Not Quite Perfect
Page 51

The squad car in her driveway somehow made Dakota’s call more real than it had been all morning.
Mary slowly opened the door while Glen talked with the driver.
The front door was open, the tarp from inside kicked out with the wind.
The sound of footsteps running across the street accompanied Walt’s voice calling out.
“Mary!”
From her peripheral vision, she saw Glen and Walt do a quick handshake as they both walked beside her.
“Thanks for checking on the place.” The words were autopilot from Mary’s lips.
“No problem. Listen, it’s a wreck in there.”
Yeah, she got that from Dakota’s conversation. “I’m okay.”
Walt’s expression told her she wouldn’t be.
She crossed the threshold, moved back the tarp, and caught the edge of the wall with her shoulder.
Her condo was trashed . . . there was no other way to describe it with one word. Everything that stood upright was on the floor. Her lamps tossed across the room, her couch was upside down with the cushions slashed and the stuffing pulled out. The few pictures she had were smashed and lying on the ground, shards of glass scattered all around.
“Mary.” Glen said her name from a fog.
“I’m okay.” She wasn’t. But saying she was somehow gave her the strength to move through her home.
Two uniformed police officers stood in her kitchen . . . a kitchen that looked a lot like her living room. Drawers had been opened, dumped out. A pile of white powder . . . sugar, if she wasn’t mistaken, had been poured from the container she kept it in directly onto her stove, the container tossed to the side.
“Officers, this is Mary Kildare. The homeowner.”
Mary spun in a circle. “Does everything look like this?”
Walt looked her in the eye. “Just about.”
Glen stood at her side, his jaw a tight, unreadable line.
“Miss Kildare, we have some questions—”
She held up her hand.
Their questions could wait.
She walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Her bedroom was worse. The bed had been torn apart. Feathers from the pillows looked like a sixteen-year-old’s slumber party after a pillow fight. It didn’t look as if any of her clothing was still inside the dresser. She slowly moved into her bathroom and gasped. Like in every Hollywood movie that contained a break-in, lipstick had been used on her bathroom mirror.
BITCH!
Bold print.
Exclamation point.
She trembled.
The shaking started at her feet and she felt it slowly rise and hit her knees. When the ripple had her catching her breath, she felt her body slump.
Glen kept her from sliding to the ground.
“I got ya. C’mon . . . let’s get you out of here.”
She didn’t remember walking down the stairs, didn’t remember crossing the street. When she looked up, she was sitting in Dakota’s living room with her best friend’s arm around her, repetitions of everything is going to be all right drifting in the air.
The police were in Dakota’s kitchen, talking with Glen.
“Who would do that?” Mary’s words didn’t require an answer. She knew Dakota didn’t have one.
“I don’t know. Walt and I’ve been asking ourselves that all morning.”
“Did you see it?”
Dakota nodded. “They wanted to know if I saw anything missing.”
She knew she’d have to go back and look at everything . . . sort it all out.
Glen and Walt accompanied the officers back into the living room. Glen handed her a cup of what looked like hot tea and took the seat beside her.
“Miss Kildare . . . I know it’s difficult.” The older of the two policemen addressed her first.
In slow, controlled measures, Mary felt the thoughts of a victim rise above the fog and those of the therapist start to take hold.
Analyze.
Conclude.
Predict.
“This was personal,” Mary muttered.
The senior officer nodded. “That’s what we believe.”
“Not a random act?” Glen asked.
Mary shook her head. “Bitch was personal. Everything else . . . ransacking the house, tearing it up . . . could have been anyone looking for valuables.” Joke was on them; she didn’t have any to speak of.
“Exactly.” The officer, whose name eluded her, sat on one of the opposite chairs. “Does anyone’s name pop in your head who would do this?”
She shook her head with a shrug. “None.”
“Your friends tell us you’re a therapist. What about your clients? Anyone unhappy with your advice? Anyone unstable?”
Mary rested her head in her hand. “Many of my clients are unstable. Not clinically . . . well, maybe some. But . . .” She couldn’t start blurting out names. She had a confidentiality clause and edict that she had to hold herself to. “I haven’t had any threats.”
“What about that crazy guy who called your house a few weeks ago?” Glen asked.
Mary hesitated and caught herself. “No . . . he was upset—”
“The guy was crazy, started calling you names.”
“What was this man’s name?” the second officer asked.
Mary put her hands in the air. “Speculation. And not something I can divulge.”
“The man sounded insane enough to check out.”
She narrowed her gaze to Glen. “You play pilot, I’ll play therapist. You’re barking up the wrong tree.” Only as the words left her mouth she wasn’t completely sure they were true. Jacob Golf had presented a few unstable behaviors in the past couple of months. Behaviors consistent with bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder. Could she add psychotic behavior to the list? None of that guaranteed he was capable of tearing up her home.