Samantha was distracted while Beverly described incidents, some in considerable detail, which had occurred during the past two weeks since their last session. She felt guilty about that, and probably should have either cancelled or postponed the session. But, the rest of the week was not looking any better, and Beverly needed to talk.
Focus, Samantha. Focus.
Beverly’s situation was, to put it simply, more than just a bit more complex than that of most of her clients. Not that every one of them was not complex in some way. All of them were human, and so each burdened by their own emotional baggage. Beverly’s load seemed, in Samantha’s experience, a bit heavier than most of the others. As, from what Samantha could tell, was Beverly.
This, apparently, had not always been the case. During the past few years, though, like so many troubled individuals, she had turned to food for comfort. The combination of that, along the unresolved stresses of her life, was now taking a serious toll on her health. Her choices had been drugs and surgery, or getting her head straight. To Samantha’s great relief, Beverly had chosen the latter.
Based on her experience, Samantha suspected that the medical intervention would most not likely provide a permanent solution. If anything, it created a high probability that Beverly’s quality of life it might be even further diminished in the long term. So, Samantha had begun to guide her on a journey of personal exploration and inner healing. It was slow going, with the path littered along the way with pitfalls, snares, and landmines. Still, Samantha felt as if they were making progress.
Trying to refocus her thoughts, Samantha silently reviewed what she knew of the events of Beverly’s life, trying to place the new pieces into constructing the jigsaw puzzle that represented Beverly’s existence. (It both amazed and amused Samantha how her mind produced a new metaphor for almost every new client.)
Beverly had suffered a miscarriage during her fourth month of pregnancy—a traumatic event, Samantha knew from personal experience, even under the best of circumstances. Then, a few months later, her husband left in what became, in Samantha’s mind, a needlessly long and vicious divorce. It turned out that her then-husband had, at the same time, managed to get his twenty-three year old girlfriend pregnant. Doing the math, however, revealed that he had to have done so when Beverly was slightly more than two months pregnant herself, prior to the miscarriage.
Just to make things even more interesting, Beverly had revealed to Samantha that her now ex-husband had not been the father of the child that she had lost. She was certain that there was no way that her ex-husband could have known this. Although slightly skeptical on that point, Samantha was willing to believe it. Despite all of the other dirty laundry that Beverly’s now ex-husband had felt it necessary to air during their protracted divorce proceedings, that particular revelation had never come to light. Samantha was quite certain, had the man had known, it would have.
I will never again complain that my life is too complicated . . .
On almost any other day, she might have been able to hold herself to that promise—at least until dinnertime. Today, the message she had received that morning still weighed on her mind. Unless it turned out to some kind of misguided attempt at humor (which she doubted, but wistfully prayed was true), her life might very well become much more complicated.
#
Sabrina fretted while she tried to work. Her messages to Samantha had gone so far unanswered.
She’s busy with clients, Sabrina reassured herself.
Every time the taskbar blinked with a new message, Sabrina’s heart stopped for an instant while she checked to see who it was from. So far, none of them had been from Samantha. She ignored all of the rest, afraid that she would be unable to mask her simmering anxiety. Too many of her friends were far too perceptive. She was not sure what she should tell any of them—what she could tell them.
She realized then the other name that had failed to appear in her list. Its absence did nothing at all to quiet her unease. Swearing softly at herself, she scolded herself for not noticing it before now. If what she, and apparently Samantha, suspected was true, then it was yet another sign that something might be terribly wrong. She had other ways to contact him, of course. She wondered, though, whether she should even try before talking to Samantha. Samantha might know more than her terse message let on.
Sabrina sank back in her chair. Its weathered wooden frame creaked beneath her.
I hate this.
She turned so that she could see the view outside the narrow porthole. The sight and sounds of the sea usually calmed her—or at least brought her perspective when she needed it.
Her eyes tracked out among the ripples of the waves. Dark clouds roiled like oily smoke along the horizon. A storm was coming, potentially a very bad one. She had known that. The weather bulletins had been reporting the forming storm patterns for several days. Even on the clearest days, she monitored those closely, relying not only on one source, but several, to form her own picture of what was happening out there. She had learned, not just though her own experience, but also through the experiences of others, just how capricious the mother ocean could be. Clear skies and calm waters could churn into vicious storms within only a few short hours.
She turned back to the computer screen, finding little comfort out along the water. The icon on the taskbar no longer flashed, telling her that she had received no new messages. She wished that was a relief, but it also meant that she had still heard nothing from Samantha.
