Page 9 of Silent Threat
She wore an old-fashioned wind-up watch on her wrist. No electronics—so no cell phone. The instruction sheet had been clear that none of that would be allowed during ecotherapy sessions.
She smelled faintly of lavender. Cole knew the scent only because his mother grew lavender on her windowsills.
“Tell me about your tattoos.” Annie wasn’t shouting at him, which he appreciated. She made sure to talk only when he was looking at her. “What do they mean?”
He had a feeling that if he didn’t respond, she’d just push harder. The woman was way too earnest, and she had an overabundance of enthusiasm for her subject.
He pointed at the flower on his arm. “The hibiscus is for Hawaii. My father was from Maui.”
“Is that where you were born?”
“Never been to Hawaii. Born in Chicago. My mother’s family’s been in Chicago since it was a one-horse town.”
“How did your parents meet?”
“My grandfather was in the navy. My mother’s father. He served with my father, took him under his wing. My father had no family, so my grandfather invited him home now and then when on leave to make sure the kid got a home-cooked meal.”
“How about your other tattoos?”
“The trident is for the SEALs.”
“And the rest?”
More difficult to say, but Cole said it anyway. “The names are the friends who didn’t come back. The barbed wire is one barb for every month of bloody torture.”
The smile disappeared from her face. “When you were held captive.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
He appreciated the sentiment. He would have appreciated it more if being sorry kept her quiet. It didn’t.
“How did you learn to read lips so well?” she asked next.
“Grandmother was a smoker. When she got cancer, they had to take out her larynx.” She’d lived with Cole and her parents at the time, and when the artificial larynx hadn’t worked for her, they all learned to read her lips. Cole, a kid, thought it a fun game. Then later, when he became a sniper, his ability to lip-read became an invaluable skill.
“Can you sign?” Annie both signed and asked the question.
He signed back. “I can, but ninety percent of everybody else can’t, so what’s the point?”
“ASL is the fourth-most-studied language in college now. And it’ll grow your brain. Studies documented an eight- to thirteen-point rise in IQ in kids who study ASL.”
He didn’t respond. What was there to say? She had everything tied up in a nice, optimistic bow. They lived in different worlds.
A minute passed as they walked.
“So this is it?” He nodded toward the trees with his head. “The whole therapy is just walking through the woods?”
“This and other things,” she said. “In one-on-one therapy, we’ll do our green walks. Then, in group therapy, we’ll clear new trails. We’ll also be planting a fruit orchard. And we’ll spend some time picking trash out of the creek. Ecotherapy is about healing both people and their environment.”
“In other words, free labor.” Cole didn’t bother to keep the snark out of his voice.
“In the process of healing others, we heal ourselves.”
He snagged that thought. There was something there. “Is that why you’re a therapist? Trying to heal yourself while messing with others?” He scrutinized her. “What’s wrong with you?”
He meant it as a gibe, because he was in a piss-poor mood this morning. And because she was pushing him into places he didn’t want to go, so he needed to push back.
