Besides, he wasn’t going to have time to start a new project right now—this search for Peter Sutter would likely soak up most of his spare time for the next few weeks. Not that he was daunted by the task. In fact, it felt good to be helping his sister and actually doing something. Still, he planned to reach out to an acquaintance this weekend, an FBI agent who was a friend of a friend, to see if he had any suggestions about ways to make the search for Sutter easier.
He stacked the boxes in the closet in his master bedroom, thinking that a trip to the storage room might be in order. While shifting things around to make more room, he pulled out the box his mom had given him, the one with his dad’s things. He held it for a moment, debating, then set it down on his bed and opened it.
It was a mixture of stuff—photographs, some school yearbooks, an old stamp collection he remembered his dad showing him when he was a kid. Wrapped in tissue paper was a picture frame, one that held a photograph of him and his father at the Illinois football game on Dad’s Weekend his junior year of college.
He remembered that day well. His fraternity had been tailgating in the stadium parking lot, and his dad had commandeered the grill, joking around with all Ford’s fraternity brothers and the other fathers as he cooked up burgers and brats. He’d been in a good mood then, the life of the party, hamming it up for the crowd and proudly sharing his grilling secrets.
One flip. You gotta let the meat do its thing.
Two hours and six beers later, he was “asked” by security to leave the stadium after starting a fight with an equally drunk fan of the visiting team.
Ford set the picture frame aside. He dug a little deeper into the box and smiled when he found something else—a model rocket he and his dad had built together when he was nine.
Ah, now that had been a great day.
He pulled the rocket out of the box, turning it in his hands and recalling the weekend he and his dad had spent building and painting it with painstaking care. Afterward, they’d launched it in the field next to their townhome, and all the neighborhood kids had gathered around to watch as it flew over five hundred feet into the air. His dad had high-fived him when the parachute released, and then the two of them had stood in the grass, his dad’s arm over his shoulders, watching as the rocket floated gracefully to the ground and landed without a scratch.
Clearing his throat, Ford set the rocket aside and repacked the rest of his dad’s things into the box. While stacking it in the closet, he realized he’d left one small box in his bathroom, the new towel rack he’d planned to install. He went into the bathroom to grab it and heard the sound of running water coming from the other side of the wall.
Victoria was filling her tub.
He shook his head. What was with this woman and her damn baths? Was she part mermaid? He could just picture her right then, pouring herself another one of her “nice, jammy” zinfandels as she waited for the tub to fill. Probably piling her long, chestnut hair on top of her head . . . and then slowly stripping off her clothes, one item at a time. Closing her eyes in hedonistic bliss as she stepped in the tub, perhaps even moaning softly as she eased into the water and slid her hands over her naked, wet skin.
Ten feet from him.
With an irritated grunt, Ford grabbed the towel bar box and hauled it into his bedroom.
Looked like he picked the wrong day to stop hammering away his frustrations.
Twelve
HER EYES CLOSED, Victoria took a deep breath and exhaled, listening to the sound of Dr. Metzel’s voice.
“The key is to breathe from your diaphragm,” he reminded her. “Try putting one hand on your chest and the other hand on your stomach, above your waist.”
As she had when they’d first started practicing these exercises during their last session, she felt a little silly and self-conscious, sitting in his office with her hands on her chest and stomach. But according to Dr. Metzel, “diaphragmatic breathing” was the core foundation for the relaxation techniques that would help with her tiny panic problem (she still refused to call it a disorder), so she went ahead and did it anyway.
“As you inhale, the hand on your chest should move less than the hand on your stomach,” he said. “Now exhale, allowing all of the tension in your neck, shoulders, and back to drain away. Good. Remember, this is something you can do anytime you find yourself in a stressful situation. Speaking of which . . . you’re getting homework this week. I’d like you to start facing the things that trigger your panicky feelings—like the subway.”
Nervous butterflies danced in her stomach. “Are you sure I’m ready for that?”
“We’ll start slow. Pick a time when you know the subway won’t be crowded. Ride it for two stops, get off, and ride it back. And while you’re riding, here’s what I want you to do.”
Dr. Metzel walked her through another exercise, one that involved relaxing different parts of her body while silently repeating a certain phrase. I feel quiet. The muscles in my forehead are relaxed and smooth. My shoulders are loose. My legs and feet feel warm and heavy.
She studiously tried to memorize every phrase. She liked this technique—for the first time, she felt like she had a weapon in her arsenal to fight back against the anxiety issues that had been plaguing her since the break-in.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a handout that lays out all of this so you can practice on your own,” Dr. Metzel said. “If possible, I’d like you to spend fifteen minutes a day repeating this exercise.”
More homework? Good. That meant more progress. She mentally doubled the time to thirty minutes per day, thinking the faster she could whiz through these exercises, the faster she’d be back to her old footloose and panic-free self.
When they’d finished running through the exercise, she opened her eyes. “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”
Dr. Metzel smiled. “Glad to hear it.” He folded his hands on his notepad. “Now, with the time we have left, how would you feel about digging a little deeper into what might be behind these panic attacks of yours?”
Balls. She’d spoken too soon.
He must’ve seen the less-than-enthused look on her face. “It’s your choice, Victoria. But I really do think that exploring these issues would be helpful to your treatment.”
She considered this. The good doctor was smart, using her desire to be cured as fast as possible like a carrot on a stick that he dangled in front of her. So she agreed—reluctantly. “Okay.”