Damn it.
She reached for her phone, ready to check to see whether she had received any messages there. She nearly dropped it when it vibrated suddenly in her hand. When it did not stop, she looked at its small display and swore under her breath. Her manager was calling her, no doubt to get an update on her already-late project, share some latest management-level absurdity or, worse yet, both.
Sabrina allowed herself one reluctant sigh before answering the call.
“Hi, David.”
She tried to summon up enough of her usual geniality to sound enthusiastic, but knew that she had probably failed to sound convincing.
Oh well . . . she told herself, composing several possible semi-fictional explanations, should he ask.
#
Cynthia Fawkes paused as the elevator doors opened, peering into irregularly-lit space beyond. The cavernous concrete parking garage was nearly empty. Cynthia saw only two vehicles: her four-year-old white Toyota Corolla and a gunmetal gray 5-series BMW that she did not recognize.
Probably one of the Marketing VPs on a call with Asia, she presumed, trying to guess which of them might own a car like that.
He probably leases it, she decided, stepping out the elevator.
The stark fluorescent lighting gave its interior an artificial feel, like a painted stage scenery backdrop—shadows that gave the illusion of depth, but lacking any real substance. It did not help that it felt later than it really was. The shift from Daylight Saving Time had taken place over the past weekend earlier, so darkness had descended an hour earlier than it had the week before.
The wide mesh gate was closed across the entrance, so she felt relatively safe walking alone there to her car. During the two years since they had moved to this site, there had only been one substantiated report of someone being accosted in this structure.—and that one had taken place during daylight. A pair of transients had taken shelter within the garage during a rainstorm. The incident has seemed more like panhandling than an actual assault, but the frequency of security patrols through the structure had been increased immediately afterward.
Nothing like the threat of a lawsuit to get something done, she mused drily.
She tapped the fob of her keychain. Her car responded with a reassuring chirp and the quick blink-blink of its headlights. Opening the driver’s side door, she tossed her briefcase onto the passenger seat and climbed inside. Immediately, before even inserting the key into the ignition, she locked the doors. Surveillance cameras and security patrols or not, there was no sense in taking foolish chances.
Sliding the key into its slot, she paused before actually starting the car. Something at the edge of her peripheral nagged at her attention. She turned toward the passenger seat, expecting to see that her briefcase had slid from the seat onto the floor. Annoying, but it was hardly worth worrying about until she got home.
But the briefcase was on the seat where it had originally landed. It was then that she noticed the soft, dim shape on the floor. Frowning, she tried to recall if she had left something in car that morning. She could remember nothing, particularly as he tried to keep the interior spotless and empty. After all, one never knew when she might have the chance to drive an executive to lunch or an offsite meeting. Having it be filled with any kind of clutter would send the wrong message, after all.
Reaching up, she turned on the overhead lighting. There was definitely something down there. At first, she thought it might have been a lunch bag from her husband or one of the kids, but it was the wrong size and shape. In fact, it did not look like anything that might have belonged to her.
Peering down into the shadowed recess, she tried to make out any details that might tell her what the object actually was. It appeared to be a workout bag, but smaller than the ones that either of the boys used. Her husband did not own one like it, and she certainly did not.
So how had it gotten into her car?
She glanced around at the dashboard, verifying against the absurd notion that it really was not her car. Sure, her keys had opened it, but who knew how reliable that was. Still, the odds that someone else would have one that would operate using the same code, be the same make and model, and still be there at that hour, were fantastically slim. Therefore, there had to be another explanation.
A cold chill passed through her and she turned, cautiously, to peer into the backseat.
Empty.
Cynthia settled back into the driver’s seat with a deep sigh of relief. Urban legends were filled with stories of such things. Still, it did not explain how the bag had gotten into her car or who it might belong to.
It must have a tag, she reasoned, reaching toward it. They almost always did, she thought . . . unless someone didn’t want known who the owner was.
Cynthia hesitated now, wondering whether she should call Security. She could do it without having to leave the car. The cell phone’s right here in my purse . . .
Her hand came up empty. She looked into her purse now, checking to see whether it had fallen from its designated pouch. Not seeing it, she dug through the contents of the purse, failed to find the phone.
Shit.
She swore silently, using a term that she never would have spoken aloud. As soon as she thought about it, she could picture it on top of her desk, sitting next to the notepad she had used during her meeting with the senior R&D manager. That left her with a dilemma—several of them, in fact. With increasing nervousness, she began to consider each one of them.
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