In Confidence

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue

Rose Hill, Texas

April 1998

Right on time, the door opened and the interview Rachel Forrester had dreaded all morning was at hand. She often faced trying situations, but this was surely the worst in her experience.

“Mr. Ford?” Rachel Forrester stood behind her desk, extending her hand in formal greeting to the father of the boy. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I liked Jack so much, everyone who knew him did. He was a fine boy and a gifted athlete. He will be sorely missed here at Rose Hill High.”

Cameron Ford grunted a reply and barely touched her palm before saying abruptly, “I have a few questions.”

“Won’t you please have a seat?” She gestured to the chair in front of her desk.

“I’ll stand.”

She nodded, bracing for a difficult interview. As she eased down on her chair, he swiped a hand over a face ravaged with grief, fatigue and sleep deprivation. He was a tall man of rangy build with dark brown hair and gray eyes hooded at the moment. He seemed to vibrate with energy, which probably explained how he carried not a spare ounce of flesh on him. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d thrown them on without giving much thought to the way he’d look, or to any first impression he made. He wouldn’t have recalled seeing her at Jack’s funeral. In his shoes, she certainly wouldn’t, she thought.

“I’ll be glad to answer your questions as best I can,” she told him.

He looked directly at her then from eyes that burned with accusation. “Why didn’t you do your job with Jack?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m telling you right up front that I think you dropped the ball with Jack. You’re a shrink, right? I was told by Preston Ramsey that, as his guidance counselor, you saw my son no less than six times this semester. What’s your job if it’s not to spot troubled kids and step in before they wind up—” He turned away and paced to the window, keeping his back to her. “I want to know what went on in those six sessions that you didn’t guess he was suicidal.”

“Mr. Ford, won’t you please take a seat so we can talk calmly.”

He turned and took a step toward her desk. “I am calm. But I’m mad as hell and I intend to get answers, if not from you, then I’ll go beyond you and Ramsey. You were privy to his confidences and Ramsey was his principal. Are you honestly telling me you didn’t have a clue—either one of you—that Jack was contemplating suicide?”

Wary of his rage, Rachel felt her heartbeat up a bit, but she kept her tone even. “Yes, I’m telling you exactly that,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “I didn’t think—”

“Yeah, what the hell were you thinking!” The sound of his hand slapped on her desktop was like a shot in the small office. “Do you people only notice when a kid winds up dead?”

“Please, Mr. Ford.” Rachel rose from her chair on shaky legs. “If you want to talk about this, I’m more than willing, but it’s not helpful to scream at me.”

“It seems to me the time for talking is about a week late,” he told her in a grim tone. “You had plenty of opportunities to get a fix on Jack in six sessions. Weren’t you listening? Isn’t that what shrinks do? Or did you hear what he said and just ignored it?”

“Nobody ignored Jack, Mr. Ford,” she said patiently, watching him pace. “His grades were slipping. I noticed he was withdrawing from his peers. He was skipping classes. His teachers were concerned. I was concerned. And I saw him for those sessions only because I dragged him in in an attempt to reach him. It wasn’t his choice.”

He stopped momentarily. “So what did the two of you talk about, the weather?” he asked sarcastically.

He was hurting, she knew that. Rightfully. He was entitled. He needed someone, something on which to focus his rage and pain. In that, he was no different from the other parents she saw who were bewildered and frustrated over their kids’ behavior. How much worse must it be to suffer the ultimate loss as Cameron Ford had? She drew a deep breath. “Something was going on, but he wasn’t willing to share it. At least, not with me.”

His eyes were icy with disdain. “And didn’t that tell you something?”

“What should it have told me, Mr. Ford?”

“Maybe you’re in the wrong business. Maybe these kids need someone who’s more skillful in connecting with them.”

She answered him coolly. “I can’t force a teenage boy to share his deepest thoughts.” Even knowing he needed to lash out, there was a limit to what she’d tolerate. “We can only do our best,” she said.

“Yeah, well, your best wasn’t enough to keep my son alive, was it?”

Out of compassion and professional restraint, Rachel bit back a sharp response. As the boy’s guidance counselor, she knew she’d done her best. She could have asked if Ford had done his best as a father. Where was he in Jack’s time of need? “I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by continuing our discussion just now, Mr. Ford,” she said quietly. “Maybe you need to give yourself some time to adjust to your loss, and then, if you’d like to talk, you know where to reach me.” Even before she’d finished, he was stalking to the door. “Just call the school to make an appointment.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he said. Then, with his hand on the catch, he suddenly turned back. “Instead of answers, all I got from you today was a lot of evasion and bullshit. If this session is an example of your expertise, I think I understand why, when Jack was in trouble, you failed him. God help other kids in your care.”

One

Rose Hill, Texas

Five years later

Nothing about the start of the day hinted at the way it would end. Rachel Forrester’s routine didn’t vary from the moment she got out of bed at six in the morning. She showered first, as always, then she headed downstairs to get the coffee started and fix breakfast for the kids. When that was done, she took two steaming mugs back to the bedroom, timing it just as Ted was toweling off. Her husband was slow to get going unless he had an early surgery scheduled. Neither made much conversation. Ted didn’t like early-morning chatter.

“Is my black suit—the Armani—back from the cleaners?” he asked from the depths of the walk-in closet.

Rachel pulled the suit from half a dozen plastic-shrouded items hanging on her side of the closet. “It’s here with all this stuff that was delivered yesterday. I haven’t had a chance to separate it.”

Ted took it after she stripped away the plastic, then chose two dress shirts from the twenty-or-so hanging in his closet and walked to the large sliding glass doors where the light was better. “What looks best?” he asked, critically studying the effects of both shirts with the Armani jacket.

“Depends on the tie.”

He held up a smart black-and-gray tie. “This one.”

“Okay, the white French cuffs.” She paused in the act of buttoning her denim skirt and watched him put the shirt on. “Something special going on today?”

“I’ll be in Dallas. Walter finally convinced me that we should interview that internist out of Baylor. Fat chance persuading him to leave Houston to come to a town the size of Rose Hill.”

Rachel smiled. “Well, you’ll make a terrific impression.” Ted was an attractive man, still trim at forty-two, with just enough silver at the temples in his dark hair to add a distinguished touch. She walked over and took the cuff link he was fumbling with in his left hand and deftly fastened it.

“Thanks,” he said, then picked up his jacket.

“Will you be back in time to have dinner with us?”