is that men and women want each other, and the only thing that holds them back are all the rules that society has about...I guess I would call it spontaneous sex."

"I'm held back because I'm married."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"For most people, a sexual relationship is a commitment that you make exclusively to one person."

Brianna laughed in a cheerful way—very rare for her. "And people wonder why we have so many divorces. Sure, people can and do make the commitment, and then just as surely, they go out and break the commitment when they're thrown into a box with another person. Of course, the box isn't an actual box—maybe it's a work situation where two people are together all the time. And then it's just like I said—the thoughts begin to build up, and they don't go away. More and more thoughts. Hot thoughts, you might say."

"Brianna, let's try to move away from this issue. Whatever thoughts I have about you sexually are irrelevant because nothing is going to happen. People have literally millions of thoughts that go through their mind in a lifetime, and almost all of them are never acted upon. I think we could better spend our time considering those issues that are causing you trouble. Does that make sense to you?"

"Well, you're kind of like the boss around here, so I guess that's alright with me."

"First of all, I'd like to know what's bothering you. I assume that something is—otherwise, you wouldn't be here."

"Dr. Garrett, to be honest with you, I just want some Lorazepam because that seems to calm me down."

"But why is it...or what is it that's causing you to feel stressed?"

Brianna thought about this for almost thirty seconds before she said anything. "I think things from my past are coming back to haunt me. You probably don't believe in hauntings, but they happen more often than you think."

"Can you give me an example of what you're talking about?"

"Sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, I can see ghosts."

"What do these ghosts look like?"

"Mostly, the ghost looks like a person I lived with many years ago. Her name was Valetta Lopez, and I knew her for a while. The ghost doesn't have a face, but I know it's Valetta because she keeps saying, 'Brianna...Brianna.' And Valetta has a voice that I'll never forget." Brianna stopped, and I could see that she was on the verge of tears, so I reached out to give her a Kleenex, but she brushed my hand away. After wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse, Brianna said, "She's the demon, and I'll never be able to get rid of her."

"OK, let's go step by step. When—"

"Oh by all means—step by step until we enter the burning fires of hell."

"You feel uncomfortable talking about Valetta?" I said.

"I feel uncomfortable being alive."

"So when did you meet Valetta?"

"This was about fifteen years ago, when I was in my early twenties."

"And she was a friend of yours?"

"No, not really. Do you mind if I lie down on your couch?"

"Sure, if you feel more comfortable there."

After Brianna stretched out on my couch, she asked me if there was something she could use to cover her eyes. I brought her a small towel from a bathroom that was connected to my outer office, and she placed it over her eyes. "You must think I'm really weird," she said. "I'll bet I'm the weirdest patient you've ever had."

"I don't really know—this is only our second session."

Brianna took the towel off her eyes and turned to look at me with that somber, unwavering stare. "But you will—you will think that before all this is over."

After she had placed the towel back over her eyes, she said, "I see things better when my eyes are closed. Yes, Valetta Lopez...that really was a fork in the road for me, a place where my whole life changed. Nothing has ever been the same since that day."

"So what kind of a relationship did you have with Valetta?"

"Not a very good one!" said Brianna. "And it was even worse for her than it was for me."

"Can you describe what happened with Valetta that makes you so upset? Just try to start at the beginning—who was she?"

"'Was' is the right word because she isn't an 'is' anymore. No, Miss Valetta is definitely a 'was.' And really, she didn't do all that much to me, but sometimes, things fall out a lot different than what you might expect."

"Brianna, you're not telling me anything specific. I gather that something upsetting happened with Valetta, but—"

Brianna laughed. "It was a lot more than upsetting, especially for Valetta."

"OK, but I don't really have any idea what you're talking about."

Brianna was silent for at least a minute. Finally, I said, "Brianna?"

"Mr. Garrett," she said, "do you think it would be alright if we cut this session short? We're beginning to get close to some things that are very disturbing for me personally."

"OK, that's not a problem."

"But couldn't you give me a few Lorazepam until then?"

"Alright, I can do that." I went over to a metal cabinet and came back with a small vial of pills. "There are a dozen tablets in this vial, Brianna. They're one milligram tablets, so it would be best if you limit yourself to two a day. Lorazepam becomes ineffective and counterproductive if you take too much of it, so I would advise taking one tablet in the morning and see how that works."

"What about if I can't go to sleep at night?"

"Then you could take the other tablet before you go to bed."

## CHAPTER FIVE

A day before my next appointment with Brianna, Jason said, "I heard that you've been talking to Mrs. Edwards."

We were eating dinner, but Amber had already left the table and was cleaning up in the kitchen.

"Yes," I said "how did you find that out?"

"Terri told me."

"Who's Terri?" I said.

"She's one of Mrs. Edwards' daughters." Jason, like many teenagers his age, was wolfing down his dessert, but he stopped between bites and said, "She has got to be one of the strangest people in the world."

"Who--Terri?" said Kym.

"No, you dummy," said Peter. "Mrs. Edwards. She's always creeped me out. I'm glad they moved to the other side of town."

"Why did she creep you out?" I said.

"Just the way that she would look at me. And then there was the time when I was over her house and she was walking around without hardly any of her clothes on. I mean she had some clothes on but not much."

"How come you were over there?" said Kym.

"After school one day, I walked over there with Terri."

"So you do like her," said Kym. "I knew it!"

"Terri has never been my girlfriend—not even close."

"At least you weren't fooling around with her sister," said Kym.

"Who? Shonda? I'm not totally stupid, Kym—everyone knows that Shonda is bad news."

"So what was Mrs. Edwards wearing that got you so excited?" said Kym.

"I was not excited! In fact, I was totally grossed out. The only thing she had on was a kind of short bathrobe that wasn't tied up very well. I was...I just backed up out of the room, and I've never gone back to their house since then."

"What did Terri say to you about me?" I said to Jason.

"Not much—just that you were seeing her mother in your capacity as a shrink." Jason always called me a shrink—he thought it was a funny word.

"Almost nobody knows about this," said Kym, "but I had a big fight with Shonda earlier this week."

"What did you fight about?" said Jason. "Let me guess—it must have been about Craig Benson."

"How did you know?" said Kym.

"Kym, everybody knows that you and Craig are going at it hot and heavy."

"Shut up, Jason—just shut up. What Craig and I do is none of your business."

"It is my business if you're kissing him in the corridor. That's kind of gross, Kym. You should do things like that in the back of the library where they have all those piles of books that they don't know what to do with. Anyways, was that what you were fighting with Shonda about?"

"Maybe."

"I didn't know she liked Benson. What's so great about him? He walks like a turkey who's about to lay a smelly egg."

Conversations like this made me glad that I wasn't a teenager. "Kym," I said, "what kind of fight did you have with Shonda?" I figured that I'd better find out the details if I was talking with Shonda's mother.

"Shonda just thinks that she can horn in on anybody," said Kym. "I mean she's way better looking than me—she's way better looking than anyone at the high school, and she just likes to go around and flirt with guys who have a girlfriend. I was so mad at her that I called her a slut."

"Kym," I said, "you shouldn't say things like that."

"But, Dad, she is a slut because she doesn't just flirt with guys, she actually gives them what they want. I mean everything."

"The whole thing?" said Jason.

"Everything."

"How do you know that?" said Jason, who seemed to be showing an abnormal amount of interest.

"Because I know two other girls who had their relationships with their boyfriends wrecked because of her. And they told me that for a while, their ex-boyfriends were getting what they wanted on a daily basis."

"That's terrible," said Jason, with mock sympathy.

I knew that if my sister and I had talked like this at the dinner table, my father would have done something real bad to the two of us, but this was 2015, and the old rules had been replaced by a notion that freedom of speech trumped any sense of elegance or decency. You couldn't, at least in my house, use any of the four-letter vulgarities, but I knew, from overhearing some of Jason's phone conversations, that he liked to say things like "Who the flunk cares?" Or: "Let's go to the flunking store."

"How can I compete with that?" said Kym. "I know Mom's suspicious that I'm not a virgin, but the fact is that I am." Looking at me, Kym said, "Would you mind telling her that, Dad? There's hardly a week that goes by where I don't have to answer to the state of my you-know-what. I've always thought that freshman year of college would be a good time for me to lose my virginity because I'm smart enough to know that high school boys are just drooling sex maniacs. Isn't that right, Jason?"

"Very funny, Kym."

"I bet Mom doesn't check up on you every week. And I'll bet you've done a lot more with Jasmine than I ever did with Craig."

"That's because I've got the moves, Kym," said Jason as he shook his shoulders back and forth in a way that he interpreted as being the last word in cool.

"So," I said, "what happened after you called Shonda that name?"

"She came right at me and tried to tear my blouse off."

"Out in the corridor?" said Jason.

"No, it was after class and we were alone—everyone else had gone out of the room. At first, I thought she was just trying to rip my blouse, but then she pulled it over my head, and I couldn't move my arms, so I started screaming. A couple of seconds later, Mr. Abrams came running into the room, but when Shonda heard him coming, she yanked my blouse down. But I've been scared of her since then. Just yesterday, she walked by me in the corridor, yanked her blouse way up, and said, "One of these days, you'll be walking around here topless, Kym."

"That's kind of nasty," said Jason.

"I should say so," said Kym.

Later than night, I talked to Amber about some of the things I had heard at the dinner table.

"Amber, have you heard about a fight that Kym had with Brianna's daughter?"

"Kym told me about it yesterday--I'd been meaning to tell you about it, but I forgot."

"Did she mention how Shonda had tried to take her blouse off?"

"Yes, Casey, I heard all about it—in fact, I heard a lot more than I wanted to know."

"It seems a little extreme to me."

"Well, boys will be boys and girls will be girls. There are a lot of things that go on down there that would make your head spin. Taken in context, especially since it was a fight over a guy, what happened is not that abnormal. I suppose you're concerned because Shonda's mother is seeing you. Did she mention anything about it?" Amber put her hand over her mouth, laughed, and then said, "Oops! I know you can't talk about anything she told you."

"I haven't seen Brianna since it happened."

"Did Kym tell you about the other thing?"

"What other thing?"

"About a week ago, Kym told me about this doozy of a conversation that she had with Shonda's sister whose name is Terri. This happened before the fight Kym had with Shonda."

"So what did Terri say?"

"She thinks her mother is going crazy. I mean...is she? You can tell me that, can't you?"

"No, I really shouldn't comment on anything that goes on between her and me. Did Terri say anything specific to Kym about why she thinks her mother is going crazy?"

"It was mostly stuff that she does late at night. I guess she wanders around the house then and starts to talk about things that don't make any sense. Terri woke up one night last week and while she was on her way to the kitchen for a snack, she saw her mother standing naked in front of the living room window and could hear her mumbling something about a person named Valetta. When Terri asked her mother what she was doing, Brianna said, 'Mark my words, Valetta will be the death of us all.' And then, for the next day or two, Brianna kept saying, 'She's going to be the death of us all.' I guess, from what Terri said, her mother has always been a bit on the edge when it comes to her sanity. And now she's starting to clean the mirror in the bathroom because she claims that the only person she can see in the mirror is Valetta. I don't know...she's seeing you and you're good with things like that, so I figure that you'll be able to help her."

I was beginning to realize that Brianna was far more disturbed than I had originally thought.

"There's also something else that I should tell you about," said Amber.

"About Brianna?"

"No, it's about Shonda. Yesterday, I was in the principal's office talking to Brenda about the budget for next year when she suddenly asked me if I thought there was any connection between Shonda and Kora Bradley. 'Connection?' I said. What Brenda told me was that the police had talked to her and said...do you remember—it was about a month ago—when I told you that they had found about three ounces of marijuana in a student's locker?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, that student turned out to be Shonda Edwards, and apparently, the police think that Shonda and Kora Bradley may have been...I don't know—partners or something when it came to selling marijuana. But I guess the two of them had a big falling out because the reason Shonda was busted was because of a tip that came from Kora."

"How in the world do you know that?"

"That's what the police told Brenda."

"I don't understand why they would tell Brenda something like that."

"The police are thinking that Shonda may have had something to do with Kora's disappearance, so they've put a supposed transfer student into most of her classes. She's trying to get close to Shonda to find out if she knows anything, and Brenda was just giving me a heads up about the transfer student. It's kind of a stupid situation because I'm supposed to give Marie, that's the transfer student, B's on all her papers and tests."

"How old is Marie?"

"I think she's nineteen, but she looks younger."

"Are they bringing charges against Shonda?"

"Of course! Possessing three ounces of marijuana inside the high school is a very serious offense. But here's the thing that really worries me about all this: Kym has never liked Shonda, but she was pretty good friends with Kora."

"You think Kym might be smoking marijuana?"

"I've talked to her about it, but she claims that she only tried it a couple of times and that she didn't like it at all. I got kind of upset about it while I was talking to her because Kym was like 'No big deal—practically everyone smokes grass nowadays.'"

"If she gets caught with marijuana on the school grounds, it could wipe out her scholarship to the University of Maryland."

"As if I didn't know," said Amber. "Meanwhile, Shonda is like damaged goods—there's no way they'll ever give her a scholarship if she's convicted of having the three ounces of marijuana in her locker. It's like the kiss of death."

"And you really think that Kym isn't involved with marijuana?"

