What She Forgot Page 2

  “Of course not!” Deanna held onto her fake smile as if she were clinging to a cliff. Behind the desk, out of Bernstein’s line of sight, she slowly raised her hand from her lap and opened the top desk drawer ....

  “You’re a smart man,” she said as she slid her hand inside the drawer and fumbled blindly for the canister of pepper spray she kept hidden there. She’d gotten it as a graduation gag gift. In eight years of practice, she’d never had to use it. She wondered now if the spray was still potent. Would it be enough to stop a two-hundred-pound sack of human garbage?

  “Mr. Bernstein.” Deanna’s voice wavered. She cringed slightly at her self-betrayal. “You know we don’t use the term ‘nuts’ here.”

  Bernstein’s face transformed yet again. This time into a charming, boyish smile that made Deanna’s skin crawl.

  “You don’t think I’m a bad guy, do you, Doc?”

  “What?” Deanna asked, stalling for time. Her fingers closed around the pepper spray. With trembling hands, she pulled the canister from the drawer and into her lap. Her fumbling index finger found the firing button just as Bernstein repeated his question, louder this time. More insistently.

  “I said, you don’t think I’m a bad guy, do you?”

  Bernstein’s dark-eyed stare felt as if it were penetrating her skull—reading her mind. Deanna inched her shaking hand off her lap, wondering if he knew what she held within her sweating palm. Could he sense her finger poised on the trigger—ready to fire a stream of burning liquid into his taunting, fathomless eyes?

  Deanna raised her hand another inch—an inch closer to the edge of the rift—an inch closer to the point of no return ....

  Then she stopped as if frozen in place. Her hand hung motionless, out of sight behind the desk, while her mind took off, racing around the edge of the abyss, clamoring, clawing for a foothold beyond the limits of her current, panicked reasoning.

  For a brief moment, uncertainty overwhelmed Deanna.

  What’s really going on here? Is Bernstein toying with me? Threatening me? Setting his trap of transference? Or is he genuinely seeking my approval? Trying to be good? Acting out what he thinks is expected of him the best way he knows how?

  As a psychologist, Deanna felt she should be able to see through people’s outward actions to their inner motivations. But as a realist, she knew mind-reading was not in her repertoire—or anyone else’s, for that matter. She was only human. And so was Bernstein.

  Deanna’s inner voice of reason began to nudge her firmly and logically toward a better foothold around the abyss.

  Breathe, Deanna. Okay. What do you know for certain?

  The calm, confident voice inside her snapped Deanna back into the present. As the panic passed, she assessed Bernstein with the kind of slow-motion clarity people report experiencing during horrific accidents and battles—when their lives are on the line.

  Come on. What do you know for sure, Deanna?

  She knew, with first-hand certainty, that people like Bernstein couldn’t help that they were abused as children.

  What else?

  She knew his past was no excuse for what he’d done.

  What else do you know, deep down in your core, Deanna?

  The answer crawled out of the dark pit, out of the deep haze of confusion. Indecision gave way to a terrible, first-hand knowing;

  Predators are incapable of empathy. They don’t feel others’ pain. Only their own.

  Deanna knew that if she used the pepper spray on him now, she would escalate Bernstein’s internal war to the physical stage.

  The predator would attack his prey.

  His lone prey.

  Deanna clenched her jaw and met Bernstein’s icy stare. She willed away any trace of fear from her face. Then she chose her words as precisely as if she were defusing a bomb—an erratically ticking human time-bomb.

  “Every person has issues of one kind or another, Mr. Bernstein. That’s why we talk. To work them out.”

  Deanna held her breath as Bernstein studied her face. Was he looking for understanding—or for weakness?

  “I know,” he said finally, relaxing his posture. “I won’t use the term ‘nuts’ again.”

  “Good.” A wave of relief washed over Deanna. She let her fingertip slip from the pepper-spray trigger.

  Bernstein smiled and took another step toward her desk. He cocked his head sideways and smiled. “We’re still friends, right? You still like me, don’t you?”

