Read Online Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) by Sarah Lovett - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Lovett
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cornered, instantly exposed, as if he'd been spying on her. She dropped the envelope.
He continued, "Sorry about the connection, but I'm in my car." His voice was inaudible for a moment, then, "—haven't met, I felt I could call—some sort of misunderstanding. I'd like to take you to lunch so we can clear things up."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson, but we don't have anything to discuss."
Electronic snow obliterated reception for several seconds before the Duke's voice reappeared. "—love my son—a bad mistake four years ago, but—his debt."
"Mr. Watson, this phone connection is extremely poor, and this conversation is inappropriate. You're familiar with the parole process. The ultimate use of any psychological evaluation is between your son and his legal representative."
"I hear you just fine, Dr. Strange." The line was silent for a moment before Duke continued. "How's this? Can you hear me now?" He kept his voice as even as a mowed lawn. "You and I both know that you can influence my son's future."
Sylvia tried to focus from Duke Watson's perspective. He was a political animal. His criminal son had cost him votes, and worse, had stained his name. The fact that Duke had risen as high as he had was a testament to his determination, his savvy, his connections. Now, he was being groomed for the next gubernatorial race. Problem: In political circles, having a son who was labeled "crazy" was worse than having a son who had been convicted of manslaughter.
"Dr. Strange . . . are you still there?" His voice was soft.
"I'm here."
In a new, businesslike tone of voice, Duke said, "I'm asking you to drop the reclassification issue. I'll see that my son gets the care he needs, the best care possible."
Sylvia paused, considering her words. "I think I understand some of your concerns, Mr. Watson, but your personal wishes are not my business—your son's welfare is."
There was a pause while Sylvia waited for Duke Watson's response. Instead, she heard the soft click as the receiver was replaced.
She walked into the bathroom and ran a glass of water from the tap. The face staring back from the mirror looked pale, the eyes were sharp, as she considered the phone call.
Duke Watson was setting high stakes on her ability to influence his son's fate. True, Santa Fe was a small town, but Herb Burnett could bury her report so that repercussions with the parole board would be minimal. Minimal unless C.O. Anderson was right, and Lucas Watson had flipped out. Sylvia set the glass on the sink, clicked off the overhead light, and stood in the dim light.
Her heartbeat accelerated. A fine sweat broke out on her skin.
Within minutes, the anxiety subsided, but two unpleasant thoughts lingered.
The Watson family was . . .
In a word: ominous.
And she could easily get in over her head.
She crossed her office to her desk, sat, and reached for the half-opened envelope. A small package was tucked inside. Sylvia pulled back the layers of tissue, likethe petals of a flower, until a small leather pouch was revealed. It was secured by a ribbon and the leather had an oily sheen from repeated handling.
Sylvia worked the ribbon loose—using the tip of her pencil, carefully avoiding touch—and stretched the neck wide. The contents of the pouch spilled onto a sheet of white paper, and she studied the objects. There were eight: a gold wedding band, a leather thong strung through six human teeth, a tangle of hair, a smooth brown stone, a silver and turquoise cross, a bundle of delicate bones, a tiny clay figurine, a chewed stub of a blue pencil. With a shudder she recognized the pencil as the one Lucas Watson had chosen during the evaluation session. When she shook the pouch a tiny sprinkle of white chips shimmered out. At a closer look, Sylvia realized they were the clipped remains of fingernails. Still, there was something else caught in the leather, and the pouch was softly extended around the bottom edges as if a form held it in place. At first, she
He continued, "Sorry about the connection, but I'm in my car." His voice was inaudible for a moment, then, "—haven't met, I felt I could call—some sort of misunderstanding. I'd like to take you to lunch so we can clear things up."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson, but we don't have anything to discuss."
Electronic snow obliterated reception for several seconds before the Duke's voice reappeared. "—love my son—a bad mistake four years ago, but—his debt."
"Mr. Watson, this phone connection is extremely poor, and this conversation is inappropriate. You're familiar with the parole process. The ultimate use of any psychological evaluation is between your son and his legal representative."
"I hear you just fine, Dr. Strange." The line was silent for a moment before Duke continued. "How's this? Can you hear me now?" He kept his voice as even as a mowed lawn. "You and I both know that you can influence my son's future."
Sylvia tried to focus from Duke Watson's perspective. He was a political animal. His criminal son had cost him votes, and worse, had stained his name. The fact that Duke had risen as high as he had was a testament to his determination, his savvy, his connections. Now, he was being groomed for the next gubernatorial race. Problem: In political circles, having a son who was labeled "crazy" was worse than having a son who had been convicted of manslaughter.
"Dr. Strange . . . are you still there?" His voice was soft.
"I'm here."
In a new, businesslike tone of voice, Duke said, "I'm asking you to drop the reclassification issue. I'll see that my son gets the care he needs, the best care possible."
Sylvia paused, considering her words. "I think I understand some of your concerns, Mr. Watson, but your personal wishes are not my business—your son's welfare is."
There was a pause while Sylvia waited for Duke Watson's response. Instead, she heard the soft click as the receiver was replaced.
She walked into the bathroom and ran a glass of water from the tap. The face staring back from the mirror looked pale, the eyes were sharp, as she considered the phone call.
Duke Watson was setting high stakes on her ability to influence his son's fate. True, Santa Fe was a small town, but Herb Burnett could bury her report so that repercussions with the parole board would be minimal. Minimal unless C.O. Anderson was right, and Lucas Watson had flipped out. Sylvia set the glass on the sink, clicked off the overhead light, and stood in the dim light.
Her heartbeat accelerated. A fine sweat broke out on her skin.
Within minutes, the anxiety subsided, but two unpleasant thoughts lingered.
The Watson family was . . .
In a word: ominous.
And she could easily get in over her head.
She crossed her office to her desk, sat, and reached for the half-opened envelope. A small package was tucked inside. Sylvia pulled back the layers of tissue, likethe petals of a flower, until a small leather pouch was revealed. It was secured by a ribbon and the leather had an oily sheen from repeated handling.
Sylvia worked the ribbon loose—using the tip of her pencil, carefully avoiding touch—and stretched the neck wide. The contents of the pouch spilled onto a sheet of white paper, and she studied the objects. There were eight: a gold wedding band, a leather thong strung through six human teeth, a tangle of hair, a smooth brown stone, a silver and turquoise cross, a bundle of delicate bones, a tiny clay figurine, a chewed stub of a blue pencil. With a shudder she recognized the pencil as the one Lucas Watson had chosen during the evaluation session. When she shook the pouch a tiny sprinkle of white chips shimmered out. At a closer look, Sylvia realized they were the clipped remains of fingernails. Still, there was something else caught in the leather, and the pouch was softly extended around the bottom edges as if a form held it in place. At first, she
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