That was interesting. She understoodnow why Maitland had left her the file. It was exactly the kind of case shewould have worked on before. The kind of case that Shelley would have heardabout and put their names in for, if Maitland hadn’t thought of it before.Signs and symbols, equations, strange clues that seemed to elude theunderstanding of the average agent. It was exactly her kind of thing.
And it was almost refreshing, in away. Having the numbers work on something that actually mattered—the thing thatshe had made her life’s work. Looking for connections and clues, solving amurder. It felt good that they were crowding her with information about a case,not just the dimensions of her apartment and everything in it. A relief.
That didn’t mean she was going towork on it—but she was intrigued. Intrigued enough to want to know more, evenif that meant going to see Maitland herself. Maybe she could stave off thenumbers a little while longer, give them something else to focus on. Maybe justfor five minutes she could feel like herself again.
First, there was something evenmore important she was going to have to do—otherwise she would not be able tomake it to the J. Edgar Hoover Building at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Zoe kept her eyes straight ahead, focusedon the back of the car in front of her. The drive had so far been difficult. Itwas hard to concentrate on keeping the vehicle on the road when you couldn’tstop analyzing license plates, exhaust fumes, keeping track of the number ofcars you’d seen of each color, make, and model, getting glimpses of people inthe seats with all their different measurements and calculations. Somehow, she’dmade it this far, partly by focusing on obsessively maintaining the precisesame speed for as much of the journey as possible.
The street she had ended up on wasfamiliar enough. Zoe knew these buildings, knew which one was a floor higherthan the others, which had developed a slight five-degree lean as itsfoundations subsided, and what time it was by the angle of the sun across thesidewalk. She had been here enough times to have made all of those calculationsmany times before, and as she looked around, seeing them floating in front ofher eyes again, she was just about able to push through them to remember whyshe was here in the first place.
She found a parking space justoutside, which was a miracle in itself. Zoe paused to look at herself in thecar’s rearview mirror, leaning forward to examine her own face. She was stillpale and her eyes were still ringed with black, but at least it was a slightimprovement from earlier. A shower and smarter clothing had made a difference,even if it was only on the outside.
The inside was another thingaltogether. It couldn’t be scrubbed clean in a shower.
She found the will somehow to pushherself up out of her seat, opening the door and stepping out onto thesidewalk. Then she focused her gaze on the office building she was there for,keeping her eyes on the doorway and the dimensions that sprung out of nowhereinto her sight, following them inside.
Dr. Lauren Monk’s office was onthe third floor. She saw patients there, usually at set times, and though Zoehadn’t booked an appointment for today, she had called ahead to make sure the doctorwould be available.
Dr. Monk was sitting at her deskwith the door open on the waiting room, showing that she was free. Zoe steppedthrough the brightly lit space, decorated in primary colors of red, yellow, andblue, and straight into the therapy room, where a familiar well-worn leatherarmchair beckoned. Zoe ignored it and remained standing, managing to drag hereyes up to meet Dr. Monk’s face as the doctor looked back.
If she was regarding her with anykind of expression, Zoe could not tell. All she could see was the dimensions:the distance between her eyes, the angle of her brows, the length of eachindividual hair, crowded throughout her vision so tightly that there was noroom for Zoe to see the human face underneath. All she knew was that Dr. Monkhad not changed anything about herself in the couple of months since Zoe hadseen her last, when she’d been released from her regular appointment becauseshe no longer needed it. She was still the same, with her dark bobbed hair cutin a pleasingly straight edge and the same beauty mark half an inch above theright side of her mouth.
“It’s good to see you again, Zoe,”Dr. Monk said, rising from behind her desk. She habitually sat opposite theleather armchair during sessions, facing the patient with nothing in betweenthem. “It’s been weeks.”
“I did not want to make anotherappointment,” Zoe said, crossing her arms tightly across her own chest. “Youtold me I was doing better.”
“You were,” Dr. Monk said softly.She crossed around in front of the desk to stand directly facing Zoe. “Butgrief can derail even the most successful of rehabilitations. It can make ourcoping strategies seem ineffective, or that there’s no point in following themanymore. After the death of someone close to you, it’s normal to need a bitmore help.”
Zoe tried to see past the numbersto read Dr. Monk’s expression again, but couldn’t. “I thought I had it undercontrol.”
Dr. Monk’s posture softened andrelaxed, the angles of her shoulders decreasing and smoothing out. “I want youto make another appointment, Zoe. Sometime very soon. As soon as you’re ableto, in fact.”
“Okay.” Zoe took a breath. “Thatis not why I am here.”
Dr. Monk nodded slowly. “I can seethat you’re experiencing something very difficult. Can you tell me how you’vebeen sleeping?”
“Not much.” Zoe shrugged. “Latenights, late mornings. Alcohol helps. But then I feel tired. Nap during the daysometimes.”
Dr. Monk nodded again, faster thistime. Four times, as if to herself. “I suspect that