  Doubt wormed its way back into Deanna’s pounding heart. If Bernstein was a true sociopath, he wouldn’t care what she thought of him. Was this some kind of test to see if she was worthy of transference of his attention? Or was he truly remorseful? Had she been wrong to feel so threatened by his outburst? Had she constructed something dreadful out of nothing—again?

  She glanced around the room, orienting herself toward the door, in case she needed to flee. A glimpse out the window reminded her it was late November. The sky outside was as cold and gray as ash.

  I’ve overreacted, Deanna thought. The winter gloom drives people to depression and desperation this time of year. Not to mention the anxiety of having to spend time with relatives ....

  Deanna’s cheeks flushed at her own foolishness, at the notion of needing the pepper spray in her hand. The danger posed by Bernstein was all in her mind. She loosened her grip on the canister in her lap.

  “Well, do you like me?” Bernstein repeated, a hint of insecurity in his tone.

  She forced a quick smile. “You’re a likable person. And so is Dr. Filbert. You two will get along well.”

  “Really?” The pen still firmly in his right hand, Bernstein planted his knuckled fists on Deanna’s desk and leaned in until his face was inches from hers. She felt the heat of his breath on her cheek as he hissed, “How do you know?”

  Fresh alarm shot through Deanna. She fumbled for the pepper spray in her lap. It slipped from her palm. Fear mixed with frustration as she felt it slide down her skirt, beyond the reach of her grasping fingertips.

  Dear God, no! Deanna’s mind screamed as she smiled up at Bernstein. The pepper spray hit the toe of her shoe. As it fell silently onto the rug beneath her desk, she prayed the canister wouldn’t roll into Bernstein’s view. If he saw it, the trust she’d built with him would be destroyed in an instant. And then what? Would he snap? Would he ....

  Bernstein smiled at her sheepishly, his eyes twinkling with what might have been mischief, or an apology. He’d been a naughty boy—or he was getting ready to be one? Deanna’s mind was too torn with confusion to ....

  “Please,” she whispered. “Remember your boundaries.”

  Bernstein’s lips curled slightly. He straightened his back and broadened his shoulders. “Okay,” he teased. “I’ll let you go this time. But we’ll pick up again when you get back, right?”

  Deanna glanced up at the clock. She needed to keep Bernstein’s attention off the floor for just a few more seconds.

  She shot him an Oscar-worthy smile.

  “Oh. Look at that. Our time is up. My secretary will give you Dr. Filbert’s appointment card on your way out. Happy early Thanksgiving, Mr. Bernstein.”

  “You, too.” Bernstein’s eyes flashed with something dark, then returned to charming mode. “How about a hug?”

  Deanna’s back bristled. Her mouth went dry. “You know the rules. No physical contact.”

  “But my mother ... my mom just died.”

  Deanna’s pulse raced. Her nerves were frayed. Her mind and heart felt ragged, worn out, caught in a vicious struggle she couldn’t win. Part of her was acutely aware she was a woman trapped alone with a known sexual predator. Part of her knew she was supposed to see through all that, to the hurt child within.

  “Okay,” she blurted, immediately regretting it.

  Doomed to her decision, Deanna stood and inched herself around the desk. She willed herself not to glance at the floor, fearing it would cause Bernstein to do likewise and spot her feeble attempt to d
efend herself ....

  “One hug. For your mother,” she managed.

  Bernstein held out his arms. Deanna took a step toward him and nearly blanched. If she took a photo of him now, Bernstein’s charming, elegant appearance could easily grace the cover of any glamour magazine.

  Evil lurks in elegant disguises, she thought as she drew within a step of him. She fixated on Bernstein’s perfect mouth. What words had slipped through it while he molested his victims? What else had that mouth done to them?

  Her mind screeched like a rusty seesaw between thoughts of Bernstein’s offensive past and his reforming future. Was it such a stretch to think that, after two years of sharing his thoughts and feelings with her, Bernstein really did simply want a hug? A bit of consolation for the loss of his mother?

  Deanna managed one more cringing smile for her patient as she succumbed stiffly to his embrace.