"No! Absolutely not! I went over the whole scholarship thing with her, and I think she understands how devastating it would be for her if she were to be caught with marijuana on school grounds. 'Mom,' she said, 'I've gone to quite a few parties around here, and sometimes I like to have a glass of wine or a beer, but that marijuana stuff is not for me. It just makes me feel weird, and then after a while, I begin to think that something bad is going to happen to me.'"

"So she has smoked some," I said.

"Yes, but I believe her when she says that it doesn't appeal to her. And really, that's the best safeguard when it comes to avoiding drugs."

"That you don't like the feeling you get from them?"

"Exactly."

"OK," I said, "but I think I'll talk to her about it because it's too important an issue to ignore. I realize that it's not really a big deal if she's at a party and smokes a joint, but bringing drugs into school is like committing social suicide."

The next morning, before I left for the office, I had a short conversation with Kym. To be honest, my primary concern about Kym's involvement with marijuana was almost solely based on money. Kym was a good student who received all A's and B's on her report cards, and her college boards had been in the top ten percent. Along with that, she was attractive and had an engaging personality, so it was no surprise to Amber or me when she received a substantial scholarship to the University of Maryland—almost twelve thousand dollars out of the twenty-thousand-dollar admission fee. Forty-eight thousand dollars over four years! Naturally, I didn't want to see that amount of money jeopardized by a frivolous incident involving marijuana. Outside of the scholarship issue, I wasn't particularly concerned about Kym smoking marijuana because I was one of many who didn't feel that it was a particularly dangerous drug. The Lorazepam and Valium that I wrote prescriptions for were, in my opinion, more dangerous. Also, when I was younger, I had briefly experimented with marijuana, and after smoking it a few times, I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about when it came to this drug. The effects on me were quite mild—just a kind of dreamy reverie that often led to massive yawning attacks. However, based on my experience with people that I've seen in therapeutic situations, marijuana can produce much more intense feelings in some people. More than a few clients told me that marijuana made them intensely paranoid.

"Kym," I said when we were alone together at the kitchen table, "I wanted to talk to you about something your mother has already discussed with you."

I could see that Kym was tensing up—no teen wants to have a conversation with a parent that starts this way.

"You haven't done anything wrong," I said, "but I do need to talk about this whole issue of drugs that has come up lately—especially marijuana."

"Dad, it's like I told Mom—I don't have anything to do with that stuff. Yes—I did try it a couple of times when I went to parties in Newberry last summer. But I didn't like it, and I haven't done it since."

Kym was not one of those kids who made a habit of lying to their parents—neither Amber nor I had ever caught her in a serious lie, and instinctively, I trusted her.

"But you understand why your mother and I are so concerned—right?"

"No, actually, I don't. I've told you that I don't use marijuana, and that's the truth. Don't you believe me?"

"I do believe you, but it's just...the reason your mother and I are so concerned is because we don't want to see your scholarship affected. Just because they've offered the scholarship to you doesn't mean that they can't take it back."

"I understand that, Dad, but you've got nothing to worry about. I want to get that scholarship as much as you want me to get that scholarship. No way do I want to see you pay a fortune to send me to college."

"I guess the reason we're concerned is because your mother heard that Kora Bradley might have been selling drugs, and we know that you're friends with her."

"Dad," said Kym, in an annoyed tone, "first of all, I don't think Kora was selling drugs, although I suppose it's possible because that brings me to my second point: I'm not really friends with Kora. I was a lot closer to her last year, but then she fell in love with Brad Peterson, and we kind of drifted apart. She just didn't have any time for me after that—it wasn't like we had a big fight or anything."

"Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?" I said.

"To Kora? Well, obviously, she's dead."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's not like I know anything, but she got along with her parents and two brothers, so I don't think it's at all likely that she ran away."

"I heard she had a big fight with Shonda Edwards."

"No, I was the one who had the big fight with her—as far as I know, Kora and Shonda were pretty tight. Maybe that's why people suspect Kora of being involved with drugs because Shonda was caught with a big bag of marijuana in her locker."

"Did you ever hear Shonda talk about that?"

"No, the only thing we ever really talked about was Craig Benson."

## CHAPTER SIX

An hour later, I met with Brianna for our third session. She was dressed entirely in black—a black baseball cap, black blouse, black jeans, and low-cut black boots. At first, she sat in the chair, but almost immediately, she moved over to the couch and stretched out on it. "I might be able to talk to you about some of this if I don't have to look at you," she said. "But I really don't know if I'm up to it."

"Brianna, it's important that you tell me what's bothering you because in order for the state to help fund your visits, I need to be able to place you into some sort of diagnostic category that falls under their health care mandate."

"Yes, yes," she said, "no talk, no money, no session, no Lorazepam. It wasn't like I demanded to come here or anything. It was all the State of Maryland's idea. And then, of course, there's Amber who's also trying to look out for me in her own peculiar way. Pardon me for saying it, but she's one of those people who just think that they're God's gift to the world. I know she's your wife and all, but still, she's a bit too much sometimes. Have you ever psychoanalyzed her, or is she off limits?"

"Brianna—"

"I suppose you psychoanalyze her on your spare time, like when you're driving home from work. But I know what you're going to tell me next—we're not here to talk about Amber; we're here to talk about me. By the way, that kid of yours is something else."

I was on the verge of telling Brianna that I didn't think I could help her. I'd never had a session with someone who I'd known before, and I could now understand why many psychiatrists refuse to see anyone who is connected to either themselves or their family.

"Could you get me the towel again, Mr. Garrett? The lights in here are a little too bright for me."

After I had returned with the towel, which she put over her eyes, Brianna said, "I think, when I left here the last time, I was talking about Valetta Lopez."

"Yes, apparently something traumatic happened in your relationship with her."

"It was much more traumatic for Valetta than it was for me, but even so, I still have lots of nightmares about her." Suddenly, she took the towel away from her eyes, sat bolt upright, and said, "And I think that's where all my evil thoughts are coming from."

"So when did you meet Valetta?"

Brianna returned to her former position on the couch and placed the towel over her eyes. "I met Valetta a long time ago," she said. "It was when I was twenty-three, so that would be sixteen years ago. She was a little younger than me—I think she was eighteen at the time. Nowadays, she's not in time anymore, so she doesn't have any age. But back then, she was still in time."

"How did you meet her?"

"I almost feel like this is a confessional," said Brianna. "It reminds me of when I was ten years old and would tell the priest about all my bad deeds. The priest would then give me a few prayers to say for my penance, and supposedly, if I said the prayers he gave me, all my sins would be forgiven. But what are you going to give me? You don't believe in prayers, so maybe you could give me some Lorazepam—I've already run out of the pills that you gave me last time."

"I do a lot more than hand out pills, Brianna. In fact, I only prescribe medication for people who are very seriously disturbed. Otherwise, what I do with my patients is try to help them to come to an understanding of themselves. Once you really understand what's going on in your mind, you can deal with it. What I've found from dealing with literally hundreds of people is that the usual response to unpleasant episodes in the past is to attempt to run away and hide from them. But if a person does that, then the problem lingers and festers and becomes a kind of cancer that can drive someone crazy."

"I wish your kid, whatever her name is, hadn't called Shonda a slut. That's a very bad thing to say to another person. Maybe you didn't hear about that incident, but that's exactly what happened. I would think the daughter of a psychiatrist would have a little more on the ball than that."

"Brianna, perhaps we can discuss that later in the context of things that are bothering you. But for now, we need to talk about this incident with Valetta because it seems to me that this may be the origin of your current problems. And certainly, by the way you're avoiding my questions about Valetta, I see a person who is really disturbed by something that happened in the past. So let's stick to that, if you don't mind. The last question I asked you about Valetta was how you met."

"We met at the Laundromat, actually. Or maybe...yes, that was where we met her."

"When you say we, who do you mean?"

"Me and my boyfriend—his name was Jalen. Black guy, but he was kind of mean...did lots of drugs and got me hooked on cocaine."

"OK, so you struck up a conversation with Valetta while you were at the Laundromat?"

"No, I wouldn't have been the one to do that. Jalen was always the one who liked to fool around, so he must have been the one who was talking to her. I was just Jalen's clothes folder in those days—his maid, in other words. That's why he got me hooked on cocaine—that way, he had someone who would cook his food and clean his filthy apartment. I think the only reason he came down to the Laundromat that night was because he wondered what was taking me so long."

"And then what happened?" I had to drag everything out of Brianna who was obviously not eager to volunteer information.

"I don't know...I can't remember exactly. I don't think Valetta came back to the apartment that night. Jalen probably gave her our phone number, but it wasn't long before Valetta started hanging around our place a lot. And then one day, she just kind of moved in and started sleeping on the couch in the living room. She had some kind of big purple backpack that she kept all her junk in. Jalen and I had a big fight about Valetta because I could see that he was beginning to like her more than me. I don't know why he would—she wasn't all that much to look at. Scrawny, if you know what I mean...men are so weird when it comes to sex—all they ever want is someone new because, to them, it's all about the first time. I think Valetta was really good at stringing him along without actually giving him anything. That's why Shonda got so mad at your daughter. What's her name?"

"Her name is Kym."

"You have to admit that Kym isn't exactly built like Miss Universe—she may have a nice personality, but she'd be an embarrassment in the swimsuit competition. I hope you don't mind me saying that, Dr. Garrett, but it's true. My Shonda is the hottest girl at the high school, and she gave that Benson guy everything he wanted, but that wasn't good enough for him. He just had to have some of Miss Kym's treats. But I'll admit that your daughter does know how to play men—she's got Benson chasing her around morning, noon, and night."

I got up from my chair, walked over to Brianna, and yanked the towel away from her face. She opened her eyes and looked up at me with a kind of strange, amused smile on her face. "Don't you say those things about my daughter," I said.

"My, my, Mr. Psychiatrist has really lost his cool. Is this the part where you tell me that you don't want to see me anymore?"

"I'm willing to talk to you, but the next time you say something like that about Kym, I will end these sessions immediately."

"What about Amber? Can I talk about her? Or is she another big no-no?"

"Look, Brianna, these sessions are not going to be about some conflict that you've had with my family where I'm supposed to act as a mediator. As I understand it, the problems you have go way back in time and seem to involve a woman named Valetta Lopez. Would you agree to that?"

"I suppose so, but I think that there are some things...the incident with your daughter reminded me of...it just reminded me, that's all."

"Reminded you of what?"

"Of what happened with Valetta," said Brianna.

"Brianna, I can see that whatever took place back then must have been very traumatic for you. From what you said earlier, I take it that Valetta is no longer alive."

Brianna had put the towel over her eyes. "Yes, she's no longer breathing."

"Were you responsible in some way for her death?"

"It was a terrible thing that I did to her, but she...I was provoked, and I just couldn't stop myself."

"How were you provoked?" I said.

"Besides the fact that Valetta had weaseled her way into our apartment, she called me a whore—you see why that reminds me of the thing with your daughter?"

I suddenly wondered if Kym might be in danger. It didn't seem all that likely, but Kym had called Shonda a slut. "Yes," I said, "I understand what you're saying, but before we can talk about that, I need to know what happened with Valetta."

"She stopped breathing."

"How did that happen?"

"She drowned—that's why I say that she stopped breathing."

"And...you were there when she drowned?"

"Very."

"What caused her to drown? Couldn't she swim?"

"As far as I know, she could swim alright, but she wasn't able to because I was holding her head under the water, and..."

"Go on," I said, in a subdued voice.

"She...I was much bigger and stronger than her—Valetta was just kind of...she couldn't have weighed over a hundred pounds. And...are you sure that you want to hear about this?"

"I think it's important for you to get this out in the open because then you'll be able to deal with it."

"And you promise that you won't tell anyone else?"

"Yes, you have nothing to worry about—my livelihood depends on my keeping conversations with my clients absolutely confidential."

"So you say...but, OK, I'll trust you. You remember I told you that I was living with Jalen when he decided to move Valetta into our living room?"

"Yes, and I believe you said that you suspected them of becoming involved in a sexual relationship."

"Not at first," said Brianna. "But it was obvious that Jalen wanted her, and then eventually, it must have happened because Valetta began to take a different attitude towards me. Not all meek and defensive like she had been before--it was more like she had the upper hand somehow. The final blow came about a month after Valetta moved in when Jalen told me that he wanted to sleep with Valetta and that I'd have to sleep on the couch for a while. Naturally, I wanted to move out, but I had absolutely nowhere to go."

Brianna began to twist and turn on the couch as if she were trying to find a comfortable position. "Are you OK?" I said.

"That first night was the worst," said Brianna. "Jalen was acting all condescending to me—trying to be nice and soften the blow, but Valetta was about as high and mighty as you can get. As she and Jalen were about to disappear into the bedroom, she even told me that I should wash the dishes because I wasn't really doing anything to earn my keep anymore. I just sat there on the couch watching TV because there was no way that I was washing that woman's dishes. But I would have been better off if I had done the dishes because the couch was only separated from Jalen's bedroom by a wall, and they'd only been in there five minutes before it became obvious what they were doing. Take down the wall between the TV room and the bedroom and they would have been only three or four feet from me because the head of Jalen's bed was against the wall next to the couch. I could hear almost every word they said, but I never budged—in fact, I turned the TV down. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment, but...it was like I was finding a way to add fuel to the fire of my hatreds."

