Bound by Suggestion by L.L. Bartlett Read Free Book Online

moments. “Can I get you something?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “A glass of white wine, please,” she said.
    He nodded and disappeared.
    “Nice place.” Oh that golden repartee of mine.
    “It’s a quiet place to unwind,” she agreed, leaning back and crossing her shapely legs. They were bare and tanned—from a vacation or a tanning bed?
    I looked away, feeling out of place. Why would this woman ever be interested in me—beyond mere curiosity, that is? I thought about my working class mother who’d married above her station, desperately trying to live that life, and not succeeding, either. But then this wasn’t a date. It was a talk. That made it safe. No commitment—no expectations.
    The wine arrived and Krista sank deeper in her seat. “So, what made you decide to call me?” she asked, a soft Southern lilt to her voice that I hadn’t noticed before.
    “Let’s just say I gave it some thought and decided to listen to what you had to say.”
    “I’m interested in this ability you have to feel emotions for people.”
    “Not for them. I experience what they feel. Sometimes I get insight, sometimes I don’t. You said this patient of yours doesn’t feel emotions.”
    “That’s what she tells me.”
    “And you want me to meet her and see if she’s lying?”
    “I was hoping you could help her unlock the emotions she’s suppressing.”
    “You said she was abused.”
    “Grace was in a car accident some time ago. She’s wheelchair bound and has lived in an assisted-living facility for the last five years. The state’s been remiss on background checks on its new employees.”
    “What was it? Fondling? Rape?”
    “Both. She’s developed a severe distrust of all men.”
    “How old is she?”
    “Twenty-three.”
    Jesus.
    Back off, my gut said. But as I looked into Krista’s concerned eyes, I found myself interested.
    “The insurance company’s finally settled and Grace would like to leave the home and move into a more independent living situation. It would be good for her, but she hasn’t worked through her anger. That’s where you come in. I’m not expecting miracles. Although, from what I’ve seen—”
    “Look, Krista, I can’t read everybody I meet.”
    “Then you’d be willing to try?”
    My stomach tensed. I took a fortifying sip of beer. “I—I suppose I could. When?”
    “Her next appointment is Tuesday at ten o’clock.”
    “Have you already spoken to her about this?”
    “Yes. She’s willing to meet you.”
    Done deal? She’d been pretty damned sure of herself.
    “Then what?” I asked.
    “We all . . . talk. Get to know each other.”
    A shiver of revulsion ran through me. Back off! my gut warned louder.
    “Do you mind if we try something now?” Krista asked, and fumbled with her purse, taking out a deck of Rhine’s cards—the universal, stereotypical test for psychics—made up of five different shapes: square, circle, wavy line, cross, and star.
    “No, please.”
    “I just want to prove to myself that you can’t read me. Will you humor me?”
    I glanced around the nearly empty bar. “These aren’t laboratory conditions. You’ll never get it in a journal, if that’s what you hope.”
    “I’ll look at the card and try to transmit to you what it is I see.”
    I leaned back in my chair, trying to quell my anger.
    Krista cupped the first card in her hand, held it to her forehead and closed her eyes. “What shape am I thinking about.”
    I stared at the table in front of me. Saw condensation on my beer glass. Felt like an asshole.
    “I’m not getting anything, and I wish you’d put them away. You’re embarrassing me.”
    Nonplused, she shrugged, put the card back in the pack. “It was a triangle.” She returned them to her purse and took out a photograph, her steady gaze assessing me. “Will you let Grace try?”
    She handed me a color snapshot. The girl—young woman, I had to remind myself—looked about fourteen. Her thin, twisted limbs and the tilt of her