Page 36 of Deathtoll
Murph slid from the massage table to the floor without making a sound. He didn’t want them to leave, not when he was finally within striking distance.
“I’m trying to help you, Ian.” Kate was nothing but kindness and compassion. “Please let me. Just please give me a chance.”
“You’re lying like all the others.” The desperation in the man’s voice took on a distinctly hopeless quality.
Murph didn’t like that tone. His muscles bunched, ready to propel him forward.
Then he caught Ian’s reflection in the glass of Kate’s massage therapy diploma that hung on the wall. Not a sharp image, just the shadowy outline of the guy, and the metallic object glinting in his hand.
Chapter Twelve
Kate
“I’m going to do absolutely everything I can to get you help.” Kate held still, shoulders down.Nonthreatening.
She faced down the man looming tall across her desk. She’d heard Murph walk away outside earlier. Hopefully, he’d understood her message and had snuck back silently. She just needed to get Ian to walk out her door.
Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead and above his lips, as if he was in pain.Thatwas the reason Kate had chosen her job, to erase pain like that.
They’d gotten off on the wrong foot. She had no file on him. She hadn’t been prepared. But she was not going to lose him. “Let’s go see Maria.”
He didn’t respond.
Okay. Make him relax first.
She kept her smile and her cool. “How about you sit down, we drink our coffee, and talk?”
Her own cup had long finished brewing behind her, but she didn’t dare reach for it, not yet. She didn’t move as she waited for Ian’s response.
Ian’s gaze darted around the room. “You got anything stronger?”
“Sorry. No alcohol on the premises.”
“Maybe it’s not the place for me, then.”
A joke? Good. Some humor would be a step in the right direction.
“It’s not a prison. People go into town. There’s a great Irish pub, Finnegan’s. A beer or two is fine, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your current meds. You could even go with some of the guys tonight. They’re all right, you know. Even here, they’ve got each other’s back. It’s one of the many things I love about working at this place.”
“Any of them as bad as I am?” Ian challenged.
“Since you haven’t been evaluated yet, I can’t really answer that. But we treat a wide spectrum of conditions.”
“I have PTSD, don’t I?”
“Is that what your doctor said?”
“He sent me for a psych eval. I don’t want to be locked up in the looney bin.”
“An evaluation is not the same as locking people up. It’s only so we can put together a treatment plan. Nobody’s locked up here. You know how we just walked in, no security at the front door? Patients can walk out any time, just like that. People stay because they want to, because we help them.”
Ian considered that for a moment, but then shook his head. “I bet people like me don’t ever recover. PTSD for life. I can’t take this shit. I won’t.”
“People like you certainly do recover here, every single day. We have discharge files a mile long. And let’s not get ahead of ourselves. PTSD might not be what you have. An accurate diagnosis is important, the foundation of effective treatment.”
His aggression might come from TBI. Traumatic Brain Injury was often missed as an initial diagnosis and presented later as anger, anxiety, or apathy.
“What do you think I have?” he demanded.