  The feel of his hands on her back made Deanna’s flesh squirm. But the smell of nervous sweat under his cologne surprised her. So did the fact that his heart was beating as wildly as hers. She relaxed a tiny bit. He’s just as nervous as I am.

  Bernstein tightened his hug and whispered in her ear, “I’m going to miss you, Deanna.”

  A shard of ice stabbed down Deanna’s spine.

  Bernstein had broken the professional line separating doctor and patient. He’d used her first name. Something she never allowed.

  Deanna’s mind raced. What else was Bernstein preparing to break? Her neck? Or was he just trying to be friendly? She forced herself to hold her composure for three seconds—long enough for a casual hug.

  One. Two. Three ....

  Deanna’s back arched. Bernstein’s hands were slipping down her back ... toward her buttocks.

  She gasped and jerked away from his embrace. She took a step back. Her foot landed on the can of pepper spray. She tripped, lost her balance, and suddenly found herself falling backward ....

  Into the abyss!

  At the last second, Deanna pivoted her torso and her hands landed on her desk with a slap. She quickly straightened out her tangled legs, regained her balance, and pushed off from the desk. As she did, she spotted the pepper spray poking out from under her desk.

  Her gut lurched. Softly, she kicked it out of view and turned to face Bernstein.

  “So sorry about—” Deanna’s voice dried up in her throat.

  Bernstein was leering at her, licking his lips.

  Deanna felt her legs go weak, a mouse frozen in fear.

  “See you in two weeks, Doc,” Bernstein said, shooting her a GQ smile.

  He yanked open the door and winked. “Happy holidays. You’ve finally given me something to be thankful for.”

  Chapter Two

  DEANNA PRESSED HER ear against the door to her office, barely able to hear above the whoosh of her own pulse thrumming in her eardrums. From his police file, she knew what Joel Bernstein was capable of. Still, he’d never actively revealed his predatory nature to her until today. She had hoped he’d used their time together to conquer his twisted tendencies. Now she felt certain he’d only learned to conceal them.

  Bernstein’s neglectful, overbearing mother surely contributed to him being a monster. But as Deanna chewed her thumbnail to the quick, she knew she alone was to blame for the situation she’d put herself in. It had been her idea to take on clients like Bernstein. And she’d done it for the worst of all possible reasons.

  She’d been bored.

  Given her own childhood experiences, Deanna had thought she might have something to offer complicated cases like Bernstein’s. She’d also hoped they would prove more interesting than her usual lineup of obsessive-compulsive overeaters, neurotic eyelash pullers, and depressive chronic complainers. But she’d been wrong. Bernstein wasn’t more interesting. He was only more dangerous.

  Deanna let out a sigh as the fear throbbing in her throat ebbed into frustration.

  I’m no doctor, she thought. Doctors heal people.

  She chided herself for her own stupid naivety. She’d spent eight years earning a doctorate in psychology under the assumption that people wanted to change. She’d spent the next eight years in private practice disproving that assumption nearly entirely.

  As far as Deanna could tell, people didn’t really want to change. It was too painful. Too much inner work. What they wanted was a referral to a psychiatrist so they could join the Paxil generation. In all her years of tiptoeing around fragile egos, gently prodding her patients, trying to help them find their own ways to escape the neurotic mazes they’d created for themselves, no one she knew had made it out yet.

  Not even herself.

  She chewed her lip and sorted through her patients, trying to think of a true success story she could claim. No one came to mind.

  I’m not a therapist. I’m a surrogate friend—a substitute for the real relationships my patients should be cultivating for themselves. Cripes! I’m nothing but a glorified “pal prostitute,” my time and attention bought and paid for by the hour ....

  “Happy holidays, Mr. Bernstein.”

  The sound of Sally’s voice made Deanna burn with shame as she stood cowering behind her office door. She’d honestly thought Bernstein was capable of changing his ways. Now she was pretty sure she’d been wrong.

  Deanna pressed her ear harder against the door’s thin, wooden panel. There it was. The click. Sally had set the lock on the main entry door. Bernstein was gone. She and her secretary were safe—for now. But what about the rest of the world? Deanna clenched her teeth in anguish. It was her counseling sessions—her recommendations to his parole officer—that allowed Bernstein to remain free to roam the streets.

