Page 2 of The Perfect Betrayal

CHAPTER ONE

“It was a nightmare,” Jessie said, and she was only slightly exaggerating.

“Really, a nightmare?” Dr. Janice Lemmon asked skeptically, her eyebrows raised.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be my psychiatrist,” Jessie objected. “Where’s the understanding and support?”

“And you’re supposed to be the celebrated LAPD criminal profiler, Jessie Hunt—not easily prone to hyperbole,” Lemmon countered.

“Actually, my ‘celebrity’ status was what caused the problem in the first place,” Jessie explained. “That’s why I had to leave that place almost as soon as I got there.”

The “place” that Jessie was referring to was Beachside Harmony, located a full hour and a half north of Los Angeles, up near Santa Barbara. Despite the touchy-feely name, Beachside Harmony was an actually an intensive rehabilitation and treatment facility, designed not just for folks dealing with addiction, but also with myriad mental health issues. It was also supposed to be highly secure, which is why a variety of high-profile celebrities went there.

“What do you mean?” Lemmon wanted to know. She was the one who’d recommended Beachside Harmony, and despite her unquestioned professionalism, she sounded slightly defensive at the criticism.

“I mean that I went there with Ryan, using an assumed name, under the guise of possibly finding a place to help our imaginary teenage daughter, who we said was struggling with all manner of issues.” Jessie explained. “And within five minutes of walking through the halls, two people recognized me. One mistakenly thought I was an actress because she’d seen me onTV. The other knew who I was and wanted to know if I was working a case. So the joint obviously isn’t as concerned with protecting privacy as one might have hoped.”

"I'm sorry, Jessie," Lemmon said sincerely. "I thought that with their reputation and being so far north of the city, it would be an ideal option."

"Well, I was always on the fence about a facility anyway," Jessie said. "It's not like I can speak up in group therapy and say, 'Hi, I'm Jessie and I've got an uncontrollable desire to brutally kill the suspects I'm hunting down. I know that's not super-professional, considering I'm supposed to fight for justice, not vengeance. But my father was a serial killer, and somehow, whatever sickness was in him got passed down to me. Help, please.'"

“Maybe group therapy isn’t the best venue for that kind of admission,” Lemmon noted drily.

"Probably not," Jessie agreed. "But you and I have been working on this together for months now, and that doesn't seem to be helping either. No offense."

“None taken,” Lemmon said and seemed to mean it.

Janice Lemmon didn't take offense too much at this stage in her career. Prior to her work as a psychiatrist in private practice, the 70-year-old with a tiny body, thick glasses and tight, little gray ringlets was a highly decorated LAPD and FBI criminal profiler. Very little fazed her.

“You know that I think a facility isn’t really workable anyway,” Jessie added. “The only places where I might have some anonymity are going to be halfway across the country, maybe even international. And I’m not confident that I could take a leave of absence from the police department without sharing some details about where and why I was going.”

“Does it have to be paid leave?” Lemmon asked. “You are independently wealthy.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Jessie cracked. “But paid or unpaid, Captain Parker is going to want to know why the criminal profiler for her most prized investigative unit has just checked out for a few weeks. And even if I hold firm about not saying anything, these are cops. They know how to find stuff out. And once someone learns that I’m on leave for ‘general bloodthirstiness,’ it might impact my employment status.”

“Okay,” Lemmon replied, unfazed by Jessie’s sarcasm. “Perhaps it’s time that we reconsider the idea of medication.”

Jessie shook her head.

“I was under the impression that any medication that could curb those kinds of desires would mess with my brain chemistry,” she said. “I kind of need to be firing on all cylinders to do my job.”

"That depends," Lemmon said. "Some people do have reactions. They can be extreme in rare cases. Most of the time, the side effects are a bit of temporary fuzziness, like you've had a bad night's sleep and need a nap. For you, we would try a low dose of something mild and see how that worked. If it wasn't effective, we could change things up. And, of course, I'd recommend that you first try it out during a stretch when you're not on duty."

“Not on duty?” Jessie chuckled. “I don’t think that kind of stretch exists.”

Lemmon shrugged.

"Well, it's the next step," she said. "I can give you a sample dose and fill a prescription for you. It's your call. But if you want something to change, then something has to change."

“That’s some deep stuff, Doc,” Jessie quipped, before relenting. “I’ll take the sample, but I can’t promise when I’ll take it.”

“Excellent. I’ll give it to you at the end of the session,” Lemmon said. “But we still have a little time left, so why don’t you update me on anything else that you think is relevant.”

“Like what?”

“For starters, how are things with Ryan?”

Ryan was Ryan Hernandez, her husband and sometime work partner. He ran the LAPD unit they both worked for, Homicide Special Section—or HSS—which specialized in cases with high profiles or intense media scrutiny—typically involving multiple victims or serial killers. But Ryan was currently on desk duty.

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