CHAPTER SEVEN

She made an appointment with her old therapist, Dr. Janice Lemmon, and just knowing that going would necessitate a visit back to her old stomping grounds set her at ease. The panic had subsided almost immediately after she scheduled the session.

When Kyle came home that night—early even—they ordered takeout and watched a cheesy but fun movie about alternate realities called The 13^th Floor. Neither of them formally apologized but they seemed to have rediscovered their comfort zone. After the movie, they didn’t even go upstairs to have sex. Instead, Kyle just climbed on top of her right there on the couch. It reminded Jessie of their newlywed days.

He’d even made her breakfast this morning before he headed out for work. It was awful—burnt toast, runny eggs, and undercooked turkey bacon—but Jessie appreciated the attempt. She felt a little bad about not telling him her plans for the day. But then again, he hadn’t asked so she wasn’t really lying.

It wasn’t until she was on the freeway the next day, in sight of the downtown Los Angeles skyscrapers, that Jessie truly felt the gnawing pit of nervousness in her gut subside. She had made the midday trip from Orange County in under an hour and got into the city early just so she could walk around a bit. She parked in the lot near Dr. Lemmon’s office across from the Original Pantry at the corner of Figueroa and West 9^th.

Then she got the idea of calling her former USC roommate and oldest college friend, Lacey Cartwright, who lived and worked in the area, to see if she could hang out. She got her voicemail and left a message. As she started down Figueroa in the direction of the Bonaventure Hotel, Lacey texted her to say she was too busy to hang out that day but that they’d hook up the next time Jessie was around.

Who knows when that will be?

She put her disappointment out of her head and focused on the city around her, taking in the bustling sights and sounds that were so different from her new living environment. When she hit 5^th Street, she made a right and continued ambling.

This reminded her of the days, not so long ago, when she would do this exact thing multiple times a week. If she was struggling with a case study for class, she’d just step outside and stroll along the streets, using the traffic as white noise as she turned the case over in her mind until she found a way to approach it. Her work was almost always strongest if she’d had time to wander around downtown and noodle with it a bit.

She kept the imminent discussion with Dr. Lemmon at the back of her head as she mentally revisited yesterday’s coffee at Kimberly’s house. She still couldn’t pin down the nature of the mysterious secretiveness of the women she’d met there. But one thing did jump out at her in retrospect—how desperate they’d all been to hear the details of her profiling studies.

She couldn’t tell if it was because the profession she was entering seemed so unusual or simply that it was a profession at all. Looking back, she realized that none of the women worked.

Some used to. Joanne had been in marketing. Kimberly said she used to be a real estate agent when they lived in Sherman Oaks. Josette had run a small gallery in Silverlake. But they were all stay-at-home moms now. And while they appeared happy with their new lives, they also seemed hungry for details from the professional world, greedily, almost guiltily devouring any morsel of intrigue.

Jessie stopped, realizing she had somehow arrived at the Biltmore Hotel. She’d been here many times before. It was famous for, among other things, hosting some the early Academy Awards in 1930s. She’d also once been told it was where Robert Kennedy was assassinated by Sirhan Sirhan in 1968.

Back before she decided to do her thesis on NRD, Jessie had toyed with the idea of profiling Sirhan. So she’d shown up one day unannounced and asked the concierge if they gave tours of the hotel that included the site of the shooting. He was perplexed.

It took a few embarrassing moments for him to understand what she was after and several more for him to politely explain that the assassination had not occurred there but at the now-demolished Ambassador Hotel.

He tried to soften the blow be telling her that JFK had gotten the Democratic nomination for president at the Biltmore in 1960. But she was too humiliated to stick around to hear that story.

Despite the shame, the experience taught her a valuable lesson that had stuck with her ever since: Don’t make assumptions, especially in a line of work where assuming wrong might get you killed. The next day she changed thesis topics and resolved to do her research from then on before she showed up at a location.

Despite that debacle Jessie returned often, as she loved the old-fashioned glamour of the place. This time, she immediately settled into her comfort zone as she meandered through the halls and ballrooms for a good twenty minutes.

As she passed through the lobby on her way out, she noticed a youngish man in a suit standing nonchalantly near the bellhop station, perusing a newspaper. What drew her attention was how sweaty he was. With the air-conditioning blasting through the hotel, she didn’t see how that was physically possible. And yet, every few seconds, he dabbed at the beads of perspiration constantly forming on his forehead.

Why is a guy just casually reading a paper so sweaty?

Jessie moved a little closer and pulled out her phone. She pretended to be reading something but put it in camera mode and tilted it so she could watch the guy without really looking at him. Every now and then she took a quick photo.

He didn’t seem to actually be reading the paper but rather using it as a prop while he intermittently looked up in the direction of the bags being placed on the luggage cart. When one of the bellhops began pushing the cart in the direction of the elevator, the man in the suit put the newspaper under his arm and ambled along behind him.

The bellhop pushed the cart into the elevator and the suited man followed and stood on the other side of the cart. Just as the doors closed, Jessie saw the suited man grab a briefcase from the side of the cart that wasn’t visible to the bellhop.

