Page 68 of Taunting Tarran
She never mentioned a man. In fact, she explicitly stated she felt comfort in being alone.
It was intimate, familiar, and not the kind of physical closeness you’d expect from someone freshly scarred by trauma – from a man nonetheless.
My finger hovered over the camera shutter, but I didn’t press it.
This could have been classed as stalking.
Instead, I jotted down my observations; male, approx 6’0”. Athletic. Intimacy – unusual.
Who was he?A friend?No.He’s not her husband.A lover? The supposed phantom of her nightmares?
But why even fabricate something so elaborate? I stared up at the window; Emma’s form leaning into his as they moved from view.
It would be an ingenious way to shield herself from suspicion, painting herself as both victim and witness to tragedy. Claiming to be the lone survivor shifts the narrative entirely – it would cast her in the role of someone to be pitied, too broken to force deeper scrutiny. And counselling – the perfect alibi for evading uncomfortable policeinterrogation. After all, it’s whatnormalpeople do when they experience trauma.
Today, Emma walks out of my office. She doesn’t glance back, her cardigan swaying as she disappears down the hallway. I allow myself a brief exhale, as I glance at my next client.
Duncan – the antithesis of Emma’s chaos – calm, composed, predicable.
My phone rings. ‘Excuse me one moment, Duncan,’ I say as I walk off out of earshot.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Gillian. Did she turn up?’
‘She did, right on schedule.’
‘Boss will be happy.’
‘My, my, Salvador...’
‘It’s Sal now.’
‘Sal. You never fail to impress me.’
‘Imagine my surprise when my source at the station told me Emma showed up - unscathed. And that she was in the very capable of hands of Gillian Gladwish to help her through her trauma.’
‘You’ve always had your hands in so many pies, Sal. And yet, the only pie I was ever interested in your hand being in was my own.’
‘That was a very longtime ago, Gill. Our business here is strictly professional.’
‘Shame. What’s your interest in her anyway? Bit young for you, isn’t she?’
‘Now, now - that would be telling. Surely you, of all people, understand the rules of confidentiality.’
I smile at his comment, letting it linger in the air as the call comes to an end.
‘But what I can tell you, Gillian, is I’m convinced she helped orchestrate the kidnapping and murder of her friends. Now, it’s just a matter of proving it.’
I sigh heavily, staring out of the window for a moment as Sal’s words linger in my mind. His revelations – dark, tangled threads of a story that begged to be unravelled – still echoed in the quiet of my office. ‘Thank you for trusting me enough to share this,’ I reply, keeping my tone composed. ‘Perhaps we can dig a little deeper when we see each other.’
I end the call, and take a deep breath. Sitting, bobbing his knees up and down sits my next client, so I steel myself, and focus on the rhythm of my breathing.
‘Duncan...’ I beam.
‘Ms Gladwish,’ he nods as he stands, sauntering into my office, his grin as casual as his unbuttoned shirt collar. He drops onto the sofa with a theatrical sigh. ‘One of these days you’ll come on a date with me,’ he says.
I raise a brow, not missing a beat. ‘You have a problem, Duncan.You’re an addict. That’s why you’re here.’
