I have a vague recollection of Theodora.
From what Trish and Stacey say, she’s nice enough. Listens the way a therapist would listen. Offers support, clarity.
I’m not sure why the attorneys think this is such a good idea, that I speak to her.
I finish breakfast and am led into the interrogation room, the same room where I’d met with Silas and Mercury and the lawyers, and there she is.
“Mr. Wilson?” She stands and extends her hand. “Theodora Menchy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I shake her hand and nod. “Hello,” I say.
We shuffle toward seats at the table, positioned opposite each other. I’m not sure what to say, or whether there are people on the other side of that two-way mirror.
She senses my question and nods toward it.
“Full disclosure,” she says, opening her briefing folder. “My team is on the other side of that wall, as is Silas. I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding.”
Well, I guess that answers that question. “Did they know you were about to tell me that?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “This isn’t exactly covert. We’re here to understand and hear your story. I am sorry we didn’t get the chance to meet last time I was in town. Do you know anything about that?”
I laugh. “I knew you were here,” I say. “But that was all I knew.”
“Yes, I met with Stacey, and Trish, too,” she says. “Your daughter is amazing.”
My throat catches at the mention of her name.
“So … do you know anything about my visit last time? Why I was here?”
“No,” I say.
She laughs. “I doubt that. Didn’t Ms. Moreno talk to you about seeing me or a member of my team?”
I nod. “Yes, she did. But nothing that woman has ever said has made any level of sense to me,” I tell her, a sudden surge of rage surfacing in my brain. “She was trying to tell me how to do my job. I’ll tell you what … this town’s in trouble now that she’s in charge.”
I watch as she scrawls notes in her book. She looks up at me as she writes, her eyes moving in a sort of circle. I realize at this point what I must look like – disheveled, unshaven, sweaty even. What must she be thinking, looking at me?
“What do you have against Wanda?” she asks.
I smile. What do I have against Wanda? How much time do you have, lady?
I sit back in my chair. “Well, let’s just say Wanda has always been very good at telling everyone what to do.”
Theodora chuckles. “Well, I suppose now that she’s mayor, that’s a skill she’ll be exercising on a daily basis.”
“Yep,” I say. “I imagine she’ll be good … at that part of it at least.”
She nods, puts her pen down, then crosses her arms in front of her. “We aren’t here to talk about her, though. We’re here to talk about you. You … well, you know you have some very important days coming up, yes?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say.
“How do you feel about that?”
And now she’s on my last nerve. “How do you think I feel about that? I’m sorry, what’s your name again? Theo-what? How should I be addressing you?”
She doesn’t flinch. “You can call me Dr. Menchy.”
“Fine, Dr. Menchy, how I feel about that is that it has nothing to do with me.”
I can feel my heart race. I want nothing more than to get up and pace and clear my thoughts, but if I do, I’m quite confident a cadre of badged officers will be inside this room in milliseconds.
“You seem tense, Mr. Wilson.”
“Oh, you think?” I ask. “You think I want to be here, with you, still – still! – talking about this?”
She leans in and folds her hands on the table in front of me. “No, Mr. Wilson. I don’t. So why don’t you get it over with and tell me what you’re feeling?”
I shake my head and look across the table at her and realize she bears a slight resemblance to my Stacey, which is when I realize that Stacey hasn’t been in to see me in more than a month. The tears begin to well up and suddenly I can’t control them.
“I miss my family,” I tell her, and I say that because it’s true. “I miss my work. I miss my life, and I don’t know what is going to happen.”
She nods and leans back in her chair. “It’s a scary time for you.”
I glance across the table. “It is,” I tell her.
“Why are you scared? What do you think is going to happen?”
I laugh and look her straight in the eye. “Armand is locked up, ready to spin up some tale or another. There are umpteen witnesses from the boat that night that believe in their bones I was out to get Carson. And now John is back in town, and he seems to think I confessed to killing Mick.”
“Mr. Wilson, you did confess to killing Mick.”
“How do you know?” I ask. “You weren’t there.”
She wasn’t there. She doesn’t know. She wasn’t in that car that day, driving to Cornell with a body part in the car. All she knows is what other people say.
The doctor sits up in her chair, arms once again crossed in front of her.
“Tell me about Armand. How did you two meet?”
Oh my God. Must I relive this?
“At the racetrack. I had some bets down, I got a little behind. He hired me to be private security at a few of his games … you know, work off the debt.”
“And that was it?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Look – doctor – you know that wasn’t it. You know there was more to it than that. Otherwise, why would I be here?”
Dr. Menchy inhales sharply. “You know why you’re going to trial in a few weeks, yes?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You know you’ll be tried for murder, attempted murder, and illegal gambling, that Armand was taking a cut off the top of the house?”
I nod. “Yes. What’s your point?”
She laughs. “My job today was to be sure you knew what you were up against and be sure you were of sound mind to stand trial,” she says. “Seems to me this is a go on all fronts.”
With dramatic flourish, she closes her pen, then her folder, and stands up.
“I wish you the best, Mr. Wilson. I’ll see you again soon.”
“You will?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “We aren’t done yet.”
Just as she walks out, Silas steps into the room.
“Let’s go, Paul.”
I stand, too emotionally spent to even acknowledge him or the deputy holding the cuffs, standing in front of me. I hold out my hands.
This, it seems, is the way the world begins to end. Not with a bang, but with a licensed therapist and handcuffs.
Gunnar Olafsson