Brianna took the towel away from her eyes and sat up. But instead of looking towards me, she bent over and put her hands over her face.

"Would you rather talk about this later?" I said.

"No, no...I might as well get it all out now...Are we running out of time or something?"

"Don't worry about that—there's plenty of time."

"I don't know why I feel so guilty about this, Mr. Garrett, but I do. Real guilty—it's like my conscience is screaming out to me every day. I think it had to do with...I'll get to that part soon enough."

Taking a deep sigh, Brianna laid back down on the couch, but this time, she didn't put the towel over her eyes. Staring fixedly at the ceiling, she said, "It was during the second night that I began to form my plan. Little by little, the thought came to me: Valetta didn't deserve to live—not after what she had done to me."

Suddenly, Brianna sat bolt upright and stared directly at me. "You see," she said, "that's where I was wrong. There was no need for me to murder Valetta because it wasn't really her fault at all. No, the blame was all on Jalen, but I was too much of a coward to realize that. Valetta couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds, and Jalen was almost double that, so I couldn't have taken my vengeance out on him. No, the vengeance would be taken out on someone who was weaker than me. I can see that now—I can see that the only reason Valetta was murdered was because she was so much smaller than me. Don't you think that's shameful?"

"I'm not sure it matters now, Brianna. The fact you obviously feel guilt about what you did and realize that you were in the wrong means that you've changed from what you were then."

Brianna shook her head negatively. "That's just words that don't mean nothing to me. Anyways...do you want me to go on with this?"

"Yes, I think it's important for you to talk about this. I assume you never told anyone else about what happened with Valetta?"

Brianna was still staring directly at me. "No! Are you crazy? There's no way that I want to spend my life in prison, even if what I did was very bad...Anyways, the night before Valetta died, I had all these bad thoughts that I couldn't control. I had pretty much made up my mind to murder her, but how was I going to do it? She wasn't going to die on her own, which meant that I had to figure out a way to get her to stop breathing. But even back then, I was very paranoid about getting caught, so that eliminated a lot of possibilities—like I couldn't stab her to death in the apartment. I think I finally came up with the idea that I did because I kept saying to myself, 'How can I get her to stop breathing?'"

Brianna stood up from the couch and moved to the chair, but it was almost a minute before she said anything. "What I did...I had this old beat-up jalopy I was using in those days, and the next morning, I went out and bought a shovel. Gravediggers need shovels. And...Mr. Garrett, I don't know if you want to hear this. Doesn't it bother you? Hasn't anyone ever told you something that was so horrible you couldn't get it out of your mind?"

"Brianna, it's part of my job. Some of the things I've heard in this room can be very disturbing, but I've always had the ability to distance myself from what's said here. I don't carry things around and have dreams about what people tell me, and it's simply impossible for me to help you unless I know what you're dealing with."

"Memories—that's what I'm dealing with. Memories that won't go away; memories that won't stay put; memories that keep rising up in front of my face. So...I think I got to the part where I bought the shovel at a hardware store. When I returned to the apartment, Valetta was there, but Jalen was out somewhere. What I did was I walked into my old bedroom and went to the closet—hopefully, Jalen hadn't moved his gun in the last week or so. He always kept it there except when he was out doing one of his drug deals. I felt around underneath some clothes that were on a shelf at the top of the closet, and the gun was still there. Just as I pulled it out, Valetta came into the room. 'What do you think you're doing, Brianna? This isn't your room anymore, so—'

"That was when she saw the gun—she couldn't very well miss it because I was pointing it at her. I think she probably had a premonition then of what was going to happen to her. It was kind of pathetic, actually, because she began pleading with me—saying things like she would leave the apartment and never come back. Oh yes, baby, you're going to be leaving the apartment, and you definitely won't be coming back no more because the people who've stopped breathing don't get around very well. But I knew it would be better if I tried to give her some hope, so I told her that I would give her a ride to the bus station, but when she tried to grab her things, I shoved her out the door. Do you hate me yet, Mr. Garrett?"

"No, Brianna. This whole thing is like a poison to you, so you just have to get it out. I know it doesn't seem possible, but once you've talked to somebody about this, you'll begin to feel better."

"So you say...anyways, as we left the apartment, I was holding the gun under a towel, and Valetta could feel the barrel of it pressing against her back. When we reached the car, I opened the trunk and told her to get in. You should have seen the look of terror in her eyes. It was something awful, believe me. She totally balked at getting into the trunk and tried to get away from me, but I was way stronger than her, and I just shoved her into the trunk. It was easy because I didn't have to worry about whether she bumped her head or anything like that. She might be damaged goods, but she was going to be real damaged goods in another thirty minutes. Enjoy the ride, baby, because you won't be riding around no more. So I slammed the door of the trunk down and got into the car and drove towards this small lake that was about fifteen miles outside of town off Route...I can't remember the route number. Back in the trunk, I could hear Valetta thrashing around and clawing at the panel that separates the trunk from the back seat. I can still hear her muffled panic-stricken voice: 'Let me out, Brianna—I'll do anything that you want.' And then she started to cry—at least that's what it sounded like."

Brianna stopped talking, and for almost a half-minute, her breath was uneven and raspy—almost like she was panting. "We're coming up to the part that I _really_ don't like to talk about," she said. "I can remember on the ride to the lake that I didn't have any misgivings or doubts about what I had decided to do. And anyways, there was no way that I could turn back and let her go. She'd have been squealing like a pig to everyone that she saw--no matter what promises she made to me. But that wasn't really what was motivating me—it was more like she deserved it, and I was carrying out a just punishment. I knew the punishment that I was going to inflict on her was a little harsh, but the problem was that there was no middle ground. If I didn't stop her from breathing, then she was going to tell Jalen and a lot of other people what I had done to her. So the way I looked on it was that I had an unpleasant chore to do. I assume you know what the chore was?"

"To...no--I'm not sure."

"The chore was to get her to stop breathing, and since people don't do that voluntarily, I was going to have to be the one to make sure it happened. Finally, when we reached the lake, I opened up the trunk, but I had the gun pointing right at her head, and what I did was I yanked her out of the trunk and marched her down to the lake at gunpoint. It was a cloudy, drizzly day in early May and no one was around—I couldn't hear a thing.

"When we reached the edge of the lake, I dropped the gun and shoved Valetta hard enough that she fell into the water face first. Before she could turn around to face me, I jumped on her and forced her head under the water. That's when all the thrashing began. Thrashing like you wouldn't believe, with her legs kicking up frantically into my body. Horrible thing...to see a person fighting for their life. There was one point where her head came above the water, and I'll always remember the sound of her voice. 'Please don't do this to me, Brianna.' But she was no match for me, and as she gulped in her last breath, I shoved her under again, and this time, I made sure that she never came back up. Thrashing, thrashing, thrashing. But then, before too long, the thrashing began to die down into feeble, meaningless kicks. And I could feel all the resistance leave her, feel the life leave her."

There was a long silence in the room. Brianna seemed to be finished with her lengthy description of how Valetta had died. It was, as she had predicted, a grisly tale. In my fifteen years as a psychiatrist, I had only heard one story that was worse—that was from a psychotic mental patient who had doused his wife in gasoline and set her on fire. But at least that guy was psychotic, so he had some excuse, while the same couldn't be said of Brianna who, if she was ever brought to trial for the murder of Valetta, could never have mounted a successful insanity defense.

Instinctively, it was hard for me not to dislike Brianna. And also, I couldn't help but feel threatened to some extent: Hadn't Brianna mentioned that there were some similarities to what Kym had done to Shonda—calling her a slut—and what Valetta had done to Brianna when she told her that she was a whore? There were, of course, the two exceptions that would allow me to waive the doctor/patient privilege so that I could report Valetta's murder to the police: 1/ Had anyone else been convicted of murdering Valetta? If so, I had an obligation to report what Brianna had told me; and 2/ did Brianna pose a threat, based on her prior conduct, to anyone else?

"Brianna, was anyone ever arrested for what happened to Valetta?"

"That's alright, Mr. Garrett—you don't have to pussyfoot around with the words. What happened to Valetta was that she was murdered, so you can just call it that."

"So no one was arrested or anything?" I said.

"It was even better than that—no one even knew that she had been murdered. What I did was I dragged Valetta about...I don't know—maybe fifty or seventy-five yards into the woods that surrounded the lake. It must have taken me about two hours to dig the hole that I buried her in, and as far as I know, her body has never been found, and if it hasn't been found after fifteen years, I doubt that it ever will be. And besides, if she's found, no one will have a clue as to who she is because it's very unlikely that anyone ever reported her missing. Valetta had been thrown out of her parent's house about a year before she met Jalen, and she always said that she never wanted to see her family again. And it wasn't like they lived near here—her parent's house was just outside New York City."

"Did she have any brothers or sisters?"

"Her older brother died of a heroin overdose, and her sister was way younger than her, so I think it was just a case of the parents telling people, 'We haven't heard from her in years and don't even know whether she's alive.'"

"What about Jalen? I'm sure he must have had some suspicions?"

"That was by far the best part of this whole thing, Mr. Garrett. I was kind of lucky because when I got back to the apartment, Jalen still wasn't there, so I packed up all Valetta's stuff and rifled through a couple of drawers in his dresser where I found two hundred dollars. So I took all that, along with Jalen's gun, which I had brought back with me from the lake, and found a dumpster near the apartment where I heaved everything—except, of course, the two hundred dollars. After that, I was feeling like celebrating, so I went to this restaurant I had always wanted to go to and ordered myself a real feast, along with two very expensive glasses of wine. The whole thing cost me a little over a hundred dollars, which was good because Jalen would have been suspicious if he found out that I had a lot of money on me. The rest of the money I broke up into ten dollar bills and hid them in my car."

"But obviously, Jalen must have noticed that Valetta was gone."

"Like I said, that was the best part. When I got home, he was wandering around like a sick puppy dog. He'd already found out his money and precious gun were gone, and he just assumed, what with all of Valetta's stuff also being gone, that she had ripped him off. Things like that happen all the time. But I didn't rub it in or nothing but was real sympathetic to him. 'I'm so sorry, baby,' I told him. 'I never thought she would do something like that to you.' Jalen was real, real mad about the whole thing and told me that if he ever saw Valetta on the streets, he would follow her around until he could drag her into an alley where he'd slit her throat. It was hard for me not to laugh and say, 'Too bad, baby, but I've already done your dirty work.' But of course I had to keep my mouth shut. That night I moved back into my old bedroom with Jalen, and we had a real good time. He even apologized to me, which was like the frosting on the cake."

"Whatever happened to him?"

"We eventually split up because I knew he was doing it with some other woman. At least, this time, he wasn't bringing her into the apartment. But I'd had enough—I was real hot and sexy in those days, and it took me less than a week to find another guy."

I knew the next questions would be more difficult to phrase because I didn't want Brianna to become suspicious. "Brianna, I said earlier that we might come back to discuss the quarrel that our two daughters had. What—"

"It was a lot more than a quarrel, Mr. Garrett—it was an insult."

"And I do apologize for that. Is it something that makes you angry?"

Brianna gave me a strange, almost curious look. "I guess you could say that it did make me angry when I first heard about it, but now I realize that a lot of the anger I felt was a kind of flashback to all the things that had happened with Valetta. Shonda and Kym are just high school students, so I suppose it isn't that big of a deal. Why do you ask?"

"That's what I was curious about—whether it might be a flashback. You don't personally feel any real animosity towards Kym do you?"

"I wish she hadn't called Shonda a slut, but that's nothing compared to what I did to Valetta, so I'm hardly one to pass judgment on her."

## CHAPTER SEVEN

On Friday night, Amber and I liked to go out and do something special, but instead of going to a restaurant or dancing club, we often went to the Wrights' house. The Wrights, Rosemary and Ben, owned a large house in the hill section of town, and on most Friday nights, they invited many of their friends and acquaintances over. It was an after-dinner party, so no one arrived until nine, but the last guests often didn't leave until around 1 A.M. For an upper class suburban neighborhood, the parties were often fairly rowdy, although they never came close to reaching the point where people vomited up their excess alcohol, and neither, of course, had the police ever been called. It was, for the most part, an upwardly mobile group of people who frequented the Wrights', and on this particular Friday night, besides Amber and myself, there was Doctor Daniel Farber and Susan Ames, an "assistant" to the doctor who had just received a promotion into his bed; also attending were an engaged couple who currently had important jobs at the Mayor's office—Matt Callahan and Amy Harris; not to be forgotten was the voluptuous Beth Kinkaid whose uncle was the President of a small college that was about five miles from Culver; and finally, David and Becky Forbes, a husband and wife who owned an art gallery in downtown Culver.

Everybody knew everybody to some extent, but there were certain undercurrents that cut through the assembled throng, and sometimes these undercurrents, which were usually of a political nature, could lead to unpleasant back-and-forths between the assembled guests. The Wrights were quite conservative politically as was the niece of the college president, while Amber and I tended to favor the liberal side of issues. The luminaries from the Mayor's office were standard-issue Democrats, which wasn't surprising since the Mayor was a Democrat; the doctor found political conversations "toxic to the health of all involved," while his assistant drank wine and looked thoroughly bored; and Dave and Becky Forbes were self-described moderates--whatever that might mean.