She watched the elevator slowly go up and stop at the eighth floor. After about ten seconds, it began to descend again. As it did, she walked over to the security guard near the front door. The guard, an amiable-looking guy in his late forties, smiled at her.

“I think you’ve got a thief working the hotel,” Jessie said without preamble, wanting to give him the situation fast.

“How’s that?” he asked, now frowning slightly.

“I saw this guy,” she said, holding up the photo on her phone, “swipe a briefcase from a luggage cart. It’s possible that it was his. But he was pretty sneaky about it and he was sweating like a guy who was nervous about something.”

“Okay, Sherlock,” the guard said skeptically. “Assuming you’re right, how am I supposed to find him? Did you see what floors the elevator stopped on?”

“Eight. But if I’m right, that won’t matter. If he’s a hotel guest, I gather that’s his floor and that’s where he’ll stay.”

“And if he’s not a guest?” the guard asked.

“If he’s not, I’m guessing he’ll be coming straight back down on the elevator that’s returning to the lobby right now.”

Just as she said that, the elevator door opened and the sweaty, suited man stepped out, newspaper in one hand, briefcase in the other. He began walking to the exit.

“I’m guessing he’s going to stash that one somewhere and start the whole procedure over again,” Jessie said.

“Stay here,” the guard said to her, and then spoke into his radio. “I’m gonna need backup in the lobby ASAP.”

He approached the suited man, who saw him out of the corner of his eye and picked up the pace of his stride. So did the guard. The suited man broke into a run and was just pushing his way out the front door when he collided with another security guard running in the opposite direction. Both of them sprawled out on the ground.

Jessie’s guard grabbed hold of the suited man, lifted him up, yanked his arm behind his back, and slammed him against the hotel wall.

“Mind if I look in your bag, sir?” he demanded.

Jessie wanted to see how it would all play out but a quick glance at her watch showed that her appointment with Dr. Lemmon, set for 11 a.m., was in five minutes. She’d have to skip the walk back and catch a cab just to make it in time. She wouldn’t even have the chance to say goodbye to the guard. She worried that if she tried, he’d insist that she stick around to give the police her statement.

She barely made it and was out of breath and just sitting down in the waiting room when Dr. Lemmon opened her office door to invite her in.

“Did you run here from Westport Beach?” the doctor asked with a chuckle.

“Actually, I kind of did.”

“Well, come in and get comfortable,” Dr Lemmon said, closing the door behind her and pouring them both glasses of water from a pitcher filled with lemon and cucumber slices. She still had the same awful perm that Jessie remembered, with tight little blonde ringlets that bounced when they touched her shoulders. She wore thick glasses that made her sharp, owl-like eyes appear tinier. She was a small woman, barely over five feet tall. But she was visibly wiry, probably a result of the yoga she’d told Jessie she did three times a week. For a woman in her mid-sixties, she looked great.

Jessie sat down in the comfy easy chair she always used for sessions and immediately settled back into the old vibe she was used to. She hadn’t been here in a while, well over a year, and had hoped to keep it that way. But it was a place of comfort, where she’d struggled with, and intermittently succeeded in, making peace with her past.

Dr. Lemmon handed her the water, sat down across from her, picked up a legal pad and pen, and rested them on her lap. That was her sign that the session had formally started.

“What are we discussing today, Jessie?” she asked warmly.

“Good news first, I guess. I’m doing my practicum at DSH-Metro, NRD Unit.”

“Oh wow. That is impressive. Who’s your faculty adviser?”

“Warren Hosta at UC-Irvine,” Jessie said. “Do you know him?”

“We’ve interacted,” the doctor said cryptically. “I think you’re in good hands. He’s prickly but he knows his stuff, which is what matters for you.”

“I’m glad to hear that because I didn’t have much choice,” Jessie noted. “He was only one The Panel would approve in the area.”

“I guess that in order to get what you want, you have to color inside their lines a bit. This is what you wanted, right?”

“It is,” Jessie said.

Dr. Lemmon looked at her closely. An unspoken moment of understanding passed between them. Back when Jessie had been interrogated about her thesis by the authorities, Dr. Lemmon had shown up at the police station out of the blue. Jessie remembered watching as her psychiatrist spoke quietly to several people who’d been silently observing her interview. After that, the questions seemed less accusatory and more respectful.

It was only later that Jessie learned Dr. Lemmon was a member of The Panel and was well aware of the goings-on at NRD. She had even treated some of the patients there. Looking back, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all, Jessie had sought this woman out as a therapist precisely because of her reputation for expertise in that area.

“Can I ask you something, Jessie?” Dr. Lemmon said. “You say working at NRD is what you want. But have you considered that the place may not give you the answers you’re looking for?”

“I just want to better understand how these people think,” Jessie insisted, “so that I can be a better profiler.”

“I think we both know you’re looking for much more than that.”

Jessie didn’t respond. Instead she folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. She knew how the doctor would interpret that but she didn’t care.

“We can come back to that,” Dr Lemmon said quietly. “Let’s move on. How’s married life treating you?”

