There wasn't a couch in Deborah Higgs' office. For some reason that struck me as odd.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." She said after we'd shaken hands.

I took a seat in one of two cozy looking leather armchairs and watched with interest as she sat down across from me in a graceful movement that was more reminiscent of a debutante than a doctor.

I had expected a much older woman, but she couldn't have been more than forty if that. Her long, gangly frame shuffled in the armchair as she got fully comfortable. She was quite a bit taller than me but sitting down we were almost at eye level. A splatter of dark brown freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose. Her small eyes seemed bigger behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

"How's your day going?" She said with a withdrawn smile. Her coiled, dark hair stopped just at the shoulder. She'd half-pinned it up so that her tresses spiraled pleasingly behind her head. I wondered if I could pull that off with my hair.

"Great."

"The office wasn't too hard to find?" She looked down at the clipboard in her hands and casually flipped through the first couple of pages of paper.

"No, I have an excellent sense of direction." I twiddled my fingers about before folding them into each other to stop my nerves from showing. I had to play this as cool as possible.

She looked up suddenly and smiled. "If you don't mind I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Oh okay. Just jumping right in, huh?" I swallowed to ease the dryness in my mouth. "Well it all started when I was born-"

"Questions about the intake paperwork."

"Oh. Of course." I sat back in my seat and willed the fluttering in my stomach to calm the hell down.

"Have you ever been in therapy?" she asked.

"Uh, no."

"Have you been diagnosed with a mental illness?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Do you experience hallucinations?"

"No."

"Are you currently sexually active?"

I almost clutched the pearls I'm not wearing. "What does that matter?"

"Sexual activity can affect your health." She said plainly.

"Even mentally?"

"You'd be surprised."

I unclenched my jaw. "Yes...to being active."

"Are you in a relationship?"

A flutter of panicky laughter bubbled from me. "Feels like that should have been asked first."

From the disinterested look on her face I could tell she didn't think that was funny. "You can be sexually active without being in a relationship," she said, totally seriously.

"Solid logic and yes."

"How long have you been together?"

My eyes rolled upward as I thought back. "What is it February...four months."

"Do you have suicidal thoughts?"

"Only when I pay my taxes."

She didn't crack one little grin! Man, I'm bombing today. "I understand you own your own business."

"Yes."

"How do you like it?"

"I love it." She actually smiled and I felt encouraged, "I love not having a boss. I mean, you would know, right?"

"Private practice does have its advantages."

Okay, direct approach it is. "What made you decide to become a therapist?"

"I like helping people." Damn.

"Yeah me too." I nodded and swerved the conversation back to the relevant topic. "I even thought about becoming a social worker when I was younger, but I heard the bureaucracy is rough."

"What made you decide to seek therapy?"

Her ability to stay focused surprised me but I fumbled my way through a recovery, "I-I've been feeling sad lately."

"Sad about what?" Her cool eyes stared at me. It was all I could do not to look away.
"Just...life in general." I'd thought up some convoluted reason for coming but I was drawing a blank. "I don't know."

"You're nervous," said doctor Deborah. "Don't be. This first appointment is mostly an evaluation. There's no need to feel pressured to fix anything or even identify a problem today."

"That's a relief." And I sighed with a great release of pressure, though I'm sure she didn't realize why.

"Besides sadness, have you been experiencing any other symptoms?" She pulled the pen from the clipboard and gestured with every ailment she listed. "Anxiety? Stress? Intrusive thoughts?"

"Yes, to the first two. What do you mean by intrusive thoughts?"

"Unwelcome thoughts that may be unpleasant or distressing."

"Does a nightmare count?"

Her voice seemed to shift from all business to sympathetic listener automatically. "Do you have nightmares?"

"Sometimes."

"How often?"

"It's rare...ish."

Her pen quickly scribbled across the paper. "What happens?"

"In the nightmare?" I looked away. I didn't need to remember, it was clear as day to me. But the intensity of her prodding had become burdensome. This wasn't supposed to be about me, but it was perhaps in my best interest to play along. "It's...well, this thing happened a few months ago."

"A thing? What-"

My rebuff was quick. "I don't want to talk about it."

She didn't even flinch at that. "Okay. So, this thing happened a few months ago. And you dream about it?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you dream about, if you don't mind me asking?"

I exhaled a tired breath as a frown marred the features of my face. "It's this guy. I used to know him-well, sort of. In the dream he attacks me."

"Did he hurt you in real life?" she asked gently.

"Yes."

"And sometimes you dream he's hurting you again?"

"Yes."

She started gesturing with her pen again. "So, would you say one of our goals would be to confront the reason you're having these nightmares."

