Page 37 of Victorious

But as far as he knew, they were not here for him.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “I’m sure you understand. The laws of confidentiality endure, even in the event of the patient’s death. Even if I wanted to discuss my sessions with Mr. Barnett—”

“I understand,” she cut in, sounding apologetic. “And I wouldn’t be here if I had another choice. But I don’t.” She glanced past him into the empty house. “All I ask is that you hear me out. I’ve heard that is the work of most great therapists, isn’t it?” Her mouth twitched. “To listen.”

The moment hung suspended like a net.

“All right,” he said at last, forcing himself to step aside. “Come in.”

She glided across the threshold. The man behind her followed but stopped just inside the door. The woman didn’t stop at the sofa. She drifted all the way to the back wall, pausing before the floor-to-ceiling glass.

“What a view,” she breathed.

Gabriel followed her gaze. “Yes,” he said. “My family would have liked it.”

There hadn’t been enough of Ian and Iris to bury, but he’d taken a handful of ash from each and scattered it among the flowers.

He blinked, dragging his attention back, and saw that she was watching him.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” She sounded like she meant it.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“Please.”

He made his way into the kitchen, wishing he’d chosen a house with more doors, instead of one with such an open floor plan. As the coffee brewed, he busied his hands with milk and sugar, arranging them neatly on a tray.

“You seem to be healing well,” she said.

“Humans wear grief in different ways,” he said. “Some shrink away from anything that causes pain. Others feel compelled to lean into the bruise.”

“I wasn’t attempting to comment on your mental state, Dr. Gray. Only your physical one. Having read the report, it’s a miracle you walked away.”

“Most miracles involve less internal bleeding.”

“And yet, you’re here.”

“I am.”

He carried the tray with careful steps. She met him halfway, and relieved him of it, setting the tray on the ottoman.

He’d made three cups, but the man by the front door made no move to join them.

He gestured for her to sit. She perched on the very edge of the sofa, taking the coffee with her. He lowered himself into a nearby chair. Couldn’t help but notice the configuration, so like therapist and patient, at the beginning of a session.

Without thinking, he adjusted his glasses, and began to roll up his sleeves.

“Now. What can I do for you, Miss…?”

“Director,” she corrected gently. “Helena Roy.”

“Director of what?”

She flashed a tight smile and sipped her coffee. Then changed tack.

“Paul Barnett broke into your house the same night it collapsed, correct?”

Gabriel nodded. “His body was found among the wreckage.”