A Guilty Mind Read Online Free PDF

He wrote her name in his notebook.
    â€œThank you, Detective, but that’s not why I called. Well, it is, but not exactly.”
    He’d expected to hear sorrow, anguish, and even anger. Instead, he found it difficult to reconcile the confident, throaty voice on the phone with what he expected from a woman whose husband had been fatally knifed in the back. “I’m listening.”
    â€œIt’s about my brother.”
    â€œYour brother?”
    â€œYes. He’s dead, too.”

 
    Chapter Five
    G EORGE GRI PPED THE heavy glass in his large hands and took a long drink. He tasted the icy vodka on his tongue and felt the cool liquid slide down his throat. He shouldn’t be drinking, but why the hell not? At least his heartbeat and breathing had returned to normal. It was that reporter, the one who used the word “homicide.” He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other explanation. Surely that look of devastation on Sandy Watson’s face could mean only one thing. Dr. Michael was gone—­murdered! How? Why? Tossing back the rest of his drink, he ordered a second. The bartender brought a fresh vodka tonic and moved down the polished oak bar.
    A large hand clapped him on the back. “Georgie, I didn’t expect to see you here after last night, ol’ buddy.” Wincing at the childish nickname, he shook hands with Fred Trenton, his boyhood friend. The burly man, wearing a collared shirt with powder-­blue slacks, plopped onto the barstool next to him. “Man, if I was you, it would have taken me two days to sleep that one off.” Nodding at the vodka tonic, he said, “Guess you’re a better man than me.”
    George raised the drink in a halfhearted gesture of cheers. It occurred to George he barely remembered seeing his friend the previous evening.
    With his bulk perched precariously on the stool, Fred rested his thick forearms on the bar. Turning to face his old chum, he asked, “Why’d you run out in such a hurry last night anyway? The party was just getting going.”
    George had only a vague memory of leaving the club. “It was getting late.”
    â€œLate?” Fred repeated. “It was only ten o’clock.”
    George shrugged, sucking on the vodka tonic. “Well, like you said, I guess I’d had enough.”
    â€œI’ll second that.” Preston Cain sat next to Fred. “You must have started into the scotch pretty early, Vandenberg. I tried to call you a cab, but you’re such a stubborn asshole, you were gone before I could stop you.”
    â€œSorry,” George said. It was true he’d begun drinking early. His session with Dr. Michael that afternoon had been rough and ended badly. Angry and disappointed in himself, George had driven to the club to drown his worries in the best bottle of scotch the place had to offer.
    â€œDoesn’t matter to me,” Preston said. “It was the manager who thought maybe you shouldn’t drive. I’m not your babysitter.”
    Raising a hand to get the bartender back, George wished they would both go away. He couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Michael. Why would someone kill him? Dr. Michael was a good man. Even in their most painful sessions, the man had always been kind and compassionate. Yet, George had to admit their most recent sessions had been difficult. The doctor pushed harder and with more urgency, and their relationship had become strained. Now, none of that mattered. Everything they’d worked toward, everything George had hoped for, was gone. There would be no more possibility of confession, no more hard decisions to make. George expected to feel some relief. Instead, he was overwhelmed with sadness. For nearly a year, George had allowed Dr. Michael to lighten his burdens. In fact, he’d welcomed the dream of confession until outside forces made the reality nearly impossible. Without Dr. Michael, those same burdens