My head shook at the idea of talking about it more than necessary. "I don't see how confronting it would help. I want to think about it less not more."

"Yes, but sometimes confronting your fears is the best way to alleviate them."

"But talking seems too easy a solution."

"Every confrontation doesn't have to be difficult or dramatic. Sometimes it feels better just to say what's wrong out loud. That's why you're here, right?"

"...Yeah."

"So, if you continue coming to see me we would definitely talk about it, or anything else in your life that bothers you. The key to success here is a doctor-patient relationship built on trust and honesty."

My head bobbled up and down with the weight of my deceptions. "Right, trust and honesty."

"Remember this is a safe place, and whatever you say stays between us."

"Mmmm...right."

"I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to help you figure out what you can do to live your most well-adjusted life."

I couldn't keep up the charade anymore and blurted out my real objective before I burst from the stress. "Do you remember Peter Bergman?"

Her small, brown eyes blinked. "What?"

"Peter Bergman."

Dr. Deborah's professional façade slipped a bit and her face twisted with confusion. "What is this?"

"I'm a private investigator."

It took her two seconds to put it together. "Oh Lord."

"I'm investigating the disappearance of Peter Bergman."

"I see."

"I'm not sure if you've kept up with the news-"

"Yes, I know he's missing. What I don't know is why you think I know anything about it." Her fingers caressed her right temple as she openly checked the clock that hung on the wall above my chair. "Or why you'd go through this whole complicated ruse just to talk to me."

"I just need you to fill in the holes."

Her mouth twisted in protest. "I haven't been a social worker in fourteen years."

"Maybe you'll remember something important."

"Important like what?"

"Like people Peter would turn to if he were in trouble."

"He was mostly a loner."

"There were no friends or family he was especially close with?"

"Not that I recall."

"Why did you quit?"

She sighed but gave in. "The caseload was high. The pay was low. Everyone is always mad at you. Your boss, parents, teachers, police, the kids. I burned out."

"Because of the Bergman case? I know you quit right around that time."

"That particular case might have contributed, but it was a little bit of everything." Her mind went back to that time in an instant. A sad smile flashed across her face. "I don't think I had the temperament for that job."

"Why was Peter removed from his mother?"

Deep frown lines formed at the top of her brow. "I don't feel comfortable answering confidential questions."

"You haven't been a social worker in a long time," I reminded her. "I doubt the consequences still hold up."

"I took oaths."

"I know that." When she refused to budge, I looked into her eyes and mimicked the same gentle, nudging tone she'd used to get me to open up. "I'm not asking you to tell me any of the finer details. I just want to know a little more about the people who hired me."

There was a pause. We stared at one another. The clock behind me ticked through the silence. If she decided not to help me, then I would simply pursue other avenues. However, those other avenues were currently being uncooperative and though I was confident I could still find a way Deborah Higgs' input could be the difference between a difficult success or an easy one.

"There were multiple neglect reports," She said at last.

I kept my first question easy so as not to test her generosities too soon. "Were the Bergman's the first home you placed him in?"

"No. He was in multiple homes before he was with them."

"Why?"

"It's fairly common."

"Why did they decide to adopt Peter?"

"I don't know. It happens with foster parents. They take in a child. Fall in love."

"Karen Daugherty claims she never relinquished her parental rights."

She scowled. "Karen Daugherty was a junkie. There's probably entire decades she doesn't remember."

"But if she was as bad as you say, then how is it legal for her to make the decision at all?"

"Ideally it's not. But legally, consent can be waived in certain circumstances. Other than that, there weren't any other relatives willing to take him. Not even his father."

"If there were abuse allegations against Trudy, why wasn't he removed from their home?"

"All abuse claims must be investigated, but..." She trailed off as if the rest of the sentence was some great taboo.

"But what?" I eased up in my seat and waited for her to confirm what I already suspected.

"Kenneth Bergman was the Sheriff." She pressed her lips together like she was keeping in a secret. "I won't say there was outright defiance, but I'd never seen such a lack of cooperation before."

"Wasn't he dead by then?" I did the math in my head and yeah, he would have been dead by the time the abuse accusations started rolling down the pipe.

"Doesn't matter. Police take care of their own. I was getting a lot of resistance from higher up. But before I could interfere Peter had run away anyway. Then it was less about her and all about finding him."

"Nobody correlated his running away with the abuse claims?"

"It was suspicious but sometimes the kids just run away."

"Do you know what happened to him after that?"

"No. But a lot of run-aways end up homeless." She scratched at her freckles while she thought. "There weren't so many homeless camps on that side of town, you know, so I couldn't tell you where he went from there. I wouldn't be surprised if he found his way back to Karen either."