Naturally, no drugs of any kind (except perhaps Valium) were allowed at these get-togethers, but the alcohol flowed freely, and by eleven o'clock most of the guests were usually well-lubricated. As a jazz CD by Louie Armstrong played in the background, I could hear Ben Wright talking to Matt Callahan. "I just don't understand what's going on in this country," said Ben. "It's turned into a gigantic food fight in Washington, and now, even though we're a year and a half from the next election, it looks like Hillary Clinton is lining herself up to be President. I hope I don't have to move to Canada, but with every passing day, it seems more and more likely."

"What's wrong with Hillary?" said Amy. Naturally, being a Democrat, she couldn't resist the bait, and I wondered how long it would take our little crowd of sophisticates to pull out of the impending thunderstorm that was brewing between the Democratic donkeys and the Republican elephants.

"For one thing," said Rosemary, "she makes me cringe. I simply can't imagine a less trustworthy person in the President's office. She'd probably steal all the paintings off the walls."

"Where do you come up with that stuff?" said Amy. "Hillary Clinton is one of the most honest people in the political arena. The hatred and contempt that she receives for all her supposed lies and political crimes are just old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill partisan politics. All you have to do is look at—"

Amy was interrupted by a loud guffaw from Ben. "When you say something like that, my dear, you must be on some serious drugs—either that or you need your medications adjusted."

"Ben is right," chimed in Rosemary. "It's amazing how much we forget. Just yesterday, I was downtown talking to Gertrude Baines—she's another one of my many friends who's living in dread of a Clinton presidency. I mean, last time, the Clintons almost bankrupted the country."

"What are you talking about?" said Matt. "The stock market went from two to ten thousand while he was President, and—"

"Yes, but look what happened afterwards," said Rosemary. "The whole thing collapsed like a house of cards once Bush became president, and the reason everything collapsed was because the country was still trying to recover from the Monica Lewinsky scandal, along with the five hundred other scandals they were involved in. How many millions did the Clintons make on that Whitewater deal?"

"Actually," said Matt, "they lost eighty thousand dollars—and that figure comes from the Republicans."

"Even if that's true," said Ben, "they would have been able to use the losses as a tax write off, and so—"

"This is becoming absurd," said the doctor. "Personally, I'd rather sit in a dentist's chair and have all my teeth extracted without any painkillers than have to listen to the latest smear and counter-smear campaigns from Washington."

"That's why Dave and I are moderates," said Becky. "After a while, it just becomes too predictable with everyone hurling accusations, threats, and obscenities at each other."

"But you can't abdicate your responsibility, Becky," said Rosemary.

"And what responsibility would that be?"

"The responsibility to be an informed voter," said Rosemary. "I hate to say this because we obviously have some biased people in this room who will probably be highly offended when they hear what I have to say, but anyone who votes for Hillary Clinton can't possibly be an informed voter. I assume," said Rosemary to Amy, "that you're familiar with the Christmas Card scandal that Hillary Clinton was involved in shortly after that bestial wretch of a husband of hers took over the oval office and started planking some of the hired help."

"No," said Amy, in a curt tone, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Is this another smear job from Ken Starr's leaky manure bag?"

"My dear," said Ben to Amy, "I would appreciate it if you would be a bit more respectful to the man who so courageously rooted out the sordid tryst between Lewinsky and Clinton. At any rate, just to bring you up to speed, the Clintons misused the White House Christmas card list for their own political ends back in 1994 or whenever it was. Fortunately, this egregious breach of power was rooted out, and there was a congressional investigation into the incident."

"Yes," said Rosemary, "that's exactly what Gertrude Baines was talking to me about. And I'll bet that everyone here has conveniently forgotten about the congressional committee that looked into this very serious incident. The committee was extremely thorough and took one hundred and forty hours of sworn testimony, but just when it looked like they had enough ammunition to finally nail the Clintons to the cross, one of those pro-choice Democrats from Idaho stepped in and saved her."

"Idaho?" said Matt. "I don't think there are many pro-choice Democrats in Idaho."

"What difference does it make?" said Rosemary. "Maybe the person I'm thinking of was that crass-looking Democrat I saw on TV the other day—I think he was from Illinois, or maybe it was Iowa. It's a wonder that he hasn't been indicted because that's pretty much what happens to Democrats nowadays."

"The thing that gets me," said Becky, "is why would anyone want to be President? It's the most thankless job on the earth, and what you end up doing is defending yourself against one absurd attack after another. It doesn't matter whether it was Bush or Clinton—all they ever got was insults, investigations, and mockery. You'd think we'd show our President at least a tiny little bit of respect instead of drenching the poor soul in a swamp of smears and slanders. So if it was me and I was offered the Presidency on a platter that had a hundred million dollars on it, I'd just say, 'No thank you! I've got a lot better things to do with my life than have cow dung hurled at me for years on end.'"

"It's a power thing," I said. "Everyone—"

"Be quiet!" said Rosemary. "Our local psychiatrist is about to give us his learned opinion."

"I wish he'd psychoanalyze me," said Beth. "I've been having a lot of strange sexual dreams lately. There was this one I had the other night where I was making love to a NASCAR driver. Only he was about the size of a midget."

There was a lot of laughter in the room. "Come on, Casey. Analyze her dream," said Matt.

"Were you naked in the dream?" asked Amy.

"No, that was the strange part—I was all dressed up in the gown I wore when I went to my sister's wedding."

"Casey?" said Matt. "We await your analysis."

All eyes turned expectantly towards me, and since I had already pounded down three drinks, I didn't really make a serious attempt to analyze Beth's dream but merely spouted off a psychological platitude, which was followed by a ludicrous joke that passed way over the head of Beth and everyone else. "I think the dream indicates that Beth's libido is repressed by latent sexual impulses towards men who drive flashy cars. In psychotherapy, we call that the racetrack syndrome."

"Are you saying that a woman dreaming about making love to a man in a race car is a common thing?" said Beth.

"You were actually in the race car when this happened?" said Matt to Beth.

"Sort of—the door to the car was open and our feet...I mean my feet were hanging out over the side. The guy was a midget so that wasn't a problem for him."

"Yes," I said, "I've had a few women come to me with that kind of dream—obviously, the details weren't exactly the same, but it's not that uncommon."

"Including the fact that the guy was a midget?" said Beth.

"No, that part is a little unusual."

"So what does it symbolize?"

"Most likely," I said, "it means that the man is not to be taken seriously. In other words, your subconscious is trying to steer you away from men who rely on their cars to bolster their egos so that they can seduce women."

"That's such a brilliant interpretation," said Beth. "There's this guy that keeps asking me to go out with him, and he owns an expensive foreign sports car. So the dream is telling me that it wouldn't work out with him—right?"

"Apparently so," I said, in a confident tone.

"OK," said Matt, "as long as we're getting free psychoanalysis, I want to tell you about this nightmare that I had the other night. OK?"

"Please!" said the doctor's assistant as she poured herself another large glass of wine. "Do we have to do nightmares? I was at this party last year where everybody had to tell what their most horrible nightmare was. It was so gross that I almost threw up into my dinner."

"They talked about nightmares at the dinner table?" said Amber.

"It was so revolting," said the assistant.

"Well," said Matt, "we're not at the dinner table, and this dream did bother me, so I'd just like to mention it to Casey and see what he thinks about it. You can always go into the other room if it becomes too much for you."

"I don't understand why it's become so fashionable to talk about nightmares," said Beth.

"OK, Casey," said Matt, "I'm sorry to intrude on everyone, but this is important to me. The night before last, I dreamed that I came into this house that I had never been in before. I never did see the outside of the house, but I didn't recognize anything inside the house—I'm positive that I had never been there before, but in the dream, it seemed like this was my own house and that I was coming home. Unlike in real life, I was married, and...this is the part where it gets bad, so if the ladies would like to leave the room, I'll understand."

"It's alright, Matt," said Beth, "I'll just suffer through it."

"So I was just sort of standing there in this room that must have been a kitchen when all of a sudden, I saw a woman lying on the floor. Somehow, I knew she was dead, and that's when I saw there was a large pool of blood around her head. I wanted to run out of the house, but I couldn't—something in the dream was compelling me to move forward. I was even trying to grab onto things so that I wouldn't be able to go towards the woman, but I was swept towards her like something was pushing me from behind. And then, when I reached her...it was like somebody had shot her a couple of times in the face. She had—I think I'll remember this to the day I die—the most hideous stare on what was left of her face because—"

"Stop! Will you please just stop," said the assistant.

"Yes, please do," said Beth. "I'm sure we all get the point."

"Was that the end of the dream?" I said.

"No, but the next part of the dream wasn't so gory—scary, but not gory. From off in the distance somewhere, like maybe in the next room, I could hear someone crying and saying, 'Mom! Mom! Where are you?' But whoever was saying this had a voice that was very faint—it was almost like a whisper, but when I started to move towards the door that led out of the room, some other person came barging into the room. I couldn't tell you whether this person was a man or a woman because they had a ski mask over their face. I froze in my tracks as this person came up to me and put a gun to my temple. From somewhere, but not from the person who had the gun to my head, I heard someone say, 'It's time to die, Matt,' and then there was this loud explosion and everything turned black."

"And after that you woke up?" I said.

"Yes—I was drenched in sweat, and my heart was pounding."

"So tell us what it means, Casey," said Rosemary. "Maybe you can become our oracle at Delphi."

"Are you afraid that the dream might be a premonition?" I said to Matt.

"Yes, that's one of the things I'm wondering about, and if it isn't a premonition, then why would I have a dream like that?"

"It's not a simple thing to analyze dreams," I said. "When I analyze dreams for my clients, I have a great deal of information to go on—for instance, a personal history along with any recent events that could have sparked the dream. Can you think of anything that happened recently that might be related to the dream you had?"

"Now that you mention it, about a week ago, I watched one of those true crime programs on TV that was somewhat similar to my dream...something about a guy returning home and finding his wife shot to death, but he didn't die--like I did in my dream. I've never had a dream where I've died before. Does that happen often? I'm not talking about where you almost die—I'm talking about a dream in which you actually die."

"I've had quite a few clients tell me about dreams where they died."

"What do you think causes that type of dream?" said Matt. "I know the cause might be different for different people, but I would think that there would be some similarities, some common factor in this type of dream."

"I've never thought of it that way," I said, "but if you'd like an educated guess, I think this kind of dream is caused by fear, the subconscious fear of death. And so the subconscious then creates a scenario where the fear is realized. And often, this fear of death can be triggered by guilt over something that one has done. In other words, the death that is enacted in the dream is a kind of punishment for some action—again, you can see that the underlying theme here is fear, the fear that one will be put to death for some transgression."

"Then you don't think my dream is some kind of premonition?"

"No, I think that's very unlikely."

## CHAPTER EIGHT

The following Monday, I had another session with Brianna. Even before she said anything, I noticed that she seemed haggard, disheveled, and morose. After she sat down in the chair, she said, "I've just had a terrible time of it since I last saw you, Mr. Garrett."

"Brianna," I said, "I mentioned this before, but it's alright to call me Casey—I think it would help you to talk with me as if I were a friend of yours."

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that, Mr. Garrett. When I'm here, I can't help but look at you as the boss. I guess you don't want me to do that, but there's no way that I can consider you a friend. That doesn't mean you're my enemy, but just because you're not my enemy doesn't mean that we can be friends."

"OK, it's not a big deal—you can call me Mr. Garrett if that makes you feel more comfortable. So why have you been having a difficult time this past week?"

"Flashbacks, Mr. Garrett. There's one particular flashback that has been haunting me for the last three weeks or so, but this week, it got much worse. It happens when I go to bed at night. After I turn out the lights, I begin to hear things—it's like the curtains are rustling because there's a strong wind outside. But when I get up and look outside, there's no wind at all. So I go back to bed, but then the rustling begins again. And just in case you're wondering, this is no dream, Mr. Garrett—I'm wide awake, as awake as I'll ever be. So I'm lying there listening to this rustling when I begin to hear something that sounds like a long moan. At first, I can barely hear it, but after a couple of minutes, the moan begins to get real loud. I turn on the light, but no one is there—even so, I leave the light on for another half hour, but eventually, after I become so sleepy that I can't keep my eyes open anymore, I turn the light off."

Brianna was talking rapidly, and I could see that as she was talking to me, she was, in her mind, vividly replaying what had happened to her.

"But the light wasn't off for five seconds before the moaning began again. I suppose you'll say that this is all in my imagination, but in a few seconds, it felt like someone was walking near my bed—I could even hear footsteps. Turning on the light, I screamed, 'Get away from me whoever you are.' But there was no one there. I didn't know what to do, but I finally figured that if I tried to go to sleep on the couch in the living room, I might not be haunted anymore.

"I brought a couple of blankets and my pillow out with me and settled down on the couch. It wasn't very comfortable, but I didn't hear any rustling or moans or footsteps, and I fell asleep almost immediately. I don't know how much later it was, but all of a sudden, I was wide awake. It was pitch dark, but I could sense that there was another person in the room. I wanted to get up off the couch and run out of the room, but it was like I was chained to the couch. And then this person—it was Valetta of course—began to say things, like how I was going to die in a horrible fire because of what I had done to her. This went on for a couple of minutes, but eventually, I could sense that Valetta was gone. It didn't feel like I was chained to the couch anymore, so I got up and turned on the light. And I swear to you, Mr. Garrett, that earlier, when I went out to the living room to sleep, I checked to make sure all the windows were closed, but now, one of them was open."

