Page 1 of Captive

1

Angie

The big chairnearly swallows me as I sit back against the cushions. My hands smooth over the supple leather. The feel of the cool upholstery sends a deep shiver through me, deep enough that Dr. Hoffman doesn't notice. My eyes drift shut and I imagine the soft leather cuffs around my wrists andankles.

"Detective Tennyson?" Hoffman's voice pierces my languid thoughts. Her voice is slightly nasal with that calm, controlled undertone that every psych student learns before receiving their fancy printed certificate declaring them fit to heal minds—warped minds, lost minds, broken minds.Mymind doesn't fit neatly into one but allthree.

I open my eyes. Hoffman, a woman who could be forty or fifty, her lack of expression makes it hard to know, is wearing a bright pink scarf that doesn't go with the rest of her tightly conservative look, a straw colored pantsuit and hair pulled so severely into a ponytail it pulls her eyes up at the corner. In the dull confines of her office, she seems the quintessential psychiatrist, stone faced, non-judgmental, never a hair out of place, but something tells me, at home she struts around in faded sweatpants, snapping gum loudly while she sips beer from abottle.

I tilt my head at her. "I'll bet that hair band comes out the second you walk those sensible shoes through your frontdoor."

Hoffman smiles in response and adjusts the yellow notepad on her lap. "Detective Tennyson—" She starts again but pauses. "Should I call you Tennyson or Angie?" Another pause and she seems to have a moment of awkward shyness before speaking again. "Or may I call you Ten? I understand that's what they callyou—"

"Whatever works for you," I say, but think having her call me Ten, my nickname on the force, will soundstrained.

"I like Angie," she says seemingly satisfied about reaching a decision. "I once had a friend named Angie. We used to spend every Friday night at each other's houses watching movies and talking about boys." Hoffman wiggles her bottom some before sitting back farther on the chair. Her moment of childhood reverie ends abruptly, and she lobs the firstzinger.

"Tell me about the Lace Underground,Angie."

My pulse skips into overdrive. After two nightmarish months of withdrawals followed by a month of what was lightly referred to as debriefing, weeks of having details and memories squeezed from my mind like water wrung from a dishtowel, I was finally free to discuss the Underground. I'd waited for the day as much as I'd dreaded it. And it seemed that inside Hoffman's outdated office with its green walls, tan carpeting and floral drapes, that day hadarrived.

Only now, I wasn't ready for it. I wasn't ready to peel that sore openagain.

I glance around. "Your office reminds me of my Aunt Clara's house, the way it looked when I was a kid." I rub the soles of my shoes over the rug. "Her carpet was the same color." I look up expecting to see disappointment in her expression. It's there but still behind the stone mask. "Her walls were the same green. Only she had this really creepy collection of ceramic clowns sitting on a shelf. She loved those things." Hoffman waits for me to continue, so I do, happy to have the earlier topic dropped. "One day my cousin, Lori, and I were using pillows as shields. We were beautiful princesses moonlighting as brave knights, and we were in hot pursuit of a dragon. The couch was our drawbridge. Lori threw her shield at our invisible prey and Phinneas the Clown, my aunt's favorite, naturally, shot off the shelf and broke into a million pieces. My cousin broke down in sobs, so I took the heat forit."

"That was valiant of you," she says and makes a note of something on herpad.

I shrug. "I was playing the part of a brave knight. Guess it rubbedoff."

"Do you still see yourcousin?"

"She stopped chasing dragons and started chasing boys. Literally." I drum my fingers on the arm of the chair, a habit I inherited from my dad. "She followed her boyfriend to Alaska. She's happy, I guess. As happy as you can be in a place where it's either windy, snowing ordark."

More light scribbles on her notepad. I wonder briefly if she's just doodling. I sure would be with the boring shit I'm bringingup.

Hoffman takes a not so sneaky peek at the small timer she has on the table. She's like everyone else. It's a job and she's waiting to go home and yank on those sweatpants and pull that cold beer from thefridge.

"Tell me more about your family," she says. "You have three brothers,right?"

We are at the prying into the family connections part of the session. I'm good with it. Better than othersubjects.

"Luke and Keith are older than me, and Everett is twenty-four, one yearyounger."

"Do you see them much?" She stops and seems to wish she could pull the question back in. But she is a pro. She recovers. "Of course I mean before this." Her recovery is rougher than I expect. "Since before you went on assignment," she addsunnecessarily.

"They live in different states with families and jobs. I see them and Mom atChristmas."

She reflects so long over each question, it makes me feel like a fragile porcelain doll. It annoys the hell out ofme.

"Your dad died when you were fourteen?" she asks, againunnecessarily.

"Yes." I stare blankly back at her, and she gazes back expectantly. I grin faintly to let her know that my answer iscomplete.

Hoffman's lip twitches the tiniest bit in disappointment. She regroups by shuffling her notepad and tapping her chin with herpen.

"Let's get back to my first question. What can you tell me about the LaceUnderground?"

I fiddle with the zipper on my sweatshirt and sense that Hoffman is getting impatient. I lift my face to her. She has hazel eyes. They are bloodshot around the edges. I wonder if she's been binge watching something after work hours, when she's lounging in her gray sweatpants and eating microwave popcorn. Game of Thrones or Gilmore Girls, I want to ask but decide against it. After talking to broken people like me all day, I'd opt for GilmoreGirls.

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