I watched her reaction carefully for the next round of questions.

"Do you know Rachel Blair?"

"No."

Do you know Randy Watkins?"

"No."

"Did you ever meet Trudy?"

"Yes. Of course."

"What did you think?"

"She seemed perfectly nice." She said with a shrug. "At least until I needed to investigate the claims. She went from snake charmer to snake real quick. Threatened to call her lawyer."

"Did she?"

"Wouldn't matter. You can't sue the state for investigating you."

"Did Peter have behavioral problems?"

"As I remember he was a bit of an angry kid."

"But was he dangerous?"

"I don't believe so."

"You weren't concerned?"

"'Behavioral problems'" And she quoted the air around her head with her fingers. "Sometimes people have this idea that bringing a child into their home will be easier than it is?"

This time, I was the one who frowned. "What do you mean?"

"People think when you take in children they'll always be happy and grateful." She let out a frustrated sigh. "He was raised by an inebriated, not-all-there mother and an absentee father who could be violent when he bothered to show up at all. Of course, he had problems. Who wouldn't?"

"But, in your opinion, was he...violent?"

She thought for a moment. "Right before he ran away he got in a big fight at school."

"That didn't alarm you?"

"Boys fight," she said it carefully like she was worried I'd take that the wrong way. "But the thing that was more alarming was that he apparently attacked a female teacher."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It wasn't in the report."

"Who called in the abuse?"

"The school. The teacher he attacked called it in."

"Do you remember her name?"

"Of course not."

"What about the name of the school?"

"Chiswick Academy." As I made a note of the school in my phone she said, "I'm still not clear on why you pretended you needed therapy. Surely you could have tried calling first."

"I did but your receptionist said you didn't have time to answer questions. I didn't have time to wait."

"And then you made up that story about having nightmares." Something on my face must have given me away because she looked at me intently for a brief moment before saying, "That wasn't a lie?"

"It's no big deal." I shrugged and handed her a business card. "Please call me if you think of anything else."

She took my card and handed me one of her own. "Here."

"What's this for?"

"Call me if you want to talk for real."

************************

Back at Taste Teas, as I worked through a busy period I thought about my next move. Rachel Blair, Randy Watkins, and Karen Daugherty had all lied to me. I needed to pull the truth out of each one of them if I was ever going to get anywhere. The only question was how.

Rachel seemed the easiest. She'd hired me so applying a little pressure to get to the truth of her deceptions shouldn't be too hard. But I didn't want her to know I was on to her just yet.

Randy would be the toughest nut to crack. I knew very little about him and he had little reason to cooperate with me without a damn good reason.

That left Karen, but she wouldn't talk in front of Manny...

As I was inwardly making out my plan, a man walked up to the counter with a look of absolute dread. "I'm here about the window." He said, his deep voice shaking.

"Excuse me?"

He was an ordinary looking kid, with warm brown skin and curly hair trimmed into a taper fade that did little to mask a slightly oversized head. "The sign in the window?" he all but whispered.

"I'm sorry, what?"

He cleared his throat and spoke up. "The Help Wanted sign? I want to apply for the job."

"Oh, okay." I said with a nod. I reached beneath the counter and grabbed the first application on the short pile organized beside the cup sleeves. "Fill out this application." I passed the paper to him and prepared to take the order of the next person.

But he didn't move from the spot on the other side of the register. "Do you have a pencil?"

I pulled the pencil from behind my ear and handed it to him before watching him walk through the crowd like a baby faced giant. He sat at the only available table and started scratching his answers into the application with so much concentration you'd think he was sitting for the Bar Exam.

I went back to my work-both of them-outwardly doling out espressos and pastries and inwardly plotting how I'd get Karen Daugherty to talk.

After about ten minutes, the young man came back and shyly handed his application back to me. I glimpsed the line at the top of the page where his name was quickly scribbled in a sloppy fashion. Devonte Davis.

"Thank you. If you meet the qualifications I'm looking for you'll receive a call from me in the next two days."

"I-I know it doesn't look that good." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "I don't have any experience but if you hire me I'll work very hard."

I looked down at the application in my hand. Besides his name, number, and address, the first page was blank. "No experience?"

"Well, I uh...I never had a job before."

"Can you sweep? Mop? Lift thirty-five to fifty pounds?"

"Yeah to all of that."

I wrote a note on his application. "Hospitality experience?"

"Huh?"

"Waiting tables, taking orders, general customer service."

"Uh, no."

"Numeracy?"

"Mmmm..."

"Can you do math? Like, money math?"