“That’s the main reason I wanted to see you today,” Jessie said, happy to change subjects. “As you know, Kyle and I just moved from here to Westport Beach because his firm reassigned him to their Orange County office. We’ve got a big house in a great neighborhood within walking distance of the harbor…”

“But…?” Dr. Lemmon prodded.

“Something just feels a little off about the place. I’ve been having trouble nailing it down. Everyone has been incredibly friendly so far. I’ve been invited to coffees and brunches and barbecues. I’ve gotten suggestions for the best grocery stores and daycare options, should we eventually need one. But something just feels…off-kilter. And it’s starting to affect me.”

“In what way?” Dr. Lemmon asked.

“I find myself feeling down for no good reason,” Jessie said. “Kyle came home late for a dinner I made and I let it weigh me down much more than I should have. It wasn’t that big a deal but he was so nonchalant about it. It just ate at me. Also, just unpacking boxes seems daunting in a way that’s outsized for the task at hand. I have this constant, overwhelming sense that I don’t belong, that there’s some secret key to a room everyone else has been in and no one will give it to me.”

“Jessie, it’s been a while since our last session so I’m going to remind you of something we’ve discussed before. There doesn’t have to be a ‘good reason’ for these feelings to take hold. What you’re dealing with can appear out of nowhere. And it’s not a shock that a stressful, new situation, no matter how seemingly picture-perfect, could stir them up. Are you taking your medication regularly?”

“Every day.”

“Okay,” the doctor said, making a note on her pad. “It’s possible that we may need to switch it up. I also noticed you mentioned daycare might be necessary in the near future. Is that something you two are pursuing actively—kids? If so, that’s another reason to switch your meds.”

“We are trying…intermittently. But sometimes Kyle seems excited by the prospect and then he gets…distant; almost cold. Sometimes he says something and I wonder ‘who is that guy?’”

“If it’s any reassurance, all of this is very normal, Jessie. You’re in a new environment, surrounded by strangers, with only one person you know well to cling to. It’s stressful. And he’s feeling a lot of those same things, so you’re bound to butt heads and have moments where you don’t connect.”

“But that’s the thing, Doctor,” Jessie pressed. “Kyle doesn’t seem stressed. He obviously likes his job. He has an old high school friend who lives in the area so he’s got that outlet. And all signs indicate that he’s totally psyched to be there—no adjustment period necessary. He doesn’t appear to miss anything from our old life—not our friends, not our old hangouts, not being in a place where stuff actually happens after nine at night. He’s completely adjusted.”

“It might look that way. But I’d be willing to bet he’s not as sure of things on the inside.”

“I’d take that bet,” Jessie said.

“Whether you’re right or not,” Dr. Lemmon said, noting the edge in Jessie’s voice, “the next step is to ask yourself what you are going to do about this new life. How can you make it work better for you as an individual and as a couple?”

“I’m really at a loss,” Jessie said. “I feel like I’m giving this place a shot. But I’m not like him. I’m not a ‘dive right in’ kind of gal.”

“That’s certainly true,” the doctor agreed. “You’re a naturally wary person, with good reason. But you may have to turn the volume down on that a smidgen to get by for a while, especially in social situations. Maybe try to open yourself up a little more to the possibilities around you. And perhaps give Kyle the benefit of the doubt a bit more. Are these reasonable requests?”

“Of course they are, when you ask in this room. Out there it’s different.”

“Maybe that’s a choice you’re making,” Dr. Lemmon suggested. “Let me ask you something. The last time we met, we discussed the source of your nightmares. I gather you’re still having them, yes?”

Jessie nodded. The doctor continued.

“Okay. We also discussed you sharing that with your husband, letting him know why you wake up in a cold sweat several times a week. Have you done that?”

“No,” Jessie admitted guiltily.

“I know you’re concerned about how he’ll react. But we talked about how telling him the truth about your past might help you deal with it more effectively and bring the two of you closer together.”

“Or it could tear us apart,” Jessie countered. “I understand what you’re saying, Doctor. But there’s a reason so few people know about my personal history. It’s not warm and fuzzy. Most people can’t handle it. You only know because I did research on your background and determined that you had specific training and experience with this kind of thing. I sought you out and let you into my head because I knew you could handle it.”

“Your husband has known you for almost a decade. You don’t think he can handle it?”

“I think a seasoned professional like you had to use every ounce of restraint and empathy you had not to run out of the room screaming when I told you. How do you think a regular dude from suburban Southern California is going to react?”

“I don’t know Kyle so I couldn’t say,” Dr. Lemmon replied. “But if you’re planning to start a family with him—spend the rest of your life with him—you might want to consider whether you can realistically wall off a whole chunk of it from him.”

“I’ll take it under consideration,” Jessie said noncommittally.

She could sense that Dr. Lemmon understood that she wasn’t going to engage on the topic anymore.

“So let’s talk medication,” the doctor said, changing subjects. “I have a few suggestions for alternatives now that you’re planning to get pregnant.”

Jessie stared at Dr. Lemmon, watching her mouth move. But try as she might, she couldn’t concentrate. The words drifted by as her thoughts returned to those dark woods from her childhood, the ones that haunted her dreams.