It was a strange, somewhat improbable tale, but I had heard stranger. "Brianna, did this just happen the one time?"

"No! It's happened the last four days. Last night, I didn't even bother leaving my bedroom and going out into the other room because it doesn't matter where I sleep—Valetta keeps coming back to haunt me. She'll moan and she'll whisper and she'll threaten. Last night, she said that somebody was going to smother me. 'That's what you did to me,' she said. 'Drowning is a lot like smothering.'"

"Brianna, how long ago did you say this incident with Valetta occurred?"

"Fifteen, maybe sixteen years."

It puzzled me that Brianna was still having episodes like the ones she had just described to me. "Brianna, have there been many times in the past where you saw Valetta or heard her voice?"

"No, not really. Some...but nothing like this. I think what started all this was the disappearance of that girl about a month ago—I can't remember her name."

"Kora Bradley?"

"I guess that was her name. I know nobody knows what happened to her, but when a girl that age disappears...no one wants to say so, but it must be that she's dead. I hope she isn't, but it happens all the time nowadays—it's probably some guy who raped her and didn't want her squealing to anybody. The thing is that when I read the story in the newspaper about her disappearance, it brought back—it started to bring back memories to me. Kora and Valetta were about the same age, and I began to imagine what it must have been like for Kora during the last moments of her life. I'm sure she wasn't drowned or anything, but I know from experience that it's never pleasant to have your life taken away by another person. So...I think the way this round of flashbacks started was that I could imagine some man strangling Kora to death after he had sex with her. And then, just like Valetta, Kora would have been struggling to breathe and her legs would have been thrashing around. I think it's the thrashing that I remember the most—I don't know why. Of course all this stuff about Kora is coming from my imagination, but is this what's going to happen to me every time I read about some teenage woman being murdered? If it is, I don't think that I can handle it."

"What about the Lorazepam? Did that help?"

"No! The first night I heard Valetta, I took three of them, but it didn't seem to make any difference."

"Brianna, Lorazepam isn't really the medicine that we usually prescribe to people suffering from the kind of experiences that you've had. What I'd like to do—"

"No, no, Mr. Garrett—I'm not taking those nut pills like Prozac. I was on those a few years ago, and it was horrible—I felt like a zombie. And also, the people who knew me then said I was catatonic. Besides, that's not what I want. I realize that I must be bringing this whole thing upon myself because I don't really believe that Valetta was actually in the room with me, so I thought that maybe you could help me."

"What is it that you'd like me to do?" I said.

"I want all these bad thoughts and hallucinations to disappear. Why do these thoughts keep reoccurring to me? That's the question that I'd really like to have answered."

"You haven't really said much about your thoughts. What kind of thoughts are you talking about?"

"I don't know how to describe them," said Brianna. "They're more like images or photographs. So there'll be a lot of times when I see Valleta...it's almost always that moment when she was able to get her head out of the water...the moment when she turned to look at me and said, 'Please don't do this to me, Brianna.' And there was this horrible, horrible look on her face. I'd say it was panic, but it was way beyond panic. Because at that moment, she knew what was going to happen to her—she knew I wasn't going to have any mercy. And she'd already been under water once—fighting for her life, so she knew what it felt like, and she knew it was about to happen to her all over again, and she knew that this time, she wouldn't be coming up; this time, she was going to struggle and struggle to raise her head out of the water, but this time, I was going to hold her down until she just had to gasp for air, but the only thing that would come into her lungs would be water. Do you realize how horrible it would be to die that way? I just...I can't...I won't ever forget that. It's going to haunt me till the day I die. And I keep thinking that if I could ever go back to that moment when she pleaded with me for her life, I would change everything."

"Why do you think you went through with it?"

"Because I was afraid of the consequences if Valletta didn't die. She'd tell Jalen what I had done, and who knows what Jalen might have done to me? What I didn't realize in that moment, the moment when I pushed her head under the water a second time, is that the consequences of murdering her were far worse than letting her stay alive. At the time, I was only thinking of how I might be arrested and maybe sent to prison for the rest of my life. I never...is that what happens when you murder a person? Is it like some kind of retribution from God?"

"No, I don't think it comes from God, Brianna. What you're suffering from is post-traumatic stress disorder, and—"

"But that's just some fancy words strung together, Mr. Garrett. That doesn't help me to get over this."

"OK, I'll explain to you what post-traumatic stress disorder is. The key word here is traumatic. A trauma is something...that word is used to describe the effects on a person when he or she experiences something horrible. Thousands and thousands of soldiers suffer from PTSD because they have seen the worst things that one can imagine: People who have had their arms and legs torn off by a roadside bomb; people who have been decapitated; people who have had half their heads blown off. And once you see something like that, it's very difficult for the mind to forget about what it's seen."

"But why? Why would my mind keep doing that? It's not like I want to see Valetta's face just before I drowned her. I know what I did was wrong, but I don't understand why I have to relive it a thousand times over."

"It's because of the power and impact of the event, Brianna. Every day we have experiences, and every day, we forget about almost all of those experiences. But certain experiences are so vivid that they remain in the memory. Some of these experiences can be pleasant ones—like the first time you kissed a person. It isn't so much whether an event is positive or negative—it's the impact it creates in the mind. For instance, seeing the body of a person who has been shot to death is very traumatic for most people."

"But I didn't see Valetta when she was dead—I mean I actually did see her when she was dead because I had to drag her into the woods to bury her, but I hardly remember that at all. What I do remember is those moments I was telling you about just before she drowned."

"There's a reason for that, Brianna, and it kind of comes close to...remember when you were asking me if your hallucinations were caused by guilt or had something to do with God?"

"Yes, it seems to me that I'm being punished."

"No, I don't think so, but sometimes, it can feel like that. The source of all these traumatic feelings you have springs from empathy for Valetta. Do you know what the word empathy means?"

"Sympathy?"

"Not quite—sympathy is more like you're standing outside someone's suffering and offering them encouragement, while empathy means that you're actually experiencing the suffering that another is experiencing. Deep down, humans are very empathetic creatures. Not all of us, but most of us. And so, when you were looking into Valetta's face just before you drowned her, your mind took a photograph of that moment. You were, back then, too intent upon drowning Valetta to have any empathy for her, but later, your mind brought the photograph back and you were able to relive that moment and experience her suffering. PTSD could also be called post-traumatic suffering disorder. In other words, although Valetta only drowned once and suffered for no more than a minute or two, you haven't been able to get that image out of your mind. You relive and relive it because even to this day, you can feel her suffering."

"So I'm going to have these images for the rest of my life?"

"I don't think so, but we will need to work on this issue for a number of sessions before you start to see real improvement."

"There's another thing that frightens me, Mr. Garrett. I know you've said that you wouldn't tell anyone about these conversations that we're having, but what if you change your mind?"

"Brianna—"

"There's no way that I could ever go to prison, Mr. Garrett. I just couldn't do it. One of my sisters was in prison for five years, and I heard stories from her about some of the things that they do to women in prison—I think my sister said that she was raped three times in those five years. And that wasn't the only bad thing that happened to her—some of the things that the other women prisoners did to her were so awful that you wouldn't believe me if I told you about them."

"Brianna, I've said many times that you have nothing to fear from me. Besides, this incident with Valetta happened over fifteen years ago, and like you said, it doesn't seem anyone even knows that Valetta is dead. No one from the police has ever come up and talked to you about it, have they?"

"No, but sometimes, when I'm downtown...like that day your wife met me at the coffee shop—just before Amber came along, I saw this policeman standing on the other side of the street, and I swear to God that he must have stood and stared at me for five minutes straight."

"Brianna, if the police knew about Valetta's murder and had any evidence against you, I'm sure that they'd want to talk to you."

"It's just that I can't go to prison, Mr. Garrett. I probably deserve to be sent there for a long time because of what I did to Valetta, but I'm not going to prison—no matter what happens, I will never go to prison."

"I really don't think that you have anything to worry about. Did you ever check the newspapers after Valetta died?"

"After she was murdered, Mr. Garrett? No, I was too scared to look at a newspaper back then, and Jalen never read anything but comic books, so I guess I'll never really know if they ever found Valetta's body."

"You have a very active imagination, Brianna. You've been able to imagine what it felt like for Valetta to drown, and now you're imagining what it would be like if you were sent to prison. But it's important to realize that these things you're imagining aren't realities."

"Valetta's death was a reality."

"Yes, but what you're imagining—like what Valetta felt as she was dying--are things that no longer have any existence. Valetta isn't feeling anything now, and her suffering is over. Your sister was in prison and was raped, but that's not happening now. I agree that these are dreadful experiences, but there's nothing that can be done about them now, and what we need to do is to find ways that your imagination can help you. Imagination, in itself, is neither a good nor bad thing. It all depends on how it's used, and while I can understand why your imagination is causing you so much suffering, it's time to see if we can use your imagination in more constructive ways. Perhaps we can talk about that in the next session."

"Have you found out if the State of Maryland is going to pay for these talks that we're having?"

"Yes, you needn't worry about money when it comes to our sessions. Eventually, we'll reach a point where the state won't subsidize you anymore, but that's a long ways off yet."

"And it really is safe for me to talk to you? You promise that you won't double-cross me?"

"No, I'll never do anything like that. Would you like me to write you out a prescription for Lorazepam?"

"Yes, I was going to ask you to do that. It doesn't help all that much, but it does help some."

"You can take two before you go to sleep, but try not to take more than one during the day."

"OK—and we'll meet here at the same time next week?"

"Yes."

## CHAPTER NINE

Amber hadn't wanted to go to the Wrights' on Friday night. "We go there all the time, Casey. I'm getting tired of that scene, to tell you the truth. After a while, it just seems like a lot of people chattering away about nonsensical things—those political conversations are enough to drive anyone out of their mind."

"I know what you mean," I said, "but Ben phoned me yesterday and asked me if we'd be coming—he said that he's inviting someone we've never met before. I think he's a philosophy professor at the University of Maryland, so that might be interesting."

"I doubt it," said Amber. "It'll just be the same old blah, blah, blah. I'd really rather go out to a restaurant and kick back and enjoy ourselves without having to pay attention to three different conversations at once. So maybe if he calls next week you can just tell him that we have a prior commitment."

On the ride over to the Wrights', Amber was obviously a little annoyed, and she was flipping between radio stations in an aimless way when she stumbled onto the end of a news bulletin: "The men, both described as white and in their late teens or early twenties, were armed with assault rifles. At that time of day, the Hillsboro mall was crowded with late afternoon shoppers, and without warning, a barrage of gunshots rang out. There are, as of now, thirty confirmed dead and a much greater number seriously injured. The two attackers were cornered in a clothing store and have been shot to death. The police—"

Amber flipped to another station. "It's just so hideous what's going on nowadays," she said.

When we reached the Wrights', Ben introduced Amber and me to the philosophy professor, whose name was Louie Perrin. Louie was tall and distinguished looking, with graying hair, and he spoke in a casual and pleasant way.

I was interested in getting to know the professor, but before I could say anything to him, Amy, one of the luminaries from the mayor's office, began a conversation that was sure to lead into troubled waters. Amy and her friend Matt were both involved in attempts to pass statewide anti-gun legislation that would make it much more difficult for mentally ill people to obtain guns, so it wasn't surprising when Amy said, "When is it ever going to stop?" she said. "How many dead bodies do we have to see before someone is going to put a stop to it?"

"My dear," said Ben, in a soothing but somewhat condescending tone, "I'm sure everyone agrees with you, especially after another one of these unprovoked massacres, but your question isn't easily answered. What do you propose that we do?"

"I would think," said Amy, "that at some point, common sense would prevail, and we'd do something to get guns off the street."

"Apparently," said Ben, "you're not familiar with our Constitution. Every citizen has a right to own a gun—that's what the Second Amendment is all about."

"No," said Amy, "that is not what the Second Amendment is all about. What it says, and I quote, is: A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."

"That's exactly what I said, my dear. So what is your point?"

"My point is that when you argue that the Constitution supports teenagers carrying AK-47's on the streets of our cities, you not only defy the most minimal standard of common sense, but you also fail to understand rudimentary grammar. The subject, grammatically, of the Second Amendment is 'a well-regulated militia,' and thus the modifying clause, 'the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed' simply means that the states have a Constitutional right to arm militias that are under their jurisdiction. The Second Amendment is essentially a states-right amendment that allows states to form militias—nowadays, those militias are called The National Guard. And the reason these militias are formed is because they're 'necessary to the security of a free State'--the 'State' being the United States of America. Notice also the words 'well-regulated militia.' Does anyone in their right mind think that the shooters at the mall today were part of a well-regulated militia? And so 'the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed,' only applies, in terms of the Second Amendment, to those times when people are in organizations such as the National Guard."

"But that doesn't mean the Constitution prevents citizens from owning guns," said Louie.

"Yes, that's correct," said Amy, "but neither does it encourage citizens to own guns except when they are using them to ensure 'the security of a free State.' What happened at the mall today has nothing to do with 'the security of a free State.' The problem is that the Second Amendment has been used as a justification for turning America into a free-fire zone for people with mental problems, and no matter what anyone says, that was not the intention of those who wrote the Second Amendment."