"Yeah! I'm real good at math." And sure enough on page two he'd filled out the simple money equations accurately.

In the blank space where he was to indicate what hours he preferred to work he'd skipped Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in the afternoon. "You go to the school?"

"Yeah. My dorm's only a block away." That could be convenient.

"Okay," I said. "I'll call if you've got the job."

Towards the end of the day I managed to find five minutes to myself and escaped to the back alley with an open can of cat food. I sat down at the bottom step and plopped today's special-turkey and giblets-into the cheap kitty bowl I'd splurged on and watched as Tumnus hungrily shoved his face into his meal.

I pet his soft gray and white fur as he fed, though I'm sure I read somewhere you aren't supposed to pet animals as they eat, but he had become comfortable enough to let the faux pas slide. The sun above was just starting its descent, and the air had cooled so that the temperature was nice and calming. I leaned my tired body against the railing and let myself relax for the first time all day. It was peaceful. When Tumnus was finished, he meowed gratefully and hopped up the step to rub himself on my upper leg. I pet him and his soft purring would have lulled me to sleep if not for the fact that I would never sleep in a filthy alley.

From the corner of my eye I could see a man walking my way. I tensed and looked toward him with a quickness but relaxed just as fast when I realized who it was.

"Hey Johnny. Here for a job?"

He stopped in front of me and Tumnus, his work boots scuffing the pavement. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd see if you had anything."

"Not much. You can help but the pay's going to be low today."

"That's fine." He nodded his head and began to walk up the steps behind me.

"Oh, I meant to tell you," I stood and turned to him. "There's a steady job opening up soon. It's yours if you want it."

He looked down at me and gave me a sort of half-smile. "Thanks, but I like things the way they are."

"Fair enough."

He bussed tables for the next hour, only stopping when I asked him to wash the dishes that had stacked up in the kitchen since Jackson had left for his other job. This made Lana very happy as she was saved from grunt work for a day. She, Pasha, and I quickly finished the sweeping and mopping and I bid the two of them goodbye before I retreated to my office to shut down my computer and lock up.

"Kitchen's clean," Johnny said from the inside of the open doorway.

"Thank you." I walked over and slid his money into his hand.

He didn't bother to count it. "Last thing to do is take out the trash."

I smiled. "Great. You know how hard it is for me to get the garbage out. You'd think those empty paper cups wouldn't get so heavy. Defies the laws of physics."

"The laws of physics still apply. You're just a weakling."

"Ah. That must be it."

He looked around my office. "You finished fast today. Got somewhere to go?"

"I need to stop through West Lake after work."

He raised an unkempt eyebrow. "The trailer park?"

"I need to speak with someone."

"Who would you know in West Lake?"

"I know people." I half-heartedly huffed. That incredulous expression was still stamped on his face so I figured I should offer a better explanation before the wrinkles set in and aged him before his time. "But this particular person is a person of interest in my latest investigation."

He listened as I regaled him with the whole bizarre tale. From Trudy asking me to find Peter, to Peter allegedly killing her, to my conversation with Karen.

When I was done he leaned against my doorway and scratched at his chin. "So you really think it's a good idea to antagonize a former crack-head."

"She wasn't a crack-head...she was a meth-head."

"Not much difference as far as I've seen," he said with a shrug.

"What's the deal with everyone and West Lake?"

"It's not the safest neighborhood. Somebody gets shot out there every week."

"Do you spend much time in sketchy neighborhoods?" I said with an insolent curl of my lip.

"More than you." Touché

I stood up straighter and asserted my position like the boss-lady I was. "I'm not unaware of the situation. She knows something and I'm going to try again."

"Well, okay then. It's your business."

"Exactly."

"I'm sure you can handle yourself."

"Thank you."

I grabbed my purse from the drawer and waited for him to grab the trash, then I followed behind him flicking off the lights as I went. Once I'd locked up he trailed behind me as I walked to my car.

"I hate to ask," he said. "But can you give me a ride to the boarding house? I missed the bus."

"You know I'm going to West Lake-"

"It's okay, I can wait in the car."

What's this, now? Johnny trying to scam his way into my investigation? Usually, I have to trick him into helping me. And if that is what he's doing, he'll probably find some reason to follow me when I talk to Karen too.

"Fine." Safety in numbers, I guess. "But we're listening to the radio station of my choice on the way."

He raised his hands in concession, "As long as it's not Bluegrass. The guy who drives the One-sixteen loves bluegrass."

"Prepare yourself, mere mortal, for nothing but the music of the Gods." He blinked in confusion, so I helped him remember the greatest musical genre of all time. "Motown, of course."

"Alright," he said with his trademarked scowl. "I guess I can live with that."