Okay, time to cut this off, or they would be here for hours. Victoria managed to convince her client to wait in the living room as the other lawyer corralled Mrs. Hall into the sunroom.

Unfortunately for all of them, however, the appraiser had several questions about the collection. And every time Mr. Hall came into the kitchen to answer one of those questions, Mrs. Hall bolted out of the sunroom, determined to ensure that her husband didn’t screw her over “with any of his bullshit.” Convinced he was hiding part of the collection, she examined every drawer and shelf in the library and master bedroom, and also insisted they open the two safes in the home. All of which was furiously contested by Mr. Hall—and for no good reason, since, as it turned out, he wasn’t actually hiding anything.

Victoria finally got out of there around six P.M., and then fought Friday rush hour traffic back into the city for nearly two hours. By the time she rolled into her office to pick up some files that she wanted to review over the weekend, she was mentally and physically drained.

Given the late hour, she was surprised when she saw Will sitting at his desk outside her office. “Hey, what are you still doing here?”

He held up a white takeout bag in one hand, a bottle of Basil Hayden’s bourbon in the other. “From the way you sounded when you checked in, I figured you would need it.”

“I’m so giving you a raise.”

He grinned. “Sweetie, I already gave myself a raise last month.” He followed her into her office, where she dropped off her briefcase and sank gratefully into her desk chair. He handed over the takeout bag—pork fried rice that smelled delicious—and then poured two fingers of bourbon into a couple of glasses he’d snagged from the break room as she told him about her afternoon with the Halls.

When she finished eating, she leaned back in her chair, a companionable silence falling between her and Will.

It was after eight o’clock, and the sun had just begun to set. Outside the window, the Chicago skyline was set against a brilliant backdrop of orange, red, and purple.

“It’s funny,” she said. “Just the other day I was telling someone how in the eight years I’ve been a divorce lawyer, I haven’t seen much that inspires me to try my luck at marriage.”

On the opposite side of the desk, Will had his feet propped up on the chair next to him. He turned his head and looked at her. “I’m guessing today didn’t improve that opinion much.”

Indeed, it had not.

Nineteen

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Victoria proudly told Dr. Metzel about her successful train ride the previous Sunday—an achievement she’d repeated just that morning by taking the subway to his office.

He seemed pleased with her progress, and encouraged her to continue with weekend excursions, when the train cars weren’t so crowded, so that she could continue to “experience the feared environment” under safer, more controlled circumstances.

“And I also took an exercise class,” she told him. Granted, it had been a yoga class at seven A.M. that morning, which meant no crowd and no hot and sweaty room to trigger her fear of light-headedness, but still. Baby steps.

He walked her through another version of a relaxation technique, then tried something new: he asked her to hyperventilate, and then hold her breath, with the idea of re-creating the sensations of a panic attack.

She got about a minute into that, and then began to feel light-headed. Immediately, she stopped.

“I’m not sure about this exercise.” Feeling as though her heart was racing, she tried taking a deep breath.

“It’s okay, we can stop,” Dr. Metzel said reassuringly. “Remember your relaxation techniques.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. I feel quiet. The muscles in my forehead are relaxed and smooth. My shoulders are loose. My legs and feet feel warm and heavy.

After several moments, she felt better and smiled weakly at Dr. Metzel. “Guess I’m not cured yet.”

“You’ll get there. The point is for you to remember that you are in control.”

She nodded, then glanced at her watch and saw they still had ten minutes left in the session.

“With the time we have left,” Dr. Metzel led in, “I was wondering if we could talk about your relationship with your parents.”

“Sounds very Freudian.”

He smiled. “Let’s start with your mother. Did her suicide attempt impact the relationship between you two?”

No beating around the bush there, apparently. “Of course. How could it not?”

“Could you expand on that a little?”

“Afterward, I felt very protective of her. My mother is an only child, and my grandparents on that side were already in a nursing home at the time, so she didn’t have anyone else to look out for her. My father was no help, naturally—in fact, after her suicide attempt, his entire family completely distanced themselves from my mother and me.”

“Were you worried she would try to kill herself again?”

Only every day I left for school, for about five years. “It was a concern, yes.”

“That must have been very difficult on you.”

Victoria paused, surprised to suddenly feel a slight burning in her eyes. For Pete’s sake, Slade. This was something she’d resolved a long time ago. “It wasn’t easy, no.”

Dr. Metzel held her gaze. “Were you angry with your mother for trying to kill herself?”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Okay, see, now this was why she didn’t like therapy. “I mean, what kind of question is that? You want to know how I felt? I felt happy when she got better. There.” She pointed to his notepad. “Write that one down.”

Dr. Metzel let that sit for a moment. “What’s your relationship with your mother like today?”

They were moving on—good. “She still lives in central Florida, where I grew up. We see each other a few times a year. Either I’ll fly down there or she’ll come up here.”

“How about your father? Any contact there?”

“Nope. Nada.” She debated whether to admit this next part. “I looked up my two half sisters on Facebook a couple years back. I guess I was just curious.”

“Have you considered reaching out to them?”

She shook her head. “How do you start that conversation? I’m not sure they even know I exist.”