I agreed. Quickly, easily, and—if his reaction was any indicator—believably. Which proved that my acting skills were improving. Once he’d secured my agreement, he began to talk.

In all my research on Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans, I’d never learned how they met. It seemed inconsequential. It wasn’t. Jan had been Dr. Evans’s patient. She’d been coming to his house for treatment, which is where she’d met his son. That was why the Evanses had objected to the relationship. Not because of the age difference but because of the circumstances.

“Eventually, we got past that,” Evans said. “Jan was a wonderful girl, and she was in love with our son. He was in love with her.”

“Were you still seeing her professionally?”

“No. As soon as she started dating Peter, she knew she should no longer see me as her therapist. That was correct and shows, I think, what a mature and levelheaded young woman she was. That decision was, however, part of the reason I was against the relationship. Jan and I were making headway. She had a serious issue to work through. I had to choose between seeing her achieve happiness by a breakthrough or by my son.”

“And you thought a therapeutic breakthrough was better.”

“Young love is fickle. Peter . . . liked to date. He rarely had one girlfriend at a time. I thought his relationship with Jan was simply a new phase.”

“Test-driving fidelity. Which wouldn’t last.”

“Yes. But it did. Which is when I came to realize that this was indeed what Jan needed, psychologically.”

“So she didn’t transfer to a new therapist.”

“She was going to. I made a couple of appointments for her. She found excuses to cancel, and I realized she needed a break. I didn’t push. Maybe I should have.”

“What was she seeing you for? Or is that still covered under client–patient confidentiality?”

“There’s the rub. Does confidentiality extend beyond death? Opinions vary. If Jan said to me, ‘I think my brother is going to kill me,’ then clearly I have an obligation to turn her files over. But if those files only suggested a possible motive? Not as clear. I decided that if the authorities requested her files, I’d hand them over. They did not. Nor did the Larsens’ lawyers.”

“Did the police know Jan had been your patient?”

“Yes. But because the professional relationship ended almost a year before her death, they didn’t see any causal link to her murder. They didn’t subpoena my files or ask me anything about our sessions.”

Which was a serious oversight when they’d been investigating her brother as a potential suspect. Maybe they’d trusted that Evans would volunteer anything that could help them catch his son’s killer.

He took a file folder from his desk and handed it to me. “Take this with you. I’ve redacted information that I feel is an unnecessary invasion of Jan’s privacy, but in those remaining pages, I believe you’ll find a motive.”

I took the file as he again warned me against sharing it with Gabriel. Again, I lied and said I wouldn’t.

Before I could leave, he said, “Are you seeing anyone, Olivia?” he asked. “A therapist, I mean. Since you discovered the Larsens are your parents?”

I stiffened.

“I can tell from that reaction that the answer is no and that you don’t appreciate the question. I’m sorry, but I had to ask. I’d be a poor psychologist if I wasn’t concerned about the effects of such a revelation.”

“I’m coping.”

“So I see. When I heard you were investigating the murders, I’ll admit I was concerned you might be in denial. That doesn’t seem to be the case, though. Still, if you’d like to talk to someone . . . free of charge, of course. You’re doing me a favor, setting my mind at ease about Christian.”

“I appreciate the offer. I know talking helps a lot of people, but it really doesn’t do it for me. I just need to work through this on my own. No offense.”

“None taken. You’re right that you don’t seem an ideal candidate for traditional therapy. I was going to suggest more of an information session. After my son’s death, I became something of an expert on serial killers. I’m sure you have questions. About them. About yourself.”

I had to struggle to keep my expression blank. I thanked him again and promised to call with any questions on the file.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Giving me Jan’s file seemed like a breach in doctor–client confidentiality, but when I told Gabriel what Evans had done, he said that according to Illinois law, psychologists weren’t bound after a client’s death. Evans could refuse to turn it over, but it had been his idea, and he’d redacted information, so he was acting ethically.

As I read the file, Gabriel drove to Starbucks. River Forest wasn’t the kind of place where you were likely to find a nice little generic coffee shop. Which was fine, because I was craving a mocha and espresso brownie about as much as I’d been craving sushi.

We ate outside. It wasn’t perfect weather for it—a little windy, which in Chicago-speak means gusts that will snatch your newspaper but not your breath. It was overcast though, so we had the patio to ourselves.

I told Gabriel what Evans had said about him. He only snorted as he ripped a chunk from his muffin.

“Seems he did a background check on you when you first started sniffing around,” I said. “Allegations of drug dealing. Assault with intent. Murder.”

“I didn’t go sniffing around.”

“That’s the only accusation that bothers you?” I shook my head. “Anyway, yes, he doesn’t trust you, so I can’t share this.” I waved the file.

“Judging by the noises you made while reading it, I presume there’s something useful in there.”

That breeze gusting past seemed to turn to an icy blast. I shivered.

“Is it that bad?” Gabriel’s voice dropped.

“Do you have siblings?”

“No.”

“Me neither, but I still can’t imagine . . .” I trailed off and yanked my gaze from the folder.

He waved at my drink and snack. “Chocolate therapy?”

“Yes. A cliché, I know. But it works for me.” I pushed the folder over to Gabriel. “There’s no way you can help me on this investigation without reading that. So enjoy.” I paused. “Or not.”