  Doing God knows what.

  Deanna pushed away from the door and scrambled to her desk. With trembling fingers, she dialed the number of her manager and mentor, Dr. Lawrence Filbert, to report the incident. She hesitated on the last digit. Doubt swirled in her mind. What if she’d simply misread Bernstein’s intentions? What if?

  Forget it! Deanna scolded herself. Besides, what does it matter now? Let Larry sort him out.

  She punched the last digit.

  “Dr. Filbert speaking.”

  “Larry? It’s me. Deanna. I’m sending Bernstein back to you.”

  “Yes, I know, Dee. I’ve got my calendar marked for the next two weeks. Bernie. Fridays at eleven. Fun times.”

  “I mean for good. He’s yours. I’m done with him.”

  “What?” Larry laughed. “I thought I told you. No refunds or exchanges on sexual deviants.”

  Deanna pictured Larry at his desk, a jolly, bearded dwarf. A short, plump, bespectacled man, Dr. Filbert was quick with a joke and seemed perpetually in a good mood. A respected psychiatrist, he’d been both a sounding board and a therapist for Deanna since she’d become an associate at his practice. She admired Larry for his kindness and quick wit. But today, her nerves were shot to hell, and she failed to see the humor in his words.

  “Listen, Larry. You know I appreciate the referral, but Bernstein’s mother just died. He’s going to need a replacement fixation. I don’t want to be in the running for the position.”

  “You sure about that?” Larry teased. “He’s single. And I hear his family’s loaded.”

  Deanna cringed. My life is flashing before my eyes, and Larry’s making a freaking joke.

  Deanna couldn’t understand why men never seemed to realize how threatening their mere physical presence could be to women. The words of an article she’d read recently flashed in Deanna’s mind:

  On a date, a man’s biggest worry is “Will she let me?” A woman’s biggest worry is, “Will he kill me?”

  Men and women lived in two very different worlds ....

  Deanna felt that to her core, but she’d learned long ago it was professional suicide to acknowledge the fact. It wasn’t that she viewed women as victims. No. Women were outsiders—almost a different species from men altogether.

  Deanna took a deep breath, and, lik
e the robot assassin in The Terminator, scanned her options for an appropriate reply for Larry—one that wouldn’t give away her position as an interloper stranded on a planet run by men.

  She selected an old standby, the rebuttal joke. She smiled sourly. “Thanks for the idea to hook up with Bernstein, Larry, but I’m not that desperate—either personally or financially.”

  Larry laughed. “Your loss. New York’s chock-a-block with perverts and predators, Dee. Business is overflowing.”

  “Mazel tov.”

  Larry laughed again—a casual laugh that, for Deanna, confirmed both the article and her suspicions. The risk Bernstein had posed to her wasn’t even on Larry’s radar. But Deanna didn’t blame him personally for his lack of sensitivity. Men just didn’t think that way.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if Larry had forced Bernstein on her. She’d actually asked him for the referral. She’d taken on three sexually deviant clients as a personal challenge. Deanna had thought she would grow stronger and braver from the experience. Instead, the dark perversions confessed by the three men had exposed her to a previously unknown depth of depravity, and eroded her already fragile sense of safety in the world.

  She’d retained Joel Bernstein the longest. Transferring him back to Larry now sent a surge of relief spurting through her veins—a feeling akin to being rescued from a madman’s basement.

  “Listen, Larry. I’m grateful to you for the referrals, I really am. But they just weren’t my cup of tea.”

  “Hey. I never promised you a tea party. Besides, I know how much you hate tea.”

  Deanna’s lip quivered. She’d failed her boss. She’d failed herself. “I’m sorry.”

  Larry softened his tone. “I understand. The Bernsteins of the world are a tough crowd, Dee. You lasted nearly two years with him. Better than most. Don’t you worry. I’ll take it from here.”

  Deanna released a lungful of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you.”

  “Actually, it’s probably a smart move on your part.”

  “What do you mean?”