Alexei (Chicago Blaze 5)

“No. You’ll call the police,” she says through her tears.

“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

I’ve been trained for these situations, and I’m far less panicked than I was when I got shoved against the wall. This isn’t a man wanting to rob or rape me; it’s a grieving woman.

“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” I say.

“You have no idea. None. You just send people off and make them think they’re strong enough to face their demons, but they’re not.”

“Please lower the knife. I won’t turn around if you don’t want me to, but please take the knife away from my neck so I can talk to you.”

She sniffles and I feel the pressure of the blade lessen.

“Thank you,” I say, relieved. “Can you tell me who I was supposed to help?”

“My husband.”

It all starts making sense then. I know things like this have happened to other therapists at Beckett, but not to me. Until now.

“He was a patient of mine, wasn’t he?” I ask.

She breaks down in tears again. Despite the knife, and the brief terror she made me feel, my heart cracks a little. This woman is clearly in a lot of pain.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I truly am.”

“You might as well turn around,” she says, her voice breaking with emotion. “I don’t care if I live or die anymore anyway.”

“I care.”

When I turn, I’m shocked to see Kim Banks, the wife of Ashton Banks, my rock star patient who passed away several months ago.

“Oh, Kim,” I say softly.

She covers her face with her hands and weeps. Ashton was one of the most famous men on the planet—they owned lavish homes in several cities and a yacht. Last time I saw her, she was perfectly made up for her family visit to Beckett.

But now, she’s a broken woman I barely recognize. She’s skin and bones, with sunken cheeks and oily, unwashed hair. Love is universal in many ways—it can make or break all of us.

“I was the one who found him,” she says, wiping her fingertips across her cheeks. “You can’t imagine how hard that was. The love of my life for thirty-one years, and he’s just…gone.”

“I’m so sorry. He was a really good man, and he was so devoted to his family.”

She gives me a pleading look. “Why did you let him leave rehab? He graduated, that meant he was clean and sober.”

“He was, at that time. But I couldn’t help him anymore after that. And you couldn’t have, either. He had to do it himself.”

Kim heaves out a sigh, looking weary and exhausted. “I’m sorry for what I did. I haven’t been myself since he died.”

“I understand.” I put my arm around her shoulders and hear the knife fall from her hand and hit the ground. “Listen, I’m on my way into Beckett. Will you come with me and we can talk some more?”

She shakes her head. “There’s nothing more to say. Nothing can bring him back.”

“I know, but I’m worried about you. Ashton loved you so much, Kim. He’d want you to get some help.”

“You aren’t going to call the police on me?”

“No, you have my word. Let’s get that knife and toss it in that dumpster over there. We’ll get some breakfast at Beckett and you can shower and rest in one of our rooms if you want. And we’ll talk, okay?”

She nods, her eyes brimming with tears as she chokes out, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Let’s just get you taken care of.”

We leave the alley together, and I tell Kim about Al Anon as we walk to Beckett. I know all too well that you never have to touch drugs or alcohol to be deeply affected by addiction.24Alexei“A knife? Are you fucking serious, Graysen?”

I give her an incredulous look.

“It wasn’t a big deal. I think it sounds worse than the situation really was.”

My laugh is unamused. “It sounds like you were held at knifepoint ten hours ago and this is the first I’m hearing about it.”

“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I was just crazy busy at work all day.”

I shake my head, exhale hard and pull her into my arms. We just walked into my apartment, and she was so preoccupied with asking me how Anton and my other teammates are recovering from their food poisoning that she forgot to tell me about Kim Banks until we were in the elevator on the way up to my floor.

“This is really nice,” she says, standing back and looking around at my place.

It’s a tidy downtown apartment in a renovated warehouse, with warm hardwood floors and exposed beams. There’s a couch and an adjacent loveseat, a recliner, and bar stools at the kitchen island—the apartment came furnished when I bought it from the developer.

“You do live here, right?” she asks, furrowing her brow.

“Yep. When I’m not at the rink or traveling.”