"My dear," said Ben, "amateur lawyers are interesting to listen to, but you'll have to admit that the Supreme Court completely disagrees with your amusing interpretation of the Second Amendment. What the writers of the Constitution were doing—and this is not my interpretation but the Supreme Court's—what they were doing was providing a way for ordinary citizens to counteract a government based on tyranny."

"The whole thing has become totally absurd," said Matt. "Do you realize that we have forty gun homicides a day in America? Forty! And everyone is like 'So what?' The only way it ever hits home is when someone's mother or child is murdered."

"It's just the price that we pay for freedom," said Ben. "Where do you stand on this issue, Casey?"

"I don't think it much matters, Ben. It's become one of those intractable political issues—like abortion. Everyone digs in behind whatever their position is, and that's that."

"But you would agree that the Second Amendment gives every citizen the right to own a gun."

"Every citizen?" said Amber. "I think that's going a little too far."

"Except criminals and people with severe mental problems," said Ben. "But I'm skeptical about excluding those with mental problems because once you admit that exception, it becomes a slippery slope. Pretty soon the anti-gun crowd will be saying that anyone who wants to own a gun is insane, and once that happens, it will end up being the loophole through which guns will be restricted by the government."

"But we can't let crazy people own guns," said Amber.

"You're being overdramatic," said Ben. "You'd think there were thousands of these shootings a year. Let me ask your husband a question: Have you ever had a patient that you thought should be disqualified from owning a gun?"

"Sure," I said, "but as long as they don't bring a gun into my office, there's very little, if anything, that I can do about it."

"So why is it wrong for them to bring a gun into your office?" said Amy. "I mean, if they brought a gun into your office, they could only kill you, but if they have the gun out on the streets, they could kill a dozen people."

"My dear," said Ben, "it's because of the Second Amendment."

"Yes, yes, yes—the Second Amendment, but I wasn't talking to you—and by the way, stop calling me 'My dear.' So what do you say, Casey? If you don't feel comfortable with someone having a gun in your office, then why should I feel comfortable if I'm walking in the mall and someone with a gun is coming towards me?"

"I understand your point," I said, "but there's only so much I can do. I have a right to prohibit guns in my office or house, but that right doesn't extend to outside the office or house."

"But that's not what we're talking about," said Matt. "The question is this: Suppose you felt that a patient of yours was too unstable to possess a gun. Sure, you can prevent them from bringing a gun into your office, but shouldn't you also be able to prevent them from carrying a gun anywhere?"

"Theoretically, yes—I can do that. But it's an arduous process, and if I were to initiate that process, the person would undoubtedly never come to see me again."

"So it's just a money thing with you?" said Amy, in a hostile tone.

"No, of course not," said Amber. "That's not a very nice thing to say."

"But that's what he's saying."

"No, that's not what I meant at all," I said. "Look, first of all, if I thought a client of mine was about to shoot someone, I would call the police as soon as I was convinced that the threat was real. But I can't just call the police every time someone says that they'd like to murder their husband or wife because when people say things like that, they almost never carry through with the threat. And the point I was trying to make earlier when I said that a client would never want to see me again is that this person would no longer be receiving any therapy, which could make them much more dangerous than they would have been before."

"Have you ever had a patient of yours shoot someone?" said Matt.

"No, not to my knowledge—by that, I mean that no client of mine has ever shot someone while they were receiving therapy from me. It's possible that some client from the past could have, but if so, I'm not aware of it."

"Perhaps," said Louie, "if I may be allowed to interrupt, I could add something to the conversation."

"By all means," said Ben, in a jocular tone, "only I hope you're not going to say anything that contradicts the Second Amendment."

"Not at all," said Louie, "because I pride myself on being above the political circus. The essential difficulty with politics is that people believe it can solve the fundamental problems that exist in society. When we argue about guns, we're failing to recognize that the real issue is violence—specifically, the tendency of some people to kill others. Thus, for some, murder has become a standard solution to alleviate perceived problems. The problem may be quite abstract—this happens in murders that are based on religious differences, or the problem may be much more concrete—this happens with murders that are based on sexual jealousy, greed for money, or personal hatred for another. In any and all of these cases, what we see is the belief that violence is a useful problem-solving tool."

"I don't understand how this relates to the Second Amendment," said Ben.

"Why does everything have to relate to the Second Amendment?" said Amy.

"Because—"

"Please, if you don't mind," said the professor, "I haven't finished."

"Finished what?" said Ben. "As far as I'm concerned, the Second Amendment answers the question."

"And what question would that be?" said Louie.

"The issue as to whether citizens should be allowed to own guns. The Supreme Court has made it quite clear that owning guns is a constitutional right, and—"

"At one time," said Amy, "slavery was a constitutional right, and just because nine political hacks called judges have gone out of their way to turn America into a gun-infested bloodbath where forty innocent people are murdered every day is no reason to—"

"So you support anarchy?" said Ben.

"Support anarchy?" said Amy. "Where did that come from?"

"The question is this, my dear: Do you support the Constitution or not?"

"Yes, I support the Constitution, but what I do not support is the bizarre and unwarranted interpretation that has been placed upon the Second Amendment."

"What you just said is a manifesto for anarchy. Either you support the Constitution or you oppose it, and when you ridicule the Supreme Court, you ridicule the Constitution, which makes you an anarchist. In fact, it's because of people like you that this country is descending into anarchy."

"This country," said Matt, "has already descended into anarchy because guns have now become the means by which issues are being decided. We no longer have the rule of law—what we have is the rule of guns."

"It isn't just this country that settles issues with guns--it's the whole world," said Amy.

"Which is precisely why we all need to be armed," said Ben.

"If you don't mind," said the professor, "I still have a few observations to make."

"Alright," said Ben, "I certainly don't mind hearing what you have to say, but before you begin, I would like to know where you stand on the issue of the Second Amendment."

"What I'm saying doesn't really have anything to do with the Second Amendment."

"But that's what we're talking about," said Ben. "I'm sure that since you're a professor, you'd like to talk about tangential issues that are connected to guns, but before I can assess your argument or whatever it is that you're about to present, I need to know where you stand in relation to the Second Amendment. Or, to put it more bluntly, do you uphold the Supreme Court's interpretation of that amendment or do you side with Miss Amy's anarchistic interpretation?"

"I would say," said Louie, "that I accept the current interpretation as being the law of the land. But the point I'm trying to make is that the root problem of all this is violence. Now—"

"The root problem of what?" said Ben.

"Gun violence," said Louie. "And what I'm saying is hardly revolutionary or exceptional—gun violence is caused by the fact that some people—maybe only five percent of the world's population—will resort to physical violence if they become provoked. So to stamp out gun violence, we need to stamp out the roots of violence."

"I don't think so," said Matt. "That's just avoiding the issue with a lot of clever but ultimately meaningless words. You don't hand loaded guns to six-year-olds, so I see no need to make them available to millions upon millions of people, among whom will be some homicidal maniacs. What everyone here is forgetting, notwithstanding the perpetual genuflections before the Second Amendment, is that the issue of guns is purely theoretical until someone you love is murdered. When you lose a child or a lover or a parent to a gun, then that changes your whole perspective. At that point, the Second Amendment, no matter what the interpretation by whoever interprets it, is nothing but toilet paper."

"I beg your pardon," said Ben. "That is a really outrageous thing to say."

"And," said Amy, "it's a million times more outrageous when your child is murdered with a gun—just ask those who have suffered through that experience. People are just being naïve if they think that they couldn't be shot tomorrow because for forty people in this country, that will be happening tomorrow."

"So?" said Ben. "Are we supposed to quail before this bleeding-heart liberalism of yours? I hate to rain on your parade, but around ninety people a day die from car accidents in the United States. Perhaps Miss Amy is in favor of banning cars?"

Ben's wife laughed and said, "You shouldn't have said that, Ben. Don't you know that cars aren't protected by the Second Amendment?"

"Cars and guns are completely different things," said Amy. "Cars help people to live their lives, but the purpose of guns is to kill people."

"But sometimes, my dear, it can be quite helpful to kill a person. Just think how much better off the world would have been if someone had shot Hitler in 1938."

"So we should just go around and shoot people that we think are dangerous?" said Matt.

"Pardon me," said the professor, "but I have something to say that might be helpful."

"Professors can be so tedious," said Rosemary, in a barely audible voice.

"Even worse," said Ben, "they're notoriously liberal."

"What I wanted to say," said Louie, "is that I understand both sides of this issue, and—"

"You're saying that there are two sides to the Second Amendment?" said Ben.

"No," said the professor, "I'm talking about something else."

"There is nothing else," said Ben.

"There's nothing else but the Second Amendment?" said Amy, in an incredulous tone.

"When it comes to guns," said Ben, "that's an accurate statement. We could all save ourselves a lot of time, trouble, and hot air if we would just accept the Supreme Court's interpretation of the Second Amendment."

"My good man," said the professor, "permit me to digress for a few brief remarks that might be helpful to Amy and Matt. There was a relatively famous philosopher—I won't mention his name because names tend to confuse and distract people—and what this philosopher advocated for the solution of human problems was to become totally aware of everything inside and outside of oneself. As he once said, 'Just to be aware is sufficient—you don't have to do anything about it.'"

As the professor paused to sip on his wine, Matt said, "That's an interesting observation, I guess, but I don't see how it relates to what we've been talking about."

Louie put down his wine glass and said, "Matt, that's because no one realizes how much power exists when one becomes aware of something. Let me give you an example from something that was said earlier. I think it was you, or maybe it was Amy, who said that a person's whole attitude towards guns would change if a loved one was shot to death."

"Yes," said Matt. "All you have to do is look at the mothers and fathers of the victims in Sandy Hook, Connecticut, to see how their attitude towards guns changed after their children had been murdered."

"And the reason those attitudes changed," said Louie, "is because the mothers and fathers of those murdered children became totally aware of what guns can do. Before then, it had only been something theoretical to them. There was undoubtedly some awareness that guns could be used to murder innocent people, but when you're gazing at your murdered child, you become, in a single instant, _totally_ aware of the malevolent power of guns."

After a short silence, Ben said, "Louie, the sad fact is that you're the one who's not aware. You live in this country and you reap its benefits, but you refuse to acknowledge or accept the Second Amendment. It's the law of the land, so—"

"Ben, no one is advocating, or at least I'm not advocating, that the government take away anyone's guns. Basically, what I said is meant for Matt and Amy, and my point is that when enough people become aware of what guns represent, then society will turn away from them—just as it did with cigarettes. Tobacco hasn't been banned or prohibited; rather, people have become aware of how unhealthy it is. And so as people become more and more aware of how lethal guns are, then guns, like tobacco, will begin to go away without any restrictive laws having to be passed."

"Even if that's true," said Amber, "it will be far too late for some people—just ask the thirty people who died in the mall today."

## CHAPTER TEN

For the rest of the weekend, I couldn't get my mind off Brianna. It was obvious that she was suffering from a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. Although most murderers were usually free from this symptom, probably because they were psychopaths or sociopaths and thus had no conscience, Brianna was clearly troubled by her past actions. This would give me a real foothold in my therapy because when a person has no conscience or remorse, then there isn't much of anything that can be done. But Brianna clearly had empathy for Valetta, and so the method of treatment was fairly clear. Although I'm giving a somewhat simplified version of the steps that would be necessary, what I would attempt to do would be to bring out all of Brianna's emotions surrounding the death of Valetta. From there, we could look at these emotions and attempt to understand them and move beyond them. Central to this approach would be the concept of forgiveness: Yes, in the moments when Valetta had been murdered, a horrible action had been committed, but this did not mean that it was unforgivable. In fact, forgiveness had to be given because otherwise, there would be no way for Brianna to atone for Valetta's death. Without forgiveness, Brianna would never be able to help another in any significant way because she would always be carrying the dark, dead weight of her previous actions and would never be able to open her heart to another.

The central error that occurs when one is unable to forgive oneself or another is the belief that an action in the past is a sin. Sins are seen as being unforgivable, but in reality, the action that causes the guilt and remorse is simply a mistake. It may, as in Brianna's case, be a very serious mistake, but it is still only a mistake. Jalen and Valetta had provoked Brianna, and she had responded violently—after all, she was young and immature and couldn't control her emotions, and for all these reasons, a tragedy had occurred. But if Brianna wanted to move on in life, if she wanted to help others, then she was going to have to understand that the way to atone for her mistake was to help others and not beat up on herself. She had taken a life, but maybe she could give someone else a reason to live. However, that couldn't happen if she was mired in guilt and self-pity.

Brianna arrived about five minutes late for the next session, but she seemed to be in relatively good spirits. She sat in the chair, and during the time that she was there, she made more eye contact than was normal for her.

"How was your week?" I asked her.

"It was OK—there was one night when I thought Valetta was in the room, but other than that, it wasn't too bad. These episodes with Valetta have come and gone over the years, and I think...it's hard to describe, but it's kind of like Valetta is a ghost who doesn't want to stay in one place all the time. However, there was one thing that happened during the week that really upset me."

"What was that?"

Brianna looked away from me and said, "I know you get uncomfortable when I talk about your family, Mr. Garrett, but your Kym and my Shonda had another fight this week."

"They did?" Kym hadn't mentioned anything to me about a fight with Shonda.

