Page 85 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“Of course. I can tell you work hard.”

He sips. “Really? How can you tell that?”

“The eyes,” I say. “They say it all.”

“And what do mine say?” His voice drops a notch, signaling both interest and hesitance.

I remember how he stared at Nikki. It was a hunter’s gaze. Love and hate. Pleasure and pain. They’re tightly linked in this guy. “You take on a lot of everyone else’s problems.” A fact true for many successful people.

He sips his bourbon. “What kind of work do you think I do?”

“Your suits, shoes, and haircut say you do very well.” His nails are buffed and his hands smooth, uncalloused. A professional. Asking questions comes easily to him. This is the kind of bar where a professional won’t run into his peers. He doesn’t want his clients seeing him in public while he blows off steam. I teeter between lawyer and doctor. “A doctor.”

An unspoken emotion sharpens his gaze. Eyes widen slightly. I’ve caught him off guard, as if he’s not accustomed to being in the hot seat. Bingo. “Correct. What kind of doctor am I?”

He’s got an edge, which doesn’t jibe with family doctor. In my experience, those doctors don’t dress as well. Bourbon is good at askingquestions and seems to parse my answers, searching for any kind of angle. Surgeon might fit, but where’s the fun when the patient is under anesthesia most of the time. “Psychologist. Shrink.”

He sits back and softly claps his hands. “You should be a detective.”

“I don’t think the police force wants me among their ranks.”

“Why is that?”

My laughter is genuine. “You’re the shrink, you tell me.”

He regards me as he leans forward. “Drilling into that would take several counseling sessions.”

I wonder if he used that line on Nikki. “What happens in these meetings?”

“We sit, talk. You tell me what’s bothering you.”

“That would definitely take a few sessions.”

“I can already tell you had a tough childhood.” His confidence is unnerving.

I grab the bar rag and wipe up a dry, clean spot. “That so?”

“Absent parents.”

Getting closer to the root from which all my shit stems. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re the mother hen here. I see the way you talk to the waitresses, the way you hover over Nikki, the way you watch your customers and White Wine. Do you really have a mother who’s in need of care?”

Jeanne did call him. “Of course.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.”

He’s made his point and seems to quickly grow bored with it. “Is there a problem with Nikki?”

“Missing.” I picture her locked in a box screaming for help or buried in a shallow grave. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Nikki after your date?”

He raises his glass to his lips, pauses. “Datingis a bit formal for our arrangement.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“It was a one-night stand, Stevie. My guess is she’s run off with a new boyfriend or high on drugs.”

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