She rolled her eyes as only a twelve-year-old can and closed the door.

“So, what did she sign last night?” Cookie asked.

“You so very much don’t want to know.”

She cringed. “That bad?”

“Worse. Let’s just say we might should get her on the pill soon.”

“Wow.”

“Either that or we need to have her second-grade teacher investigated for solicitation. Wait, how does she know he doesn’t have to be at school until tonight?”

“Apparently, they’re texting.”

“Oh.” I could hardly blame Quentin, but he was sixteen to Amber’s twelve. True, she was a tall, exotic-looking twelve, but a twelve nonetheless. I’d have to be careful there. Offer a few well-timed death threats should he decide to take things further than just texting. “I guess that’s okay as long as there’s a T in front of that word and not an S.”

10

My goal in life is to have a psychiatric disorder named after me.

—T-SHIRT

I tried calling Gemma a couple of times, then gave up and tracked her phone. Illegally. According to the app, she was at her office, which would explain why she wasn’t answering. Still, she never saw clients on a Sunday. Maybe she was in trouble. That would be my excuse when she inevitably got mad for my illegally tracking her phone.

Sure enough, when I got to her office, her Beamer was parked out back. I parked in front beside a white GMC pickup, noted the take-out bags thrown haphazardly about its interior, then let myself in with a key I had also illegally obtained. She should’ve never lent me her keys when she got pneumonia that one time. Did she not know I’d make a copy? I could hardly be held responsible for my actions when everyone around me gave me every opportunity to sink to their low expectations.

The door to her secret lab where she shrank heads was closed, so I picked up a magazine and waited. A few minutes later, she walked out the door and started when she saw me.

“Charley,” she said, closing the door behind her, “what are you doing here?”

“I came to ask you a few questions.” I looked past her. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my office.” She blocked my view. “How did you know I was here?”

“GPS. I tracked your phone. PIs can do shit like that. That’s how we roll.”

“That’s so wrong.”

“And yet it feels so right. Why are you here on a Sunday?”

“I’m seeing a clie —”

Before she could finish, the door opened again. A tall man, broad with sandy hair, stepped through. He was a cop if his uniform was any indication.

“Charley, this is Officer Pierce.”

He held out his hand, and I immediately noticed three scars on his face. They were how I remembered him. He became a cop about the same time I became a college graduate. There was a case I was helping my uncle with, and he’d been a rookie back then.

“Charley,” he said, his mannerisms congenial. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“We’ve met, actually.” I shook his hand and immediately noticed something shady about him. He seemed agitated underneath his cool exterior.

One corner of his mouth tilted up, puckering the scars that ran across his cheek, two right below his left eye and one along his jaw, like he’d been scratched by an animal, and scratched deeply enough for the scars to be permanent. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I do. You were a rookie when we met.”

“Yes, ma’am. That was some case.”

Uncle Bob had called me to the crime scene of a family who had been murdered. “It was tragic.”

He lowered his head as he thought back, then looked at Gemma. “I’ll see you next week?”

“Absolutely. Next week.”

Gemma seemed nervous. Did he scare her?

He headed toward the door.

“And,” Gemma added, “think about what we talked about.”

He looked at me as though worried I would hear something I shouldn’t. “I will, Doctor.”

After he left, Gemma led me into her secret lab. I took the couch, making myself completely comfortable.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asked.

“Seriously?”

“Right.” She walked over to her small kitchenette. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay with Dr. Romero?”

“Sure.” I straightened and leveled a death stare on her. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“What?” she asked, becoming defensive. She handed me a cup of coffee. I took it without breaking the spell of my gaze.

“What did you tell her?”

She turned suddenly, stirring her coffee. “Nothing. Why?”

“Because she seems to know an awful lot about me.”

Her shoulders tensed.

When she turned back, I was in the middle of a sip, so I had to lock my laser glare on her from behind my cup and pray I didn’t look silly.

“I told her only what she needed to know to treat you.”

I put my cup down. “Which was?”

She chewed her bottom lip a moment, then said, “I told her you were a supernatural being with special powers and that you’d try to use them to deter her treatment.” When my jaw fell open, she rushed to add, “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell her you were the grim reaper.”

“Gemma,” I said, adding a singsong whine to my voice, “now I can’t scare her. You can’t go around telling people about me.”