"Yes, they most certainly did. Are you going to get upset with me and throw me out of here if I talk about this?"

"No, because we're here to discuss issues that are upsetting you."

"What did Kym tell you? I'm sure she talked to you about this."

"No," I said, "this is the first I've heard about it."

"Really? That's a little hard to believe because both Shonda and Kym were in the principal's office. Amber never mentioned nothing like this to you?"

"No—I really don't know what you're talking about."

Brianna gave me a long, cold stare. "It's not going to do you no good to deny it."

"Brianna, I'm not denying anything. Why don't you tell me what happened."

"You're playing me for a fool, but alright, I'll tell you all about it. On Tuesday, your Kym went to the principal and said that Shonda had stolen her purse...no, it wasn't her purse—it was a wallet that she keeps in her purse. So the principal went and searched Shonda's handbag, and what do you suppose she found there?"

"I guess she found Kym's wallet."

"As if you didn't know. And not only that, the principal found a small amount of marijuana in Shonda's purse. It was a really tiny amount—like two joints. Is any of this beginning to ring a bell, Mr. Garrett?"

"Brianna, I don't know why you think I know something about this, but I don't."

"So you say. OK, let's pretend that you're telling the truth. I suppose it's at least possible that you are, but I kind of doubt it because when push comes to shove, families always stick together. Anyways, how do you suppose Kym's wallet and the two joints ended up in Shonda's purse?"

I was starting to feel some anger—it was obvious what Brianna was going to say next. "I have no idea," I said.

"'No idea,'" said Brianna, with a contemptuous laugh. "Well, let me clue you in, Mr. Psychiatrist. They weren't put there by Shonda, and so that means they must have been planted there by your Kym. Your precious Kym, the honor student who's going to the fancy college and what not."

"Why would Kym do that?" I said.

"For the oldest motive in the world—revenge. Now I'll admit that my Shonda can be a little wild and tempestuous at times. She's certainly no saint, and I can understand how she might have provoked your Kym, but that doesn't give her the right to plant things in Shonda's handbag. And what makes this even worse is that this is exactly the same thing that Kora Bradley did to Shonda—except instead of planting things in her purse, she planted them in her locker. In case you're wondering, I know that Kora framed Shonda because Shonda told me that she gave Kora a copy of the key to her locker about a week before she was busted."

"Brianna, I'm not trying to argue with you, but how do you know Kym put her wallet into Shonda's purse?"

"By the process of elimination, Mr. Garrett. Shonda didn't do it, so that only leaves Kym. I hope you're not going to claim that some other person took your Kym's wallet and her two joints and put them in Shonda's purse. That would really be too pathetic."

"Why are you so sure that Shonda wasn't the one who took these things from Kym?"

"So you do admit it! I thought so."

By now, I was exasperated by the whole tone of the conversation. "Admit what?" I said, in a sharp tone.

"That your Kym had two joints in her purse."

"I thought you said that the joints were in Shonda's purse."

"Yes," said Brianna, "that's where they ended up, but what you just asked me is why I thought Shonda didn't take the joints from Kym's purse."

"Brianna—"

"Don't try to deny it, Mr. Garrett—that's what you said. Now listen to me: Do you really think that after what Shonda's been through, she's going to plant two joints in her own handbag? And what this means is that your daughter has been setting Shonda up! You know it, and I know it, so let's stop playing games with each other."

I didn't think there was any real chance that Kym had put her wallet in Shonda's handbag, and I thought the accusation about the two joints was ludicrous. However, I didn't know what to say to Brianna who was clearly convinced that she was right and would refuse to listen to anything that I said. "Brianna," I said at last, "it's becoming apparent that you don't trust me. I don't want to upset you any more than you already are, but I doubt very much that my daughter was involved in the things that you're accusing her of."

"Of course you don't think she was involved—I knew you would say that."

"What I'll do is this: Tonight, I'll talk to Kym about it and—"

"What good is that going to do? She'll just deny it, and besides, even if she admitted the truth to you, all you'd do is cover it up and bury it six feet deep. Don't insult me, Mr. Garrett."

"OK, Brianna, I can see that there's nothing I can do to reestablish trust with you, and because of that, I'll have to end these sessions."

"So that's your answer—you're just going to wash your hands of the whole thing?"

"No, that's not true—I'm still going to talk to Kym about it."

"That's just another wash of the hands, Mr. Garrett. But I understand—you're booting me out of here because I had the nerve to take on that deceitful daughter of yours. Now that she's been accepted at the University of Maryland, she's so high and mighty, isn't she?"

"Brianna, I don't know what I could say to you that would make you see this in a different light."

"You could tell me the truth, Mr. Garrett. Or is that above your fancy pay grade?" Brianna stood up and walked towards the door. Before she left, she turned to me and said, "I'm out of here, and as sorry as I am to say it, good riddance to you. There wasn't one single thing you said to me that was the least bit of help."

Later, when I got home, I asked Amber if Kym had talked to her during the past few days about anything that related to Shonda, but Amber told me that Kym hadn't mentioned Shonda recently. Later, when Kym came home just before dinner time, I talked to her about it in a slightly roundabout way since I was still bound by the doctor/patient privilege..

"Kym," I said, "there's something I need to talk to you about. Can you tell me what happened at school last Tuesday—I'm talking about the incident with Shonda Edwards."

"What incident?" said Kym, who looked confused.

"Didn't you accuse her of taking your wallet from your purse?" .

"What is going on?" said Kym. "I never did any such thing."

"Wait a second," I said. "Are you telling me that you never went to the principal and complained about Shonda?"

"No! It's true that I don't like Shonda anymore, especially after we had that big fight over Craig Benson, but I've never spoken to the principal about her. That would be about the last thing I would do because although you probably won't like it when I say it, I think the principal is a jerk."

"Did you talk at all with Shonda last week?" I said.

"No, I try to avoid her nowadays. Who in the world told you that I had accused her of stealing my wallet?"

"Kym," I said, "it's just something that I heard—it doesn't make any difference where it came from."

"Well," said Kym, in an annoyed tone, "I'd like to know who's spreading rumors like that."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "If it didn't happen, then it doesn't matter."

"I would say it matters a lot if someone is telling lies about me. You believe me, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," I said.

"I can tell you this much," said Kym. "Shonda can't afford to get in any more trouble right now—not after they found all that marijuana in her locker."

"Do you think she's still involved with marijuana?" I said.

"I doubt it—at least not at school. If anything like that happens again, she'll probably be kicked out of school and wouldn't receive her diploma."

"But...you're sure that you haven't done anything to provoke her lately?" I said.

"No! Or if I have, it isn't anything I'm aware of. But you never know what's going to set off someone in the Edwards family—basically, except for Terri, they're all a bunch of nuts. And that mother of Shonda's is the worst of the bunch—I'm glad I didn't grow up in that family."

There wasn't any doubt in my mind that Kym was telling the truth. Besides the fact she had always, or almost always, been upfront and honest with us, this wasn't the type of thing that a teenager would lie about. If Shonda had stolen her wallet, why would Kym not tell us about it? What would be the point of trying to hide that from us? As for Brianna's claim that Kym had planted her wallet and the two joints in Shonda's handbag, I thought that was so far from being a realistic possibility that I hadn't even bothered to ask Kym about such an insulting accusation.

So that meant there were only two possible liars left: Either Brianna had made the whole thing up, or Shonda had told her mother the lie. On the whole, I was inclined to believe that Shonda was the liar. It was difficult for me to fathom why Brianna would create such a lie, but it was easy enough to see that Shonda might have wanted to deflect attention from herself by blaming someone else for her current troubles, and in that case, Kym would have been an ideal target because of their past history. The fact that this accusation included not only the wallet but also the two joints further supported the idea that Shonda was behind this. Apparently, she was trying to convince her mother that her involvement with marijuana had always been a lie, a lie that, this time, had been contrived by my daughter. And unfortunately, Brianna had believed this far-fetched scenario.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next day, the news broke. It was Saturday morning, and I was the first one up because I had a nine o'clock appointment. Saturday was a busy day for me because many of my clients worked Monday through Friday, so I often saw people from nine until late in the afternoon.

After making myself a cup of coffee, I opened the front door and grabbed the newspaper off the front steps. Leisurely, as I sipped my coffee, I removed the paper from the blue plastic wrapper, but within seconds, I was wide awake as I read the front-page story.

KORA BRADLEY'S REMAINS FOUND

Around 4 P.M. on Friday afternoon, a hiker who was walking his dog found a body that was buried in a shallow grave by a small pond that is near Route 83 where it intersects with Route 64 about fifteen miles to the northwest of Culver. The dog had gone off the trail and was pawing at the makeshift grave when the hiker caught up to him and could see that the remains in the grave were those of a human body. The police arrived at the scene, and after finding a backpack with Kora's belongings in it under her body, they were quickly able to determine that the body in the grave was Kora Bradley's. Kora has been missing for six weeks, and everyone was hopeful that she would be found alive, but unfortunately, there can no longer be any doubt that she was murdered.

After an autopsy was performed last evening, the police issued a brief statement. The results of the autopsy showed that Kora's death was caused by drowning—most likely, she was drowned in the pond before she was dragged into the woods and thrown into her grave. Anyone who has information that could be helpful in solving this case should either call the Culver Police Department or the Crime Stoppers Tip Line.

There was more to the article, including a sympathetic biography of Kora, but my eyes had long since wandered away from the newspaper. An ugly, terrible thought entered my mind almost instantaneously: Had Brianna, when she described the death of Valetta to me, actually been describing the death of Kora? Or, possibly, both Valetta and Kora had been murdered in the same way, but I didn't think that was very likely. I had always been puzzled by the extreme intensity of Brianna's flashbacks. Supposedly, fifteen years had gone by since Valetta was murdered, and while it was theoretically possible that Brianna might still be suffering from PTSD in relation to that incident, I instinctively felt that the depth of her remorse and grief could be much better explained by an event that was considerably closer in time.

Dazed, I finished my coffee and picked up my briefcase as I headed towards the front door. Upstairs, I could hear that Amber was awake as she walked from our bedroom towards the bathroom. I was about to turn around and go upstairs to say goodbye to her but thought better of it. There was too much on my mind, too much that I had to decide, and I wanted to be alone. Looking back on it, I certainly wish I had made a different choice.

My office was only five miles from my house, so I didn't have much time to come to a decision, but my mind was racing. The decision I had to make was whether to break the doctor/patient privilege. I know, to an outsider, such a decision would have been very easy—a young, innocent woman had been brutally murdered, so how could one possibly let that slide?

First of all, I wasn't even sure that Brianna had murdered Kora—she hadn't admitted to it, and I had no way of knowing whether the pond near where Kora's body had been found was the same one that Brianna had been talking about when she described what happened to Valetta. I remembered that when Brianna had told me about Valetta's death, she had mentioned that the pond was near some route, but I couldn't remember what the route number was—after I arrived at my office, I could replay the tape where Brianna had talked about the drowning of Valetta. However, regardless of whether the route numbers matched up, it was certainly a reasonable hypothesis to assume that Brianna had murdered Kora.

OK, I thought to myself, that settled the first obstacle to breaking the doctor/patient privilege. But the second obstacle was much more difficult to overcome because there were only two grounds on which the privilege could be broken: 1/ Had anyone, besides Brianna, been arrested and convicted of the crime? 2/ Was the murder of Kora part of a pattern of murders that was likely to be repeated?

Since no one had been arrested for Kora's murder, I would have to convince myself that Kora's murder was part of a pattern. Ironically, I didn't think it would be fair to Brianna to include Valetta's murder as being a part of the pattern. The reason for this is that I doubted very much that there had ever been a person named Valetta who had been murdered by Brianna. Looking back on it, I could see that the whole game she had played with me was like the old story about a person who goes to see a psychiatrist and says, "I have this friend of mine who is going through a difficult time, and I'd like to hear what advice you can give me about his situation." And this friend wouldn't happen to be you by any chance, would it?

But clearly, there were some very disturbing features to Kora's murder, and the thing that made these features doubly disturbing was that they related to my own family. Obviously, the motive for Kora's murder must have been something to do with Shonda. I remembered what Brianna had said in her last session--that the reason Shonda's locker at school had been searched for marijuana was connected to Kora. Amber had also said the same thing to me. But it didn't even matter whether Kora was involved because Brianna believed that she was. And now, also in our last session, Brianna had accused Kym of almost exactly the same thing, and while this accusation probably originated with Shonda, it made no difference because Brianna believed every word of it.

So the involvement of my daughter made the decision as to whether to break the doctor/patient privilege much more difficult. I wondered how I would feel if Shonda had been fighting with some other young woman. What then? Would I be telling myself that there was a big difference between what Kora had done to Shonda and what this other young woman had supposedly done to Shonda? Was there really a big difference? Brianna had claimed that both Kora and Kym had planted evidence on her daughter, but there was the difference that Kora's alleged involvement had resulted in Shonda facing criminal charges, while Kym's alleged involvement had led to no consequences at all because it had, in fact, been a contrived story invented by Shonda. But still...Brianna's belief was that Kym had tried to harm her daughter.

Then there was the humanity of it all. A young woman had been brutally murdered for what amounted to no reason at all—just a petty grudge by a mentally disturbed mother who thought she was protecting her daughter. Was it really fair, regardless of whether my daughter's life was possibly at risk, to let Brianna escape any punishment for what she had done? Both my mind and heart rebelled against this possibility.

