The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross 25)

“If you say so, Chief,” he said. Then he gave us a salute and walked away.

CHAPTER

67

AT FOUR THIRTY the next afternoon, a Monday, there was a knock at the basement door. Closing my laptop, I got up, happy for the new client and grateful to have something beyond my own fate to think about.

I opened the door to find a tall and very attractive woman in her early thirties. Her hair was long, luxurious, and black, her skin mocha and flawless, and her exotic chocolate eyes were wide and turned up at the outer corners. She wore a tight black skirt, stiletto heels, a chic white blouse, and a simple strand of pearls beneath a black leather jacket. Lots of other jewelry. No wedding ring.

“Ms. Cassidy?”

Annie Cassidy smiled weakly, adjusted the cuff of her jacket, and said, “It’s so good of you to see me on such short notice, Dr. Cross.”

“Any friend of Father Fiore is always welcome,” I said. “Please come in.”

I stood aside, and she looked at me uncertainly before coming down the stairs. As she passed, she glanced up shyly before continuing on into my office, leaving the faintest smell of her perfume.

After I closed the door, I found her on my couch, fiddling with her iPhone.

“Just making sure no bells,” Cassidy said.

“I appreciate it,” I said, taking a seat across from her.

She set the phone facedown on the table beside her and then took a big breath and blew it out. “I’m sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Just so you know: There are no judgments here. Ever. And nothing you say will ever leave this room.”

“Okay. Don’t I have to fill out forms or whatever?”

“You’ll do it electronically. I’ll give you the information after we decide if we can work together.”

Cassidy thought about that, said, “Fair enough.”

“So,” I said, picking up a notepad and a pen. “How can I help?”

She hesitated, squinted, said, “Are you a sleepwalker, Dr. Cross?”

“Is that what you’re having trouble with? If so, I can refer you to an excellent sleep specialist.”

Cassidy made a show of crossing her legs. “I’m not a sleepwalker myself, but I’m wondering if you are so I can understand you before I try to explain.”

It seemed like an odd and convoluted reason for the request, but I said, “I don’t think I have sleepwalked since I was a child.”

“Or since you were married,” she said, her head tilted in deference.

“I’m afraid I’m not following.”

“Of course not,” Cassidy said, and she smiled. “Sleepwalker.”

As I readjusted my position in my chair, I was thinking that I might have someone mentally unstable on my hands.

She straightened her legs and then crossed them the other way. “To be plain: I’m an addict, Dr. Cross, and I need your help.”

“Opioids?” I said with a sigh. “If so, there are better—”

“No, not opioids.”

“What then?”