Murder for Liar by Verlin Darrow

Author:Verlin Darrow [Darrow, Verlin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller; mystery; suspense; psychological; spiritual; action ;abduction; adventure ; Indian; serial killer ;jeopardy ;con ;brave; crime; demon; devil; police detecti
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2023-01-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

A friend once suggested that if I was experiencing problems with a given client around a confidentiality issue, I ought to discuss it in a session with my own therapist. After all, she was obliged to keep it confidential too, and I would be discussing myself, not the client per se. Although I’d already decided what to do, I wanted to feel better about my choice.

Roberta Chan wasn’t Chinese, or even Asian. She was a slender sixty-six-year-old who had married Bob Chan, who was also a therapist. This therapist-to-therapist liaison was common in Santa Cruz. I reasoned that only another trained professional could withstand prolonged exposure to someone as screwed-up as a therapist, but a male colleague of mine, when drunk, always proclaimed that only highly qualified individuals deserved the bliss of being with a wise partner. After a few more drinks, he’d shout that once you’ve had a therapist, you can never go back.

Roberta’s office was in Aptos, an unincorporated town eight miles down the coast from Santa Cruz. She was situated above a small, upscale restaurant, whose cook was a former client of mine. I always felt surreptitious when I parked in the rear lot and climbed the back stairs, as though my ex-client would catch me needing therapy myself. It was irrational, especially since our paths had actually crossed once and all that had transpired was a friendly wave.

The interior of her office reflected her interest in folk art, especially pre-Columbian stone work from Latin America. Museum-quality sculptures crowded her shelves. Sometimes I wondered if this served less as a decorating scheme and more as a warehouse for the pieces that wouldn’t fit in her house.

Her furniture was Danish modern, with blond woods and smooth black fabrics. Surprisingly, the two styles complemented each other, perhaps contrasting so drastically that the basic qualities of each were highlighted.

Roberta was an outstanding therapist, elevating her livelihood into an art form. She worked with a great deal of intuition, derived from a vast wealth of experience, having begun as a twenty-three-year-old back when licensing requirements were virtually nil.

“Hi, Tom,” she greeted. Her gray hair was piled elegantly in a loose bun on top of her head, exposing her long, thin ballerina’s neck.

“Hello, Roberta. Thanks for fitting me in.”

As usual, traffic noise penetrated her office’s thin walls. A truck’s back-up beeper almost drowned out my greeting.

“No problem. Have a seat.”

When I settled on her couch, a familiar scent wafted my way. Roberta always wore a complex floral perfume—just enough to be discernible.

I closed my eyes for a moment to connect with myself. It was a ritual that aided me in transitioning from therapist to client. Usually, after thirty seconds of this, all thoughts of technique, diagnosis, and self-consciousness disappeared.

“I’m confused,” I finally began. “I’m seeing someone with full-blown multiple personalities who’s involved in wacky spiritual stuff and some very serious crimes. My legal obligations and morals are clashing.”

“You mean you don’t know how you want to respond?”

“Not really. I think I know.

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