Finally, as I neared my office, I decided I would think it over for the rest of the day, and if I still felt the same way by the time my last appointment was over at four, I would call the police and tell them what I knew.

My office assistant, Patti Morrison, was at her desk when I arrived. She usually worked Wednesday through Saturday—besides keeping track of my schedule, she also dealt with payments and all the paperwork that was involved with the insurance companies and state agencies.

"Hi," she said. "Your first appointment called to say that he would be fifteen minutes late. By the way, about ten minutes ago, Brianna Edwards was here."

"Brianna Edwards?" I said. "What did she want?"

"She wanted to see you. When I told her that you weren't here, she asked me where you lived, but when I said that I couldn't give out that information, she said, 'It doesn't really matter—I know where he lives.' And then she stormed out of here—she seemed to be really upset."

Instantly, I raced into the room where I saw clients, yanked open my desk drawer, and pulled out the small canister of pepper spray that I kept there. I'd only had to use it once—that was on a guy who had just said that he was going to beat me to a pulp, and when he started towards me, I sprayed him in the face.

Once I had put the pepper spray in my jacket pocket, I went back into the outer office. "Cancel my nine o'clock and eleven o'clock appointments, Patti. I'll let you know about the afternoon appointment in an hour or so."

"But Casey—"

"I can't help it, Patti—this is an emergency. How long ago did you say that Brianna was here?"

"Ten minutes maybe."

I literally ran out to my car, but before I left the parking lot, I dialed my home number. No answer. I tried again. No answer.

Panicked, I bolted out of the lot and drove as fast as I dared to my house. Maybe, I thought hopefully, my imagination was running away with me. Had Brianna really gone to my house to hurt myself and my family? Could it possibly be? Did she own a gun? I couldn't remember if she had ever mentioned whether she did or not. Too paranoid—it couldn't possibly be. However, she definitely had some kind of resentment towards Amber. Plus, there was the whole thing with Kym and Shonda, along with the way that she had reacted so negatively to me during our last session.

I wasn't thinking right—looking back, I should have called the police, but if my fears had even the least bit of validity, I didn't think I had the time to waste on that kind of phone call. I was getting a lot closer to my house now—I must have been doing at least seventy on the two-lane road that led to my house.

Half a minute later, I could see my house--parked in front of it was Brianna's car. Without thinking about anything except that this might be a life-or-death situation, I parked my car in the driveway and ran up to the kitchen door, which was on the side of the house. Yanking it open, I took two steps inside the kitchen and...

## CHAPTER TWELVE

The first body I saw was Amber's. Dressed in her nightgown and bathrobe, the upper half of her body was sprawled against a wooden cabinet near the sink. She had been shot at least twice in the face—one of her eyes was missing and the top right side of her head had been blown off. She must also have been shot in the midsection because there was a large blood stain on her white bathrobe. The biggest blood stain appeared to be on the floor near the cabinet and was undoubtedly the result of the shots to her head.

I can't even begin to tell you what a person looks like when they've been executed this way. Too horrible. There aren't anywhere near enough words in the language to cover it because language wasn't designed to describe these things. The gaping wounds, the peculiar blank but horrified stare, the bloody stench of death.

A kind of odd nausea and dizziness swept over me, and I staggered away from Amber and went into our TV room to see if I could find Kym or Jason. But I knew...I knew that when I found them, they wouldn't be alive. Kym was lying face down about five feet from the front door. She had been shot in the back and also in the temple. Undoubtedly, the shot to her back had immobilized, if not paralyzed her, and then Brianna had walked up to Kym and shot her in the head.

As for Jason, he was lying face down at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the second floor. Later, I would find out that he had been shot three times—twice in the chest and once in the head. It wasn't all that difficult to piece together what had happened. Amber had been downstairs in the kitchen when Brianna knocked on the door. After Amber opened it, Brianna had come in, closed the door, and leveled the gun at Amber. She had instinctively retreated but had almost immediately been shot, which had sent her sprawling into the cabinet. Just after Brianna had come up close to Amber and fired the two bullets into her head, Kym had probably walked into the kitchen, or maybe she had been in the TV room and had walked towards the kitchen door when she heard all the noise. Or maybe she realized that her mother was being shot to death, but whatever the case, as she turned and ran away towards the front door, Brianna shot Kym in the back. Jason was probably coming down the stairs to see what was going on, and that's when he was picked off and slaughtered by this hideous human being who went by the name of Brianna Edwards.

"Quite a sight, isn't it, Mr. Garrett?"

In the midst of all the carnage, I had totally forgotten about Brianna. But now, from behind me, I heard her voice. "I'm glad you came back here," she said, "because that saves me the trouble of having to look for you."

Turning slowly, I faced her and saw the gun, which was pointed directly at me. "Why?" I said, in an anguished tone. "Why did you have to do this?"

"Actually," said Brianna, "the only one I really wanted was you. I knew that once you read the newspaper today and saw the story about Kora Bradley, you would realize that I was the one who murdered her. So, obviously, I couldn't let you live. I know you fed me all that fancy jargon about how you would never tell anyone about our sessions, but I'm not that stupid—you'd have found an excuse to tell the police what I had done. That's the way you people are—you say all these comforting things, but they're just lies that are designed to trick people like me."

"Was there ever a Valetta Lopez, or did you make that whole thing up?"

"Valetta Lopez was somebody I knew a long time ago, but I never did anything to her. I wanted to because she did fool around with my boyfriend, whose name was Jalen, but she was smart enough to disappear before I could do anything to her. I just made the whole thing up with Valetta being the one who was murdered because the drowning of Kora was driving me crazy, and I thought it might help me to talk to you. I wasn't lying when I said that I was being haunted by a ghost, but there was no way that I would ever have told you that I murdered Kora because you would never have kept your mouth shut."

"But why did Amber and my two kids have to die?"

"Amber and the boy were just kind of collateral damage, but I already told you what Kym did."

"She never did anything to Shonda."

"So you say...so you say. And now, I have to tell you that it's time for you to join the rest of your family, Mr. Garrett. Goodbye to you, and I hope you find peace in another world."

Desperately, I began to yank the pepper spray out of my jacket pocket, but I was too late. _What was it going to feel like?_ Would I just go from life to death in an instant?

But something unexpected happened. Although I could tell that Brianna had pulled the trigger, there was no sound of the gun firing, and there was no sensation of a bullet ripping through my body. As I began to move quickly towards her with the pepper spray, she pulled the trigger, but once again, nothing happened. (Ironically, in her earlier rampage through my family, she had fired all the bullets that had been loaded into the magazine of her gun.)

Three feet from her, I hit her with the pepper spray—directly, right straight into her eyes. Yelping, she staggered backwards and tried to make her way to the kitchen. Approaching her from the side, I grabbed the gun out of her hand and tossed it away from us towards the other end of the room. Now what? She was still yelping and clawing at her eyes, but she had managed to find the door that led into the kitchen.

When she was a little less than halfway across the kitchen, I came up from behind her and shoved her as hard as I could. Blinded by the pepper spray, Brianna tripped over a kitchen chair and went careening onto the floor. As soon as she tried to get up, I went around her, took out the pepper spray, and gave her another dose.

"No!" she screeched. "What are you doing? You'll blind me!"

She was sobbing now, but I wasn't at all sympathetic to her plight. Picking up the phone, I dialed 911 and told them that three people had been murdered in my house. "If you try to move at all," I said to Brianna, "I will give you another dose of the pepper spray."

Brianna was howling and scratching at her eyes. "I can't see! I'm blind."

A minute later, when I saw the first police car coming up the street, I squirted another shot of pepper spray directly into her face. By now, my eyes were watering, and I couldn't stop coughing, so I opened the door to breathe in some fresh air and waited for the police to arrive.

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

For a few hours, I was considered a potential suspect, but it wasn't long before those investigating the case realized that Brianna had murdered not only the three members of my family but also Kora Bradley. The gun used to murder my family was registered to her; the statement from Patti Morrison, my office assistant, who told of Brianna coming into the office and asking for my address was corroborating evidence; and the audio tapes of my sessions with Brianna could leave no doubt in anyone's mind as to who had murdered four people.

Eventually, Brianna's lawyer attempted to plead that she was insane, but this plea was rejected. The crimes she had committed were so heinous that the prosecuting attorney refused to make a plea deal with her, and with the jury deliberating for only five hours, she was convicted of four counts of first degree murder and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

As for me, there would obviously be no happy ending. The fact that Brianna would be spending the rest of her life in a jail cell had no real meaning to me. Her incarceration was certainly a better outcome than having her found innocent, but it had no impact on my life.

It's difficult to describe what it's like to be a victim of gun violence. It's never real until it happens to you. Until then, guns are just something that other people argue about—campaign issues that devolve into irrelevant shouting matches. But when it happens to _you_ , everything changes.

So try and take a walk with me and place yourself in my shoes. Let's begin with the person that you love more than any other person in this world. Maybe it's your mother or father; maybe it's your child; maybe it's your significant other—your lover, your husband, your wife. Don't just skip over these words—take a few seconds and really imagine this person in your mind. It shouldn't be difficult for you to imagine their face, their mannerisms, and all the things that you love and cherish about them.

Now imagine that the phone rings and you are told that the one you love so much has been murdered. You hang up the phone and you sit there...everything is gone...you will never speak to the one you love ever again...in an instant the most precious thing in your life has been taken away. The person that you had placed all your hopes and dreams in has literally been stolen away from you—forever. Never again will your loved one speak to you; never again will you do all those things that you used to do together.

It's actually very hard to imagine the death of a loved one because there's a certain kind of permanency to love, and although we realize that nothing lasts forever, it just seems that love will endure and that the one we love will always be around to give meaning and validity to our lives. That love becomes the foundation of our lives—our rock, the thing that gives us stability and comfort in a tempestuous and dangerous world. Our love won't leave us; our love will never die.

But now, our love is gone—murdered by some monster with a gun. In the days that follow, we are constantly plagued by thoughts that remind us of the one we love. We can't go anywhere or do anything without being reminded. We yearn, so desperately yearn, to talk to and share things with the one who has gone. We begin conversations with them in our minds, but those conversations are abruptly cut short when we suddenly remember that they are forever gone. We long to see their face, their smile; to hear their lovely voice and happy laugh. But it's all gone.

And then there was always that final moment, the moment in the morgue when we saw the loved one's face for the last time. Guns do more than just kill people—there's also the manner in which they kill. Your loved one's murder doesn't look even remotely similar to some idyllic story where a person dies in their sleep. No, it's a million times worse than that. The gun hasn't just taken your beautiful loved one away forever—it's also turned them into an ugly, hideous mess.

It's such a tragedy that we live in a world where well over two hundred million people have now been slaughtered by guns. But there's no getting around this statistic, and there's no getting around the fact that the next person to be turned into an ugly, hideous mess might be you or me.

After the viewing in the morgue, there's the funeral. Lots and lots of weeping. Another life cut senselessly short by a gun. Happens all the time. Then the loved one is lowered into the ground and the gravediggers shovel dirt onto the grave. Here today, gone tomorrow. Happens all the time. But then, once the victim is buried, it's time to move on. And so, little by little, at least for some, the victim is forgotten. It's as if they vanished, which is exactly what has happened to them.

Think about it: Since the invention of the gun, well over two hundred million people have been turned into vanishing victims. And every one of these victims was, at one time, just like you or me: They never once suspected that they would be turned into an ugly, hideous mess and become another sad statistic of our rampaging gun culture. These aren't just empty words: Any one of us could be shot to death today or tomorrow. Indeed, in America, over the next two days, eighty of us will be shot to death. And, of course, many, many more will be wounded.

Guns are the enemy of life, the enemy of humanity. They spawn hatred and fear, and they have also spawned nuclear weapons, which represent the ultimate form of gun violence—the really big guns of the really big boys. Now, with nuclear weapons, everyone has a gun pointed at their heads. And it may come about, someday, that the person who has his finger on the nuclear trigger will be no more sympathetic to humanity than Brianna Edwards was to Kora Bradley or my family.

Because I can't help but wonder if all these victims of gun violence are signposts, omens, along the way to the greatest tragedy of them all—the annihilation of the entire human race. It's almost like having a dream where one is in this very large house that holds hundreds of people, and as the hours go by, one keeps finding one bullet-ridden body after another. You try to escape, but the doors and windows are all locked from the outside. Meanwhile, you keep finding more and more bodies, and eventually, you come to the only conclusion that makes sense—everyone in the house is going to die. And in this case, the house is planet earth.
This is one of many books of mine that can be purchased on various web sites--currently, as of June 2020, there are 24 novels, 4 novellas, 9 anthologies, and 6 non-fiction books, so there is plenty to choose from!

I would like to emphasize that my novels are _very_ dissimilar from one another and have all sorts of different plots, themes, and attitudes. I've written a number of murder mysteries, four love stories, a gothic tale, a trial of a police officer for murder, a couple of unusual fantasies, a story about a homeless guy, a trial of a young guy who thinks that he's discovered the secret to life, a locked-room mystery, a book about a psychiatrist and a troubled woman, a tale about a student/teacher relationship, two satires, an unreliable narrator mystery, and three novels that are essentially political, sexual, and social commentaries.

