Page 80 of Torched Spades
Standing, I turn toward the door. “I expect to be on Dr. Brennan’s schedule for tomorrow at four o’clock.”
“That’s impossible!”
“You’ll find a way.” Just to be a dick, I toss the picture frame in the middle of his desk on my way out. “My best to your wife.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
BECCA
The imageyou portray is the treatment you receive.
I’m not sure where I first heard that phrase. It’s one of those life mottos you follow but never know the origin. However, after seven weeks battling with Johnny, I’m thinking, maybe it’s me.
Maybe it’s just another self-inflicted mind game.
Dress like a professional, and you’ll get treated like one. Show no skin, and you’ll get taken seriously. And the most important one of all…
Expose no scars, and you’ll never bleed.
Lies.
Ever since walking in the door last Wednesday, I’ve dressed in my usual business suits, but all I’ve been treated like is a victim, and all I’ve been offered are unwanted stares of sympathy and pity.
All because someone not only exposed my scars, but also took great pleasure in leaving new ones.
Striding around the coffee table, I stand in front of the couch, facing my glass-framed silent sins. As I stare at the harsh brushstrokes, I can’t help but wonder what piece will immortalize what happened at the courthouse.
“Go home,” Meredith pleaded six days ago.
“It’s too soon,” Jack insisted over the phone four days ago.
Hell, even Natalie Thornton showed up for her usual Tuesday appointment this morning, staring at me like I was a broken toy. I defended the woman in court against her abusive husband, andshefeels sorry forme.
But none of them will understand why I had to come here. Why I couldn’t reschedule patients and simply stay home and recover.
It’s becausethisis where I trap my sins behind glass. This is my sanctuary where I’m in control, and I make the rules. My feet may be red, but everything inside these four walls is still black and white.
For now.
I glance at the clock on the wall, and my stomach somersaults. It’s three-fifty-eight p.m. I know Johnny is sitting in the lobby right now, waiting on me to come out and greet him, but I can’t. Not only because I can’t handle an audience witnessing that same look of pity on his face, but because I’m still furious with him.
I’m not sure what the hell he did to Eli Cromwell, but the man called me yesterday afternoon begging me to reverse the referral. Of course, I refused, but he broke down in hysterics, ranting nonsense about money markets and alimony.
Unfortunately, I never filled Johnny’s four o’clock appointment slot. I couldn’t bring myself to hammer in that final nail, and now it’s come back to bite me in the ass.
“You could have stood your ground,” a voice in my head scolds.
Yeah, and then Johnny would’ve been in direct violation of the terms of his probation, and my father would’ve happily ensured he paid for it behind bars.
As unhappy as I am about the turn of events, I won’t be the reason Johnny goes to jail. Even if I have a strong suspicion that’s exactly where he belongs.
Stopping in front of my desk, I reach toward the office phone and press the intercom button. “Meredith, please send Mr. Malone in.”
I keep my back to the door as I hear it open, then close.
Then nothing. No footsteps. No accusations. No games.
My heart slams so hard against my ribcage I think it’s about to explode. Still, I keep my voice even and flat, my fingertips pressed against my desk for support. “I’d say welcome back, but we both know I had no choice in the matter.”
