IRENE - BLACKBIRD book 6

2. one step deeper

Gillian stood in the middle of the large room, almost twice the size than the waiting room. Dawson had a set of couch and armchairs on one side, in front of a fireplace. His desk on the other side, heavy, old, expensive, with a spinning armchair for him and two classic chairs before it. At the end of the room, a bay window opening to a small garden shed light on the divan and the armchair by it.

Dawson moved his hand as to show her the place. "Where do you wanna do it, Regan? May I call you Regan?"

Gillian clenched her teeth. Only her mother had called her that. Nobody else ever since she'd died. Gillian wouldn't allow it. And hearing her full name in Dawson's mouth set off more hostility than she expected.

"Reg. That's what you can call me," she grunted. Computer and phone on the desk. A glassed modular with files behind it. She didn't want him close to any of it.

"Where do you want to sit, Reg?"

So soft and indulging. Let the nutjob have her way for now. She didn't expect to feel so much revulsion so soon. She nodded at the couch by the fire.

Dawson led the way and motioned for her to pick her seat. She chose an armchair while he crouched before the fireplace to stir the embers and add another log. It was a genuine fireplace, no fake wood to hide it was gas-fueled.

"So, Reg, tell me about yourself. What brings you here?"

So easily? She rested back in her armchair and forced a smile when he looked up at her from the fireplace.

"Irene brings me here."

"Irene, okay..." Dawson went to the other armchair, opposite her, and grabbed the small notebook and the pen he had ready on the coffee table. "Wanna tell me who's Irene? Is she a friend, a relative, a colleague?"

"She might as well be family by now. I've learned so much about her."

"I see." Dawson scribbled something. "So let's talk about Irene. What can you tell me about her?"

"Well, she was twenty-one..."

"Was? She's passed?"

"Yeah, unfortunately. She was murdered two weeks ago. A serial killer abducted her and tortured her with an electric prod for ten hours straight, until she died. Then he dumped her in the woods to rot."

Dawson arched his eyebrows. He didn't know how Irene had died? Maybe he didn't even know she'd died at all?

"Poor kid," he muttered. "And what was your relation to her?"

"Mine? None. I never met her."

The man looked up at her—excuse me?

Gillian shrugged. "I'm the one who caught her killer." She produced her badge and left it open on the coffee table between them as she went on. "The complete name was Irene Graff, and she was murdered while seeking her child. He was stolen by her recurrent abuser, who had gotten her pregnant in the first place. She was your patient for the last six years. Used to came here on Wednesday afternoons, about five."

Dawson's face reflected shock and fear for a heartbeat. Then he wore a dismissive mask.

"I assume this appointment was a fake to have access to me and question me about my patient?" he said, the very image of disdain.

Gillian grabbed her phone and dialed as she spoke. "Not quite. I only wanted access to you. I don't need to ask you anything about her. Your idea of her keeping a journal was good. Really helped us. The Sybil Dorsett part was a nice touch." She disconnected after the second ring. "Bad thing you failed to assess nowadays kids keep their journals online. For anyone to read."

Dawson stiffened in his seat. He was about to reply when the door opened to let Brock in. Gillian enjoyed the way Brock took long enough to come in to let Dawson see the uniform standing right outside the office. Dawson jumped to his feet, his face blushing in a furious red that almost matched his nose.

"What is this? You cannot—"

"Sit down."