I’d seen those kinds of striated markings before. Usually they were on dead bodies.
Chapter 48
I HAD TO REMIND MYSELF—the murders are behind you now; this is just a therapy session.
“Kim, how did you get those marks on your neck? Tell me whatever you can.”
She winced as she tied the scarf back on. “If my cell phone rings, I have to answer it. He thinks I’m at my mother’s house,” she said.
A terrible look crossed her face, and I realized it was too early to ask her about specific incidences of abuse.
Still not looking at me, she unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse. I wasn’t sure what she was doing until I saw the angry red sore above the wrist on her forearm. It was just beginning to heal.
“Is that a burn mark?” I asked.
“He smokes cigars,” she said.
I breathed in. She’d answered so matter-of-factly. “Have you called the police?”
She laughed bitterly. “No. I haven’t.”
Her hand went up to her mouth, and she looked away again. This man had obviously scared her into protecting him, no matter what.
A cell phone chirped inside her purse.
Without a word to me, she took out the phone, looked at the number, and answered.
“Hey, baby. What’s up?” Her voice was soft and easygoing, and totally convincing. “No,” she said. “Mom went out to get some milk. Of course I’m sure. I’ll tell her you said hi.”
It was fascinating to watch Kim’s face as she spoke. She wasn’t just acting for him. She was playing this part for herself. That’s how she was getting by, wasn’t it?
When she finally hung up, she looked at me with the most incongruous smile, as though no conversation had taken place at all. It lasted less than a few seconds. Then she
broke up, all at once. A low moan turned into a sob that racked her body; she rocked forward, clutching herself around the middle.
“Th-this is too hard,” she choked out. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I can’t . . . be here.”
When the cell phone rang a second time, she jumped in her seat. These surveillance calls were the thing that made it hardest for her to be here—trying to juggle awareness and denial at the same time.
She wiped at her face as though her appearance mattered, then answered in the same soft voice as before.
“Hey, baby. No, I was washing my hands. Sorry, baby. It took me a second to get to the phone.”
I could hear him shouting about something as Kim nodded patiently and listened.
Eventually, she held up a finger to me and let herself out into the hall.
I used the time to go through a few of my provider directories and to calm down my own anger. When Kim came back in, I tried to give her the names of some shelters in the area, but she refused them.
“I’ve got to go,” she said suddenly. The second call had sealed her up tight. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s call this an initial consult. Pay me for the second appointment.”
“I don’t want charity. I don’t think I can come back anyway. How much?”
I answered reluctantly. “It’s one hundred an hour on a sliding scale. Fifty would be good.”
She counted it out for me, mostly fives and singles that she had probably stashed away over time. Then she left the office. My first session had ended.