Good enough for me. I leave her bedroom. Leave her home.
Leave her life.
I walk the few yards to my own townhome and enter, pull my phone out of my pocket, and call Peter.
“It’s Jason,” I say to his voicemail. “I’ll agree to the mental health assessment. I’ll do whatever I have to. I need this surgery, Pete. I need to cut again.”
Later, after I’ve had a pizza for dinner—along with a couple glasses of bourbon—my phone buzzes.
It’s Pete.
“Hey,” I say into the phone.
“I got your message. Dr. Steel can see you tomorrow.”
I wince at the name. “Does it have to be Dr. Steel?”
“She’s the best, and she came a long way to help us out. Her husband is quite ill, but she still made the time.”
Her husband? That’s Angie’s uncle, Jonah Steel. “What’s wrong with her husband?”
“Cancer. Glioblastoma.”
Fuck. That’s harsh. Usually a death sentence. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Apparently he’s responding well to experimental treatment. They’re cautiously optimistic.”
Experimental treatment? Oh, yeah? Did his hospital make him jump through mental-health hoops to get his experimental treatment? Fuck.
How do I tell him I may have a conflict with his choice of psychiatrist? That I happen to be fucking her niece, who is also my student?
Yeah.
Can’t very well say that.
“Do you have an issue with Dr. Steel?” Pete asks.
And again, I can’t really tell him.
“No,” I say.
“Then eleven a.m. tomorrow. Will that work for you?”
“On a Sunday?”
He clears his throat. “She doesn’t want to be away for any longer than she has to be. So yeah, tomorrow, if you can make it.”
I sigh. “Eleven, you said?”
“Yes,” he says. “You can use my office.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Jason?”
“What?”
“You sound a little off. Have you been drinking?”
