Page 43 of Deja Who
TWENTY-TWO
No question, no question at all, but it was one of the oddest meetings she’d ever endured, and she had helped Karen McNamara (who had been Richard McDonald, founder of McDonald’s) get over her coulrophobia (fear of clowns). That had been a strange session; she’d never again be able to hear theahh—ooo-gaa!those old-fashioned bicycle horns made without shuddering. Thank goodness, she had no children; a single visit to Chuck E. Cheese now had the potential to send her screaming into the parking lot.
But this one was stranger. Most likely, she assumed, because it wasn’t about a patient she could reduce to a pile of paper in a chart. That was always comforting, and it was wrong to feel that way, she knew. Unfortunately, it was the only way she knew how to do it. Much stranger, of course, to be the subject of discussion.
They were compiling a list of people who wanted to murder her.
Also: the Archer factor. That made it very odd indeed, but wonderful, too.
“Okay, so, top of the list: are you treating any psychos who are really into knives? That’s usually how you’re killed, right? Stabbed? God, I can’t believe I just asked you that.”
Leah shook her head and helped herself to another Tootsie Roll. Archer had quite the sweet tooth; his pockets were often bulging with candy. Funny how they had not known each other long and still there were things about him she felt safe enough to take for granted. Sometimes she forgot her plan was to get him to lower his defenses so she could ruthlessly molest him, then run off and get murdered.
Well. Not the last bit, obviously. Probably. Maybe?
“Even if I were, I couldn’t discuss it with you, and you know that perfectly well,” she said, nibbling on the candy. Archer teased her because she savored Tootsie Rolls as opposed to popping them in her mouth and chomping away.
“Yeah, I get that, but we have to start somewhere. I’m betting remembering who killed you in other lives doesn’t much help when it comes to finding the killer in this one. Right?”
“Right.” She was a little startled at the obvious question, then reminded herself he was life-blind. He had no frame of reference. At all. Astonishing and... was that pity? Might be, yes. She squashed it. She did not want to feel pity for Archer. “And sometimes I never knew his name, or hers. Sometimes I never even saw his face. But I’m not an utter imbecile, Archer. Of course I keep an eye out for any obvious psychotics. But my case load tends to be helping patients through phobias. I’mnot treating anyone who has done anything worse than having sex in a public place.” Except, she recalled, for Chart #6116, assaulting children, which escalated to murdering them. But she wasn’t chart #6116’s type. Ah, God, what was her name? Angie something. No, Anne. No, Alice! Yes: Alice Delaney, Chart #6116. “There’s an occasional exception, but I do try to be careful.”
And it hasn’t helped once, you silly bitch!
“Oh, man, now I officially hate Insighter client privilege. Because you must have some great stories.”
“I do,” she assured him, half-finished with her first Tootsie Roll. “Marvelous ones.”
He was slouched on the couch in her office, looking effortlessly younger than she was in dark blue jeans, a navy blue button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows
(who knew fuzzy forearms could be such a turn-on?)
and loafers without socks. He looked like a college freshman.
It was the smiling, she decided, finishing Tootsie Roll #1. He had an open face and you could read everything on it and he was just... just sunny and uncomplicated. She was beginning to understand why the life-blind were so consistently patronized.There, there, don’t worry your pretty little head about bad things because you can’t ever understand your own past and thus won’t ever understand your present. Poor baby.
Ugh. Archer was to be admired. And never, ever pitied. For the tenth time in ten days, she wondered again about her theory. About how the life-blind perhaps weren’t blind at all. At least, not all of them. But if she was right, it would be an uphill battle. An up-mountain battle, about as easy as persuading people the tooth fairy was real.
(“Your teeth were gone in the morning, right? And there was money under your pillow?”
“I need more proof than that.”
“I don’t have any.”)
“Are you okay?”
“Of course.”
He arched dark brows. “Because you’re attacking that Tootsie Roll like they’re making sugar illegal at midnight.”
“I crave fake chocolate that looks not unlike petrified cat feces.”
“Aw, Leah!” He tossed a pen at her and she, leaning on her desk with her ankles crossed as she masticated, easily avoided it. “Have a heart. I love those things. I don’t want to think about cat poop when I’m contemplating dessert.”
“Agreed. I withdraw the comment. Want your pen back?”
He shook his head, looked down at his notepad, then back up at her. His eyes, blue and green, watched her. “Now don’t get mad...”
“Hmm. I assume you’re about to tell me something infuriating.”
