Page 44 of 2 Sisters Murder Investigations

“Jeez,” I said.

“Gross,” Baby decided.

“Lucky he’s not a neurosurgeon, since he can’t keep his mind on his job,” I said. “Pretty wordy texts. That was a real love letter. I mean, who doesn’t want to hear that they’re driving someone to distraction?”

“She’s wordy too.” Baby scrolled. “I guess you’ve got to be when you’re stepping out on someone. Risky to call. Gotta text all the time.”

“Actually, it’s riskier to text,” I said. “Leaves a trail. Though it’s useful for us. When was that message from?”

“Three months ago.”

“What are the messages like after the lottery win?”

Baby scrolled. I watched a puffy-eyed woman in a floral dress leave Alex’s clinic and walk down the hill past our car. She tucked a fistful of used tissues into her handbag.

“Lots ofWe need to talks,” Baby said.

“From Alex or from Daisy?” I asked.

“Both,” she said. “When things are good, they write about it. When they’re bad, they talk about it. So they don’t say anything they’ll regret in writing.”

“Listen to the armchair psychologist over here.” I sighed. “Let’s go talk to the real one.”

We got out and walked up to the house. There was a brass nameplate bolted above the knocker with Dr. Brindle’s name and title stamped on it. I could see just inside the door the usual paraphernalia of a clinic trying to masquerade disarmingly as a family home — potted plants, generic knickknacks, inspirational quotes in brushed white frames.

A curvy Black woman with red-framed eyeglasses opened the door.

“We’re here to see Dr. Alex Brindle,” I said. “Is he in?”

“I’m Alex Brindle.” She smiled at me, then at Baby. “Are you two my eleven o’clock couples session?”

Baby’s lips quirked. I found myself hitting high revs to try to keep up.

“No, we’re not a couple. I’m Rhonda Bird.” Brindle and I shook hands. “We’re here about Daisy Hansen.”

I’d never seen a person’s demeanor flip so quickly. Brindle’s hand shrank in mine, and her posture stiffened; her lips pressed tight against her teeth. Her eyes searched mine.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

When I didn’t answer, Dr. Brindle let go of my hand and gripped the door frame. “Oh God, I’ve killed her. I’ve killed her. I’ve killed her.”

CHAPTER50

ALEX BRINDLE’S LEGS WEREso wobbly, she barely made it to a big beige armchair in the room at the front of the house. I had to help her there. Baby stayed outside to tell the actual eleven o’clock couple who had just arrived that the doctor was unexpectedly indisposed.

I watched the psychologist crying in her armchair and tried to keep a neutral-to-sympathetic expression on my own face while I determined if her behavior was genuine. I decided that the tears were real. But the wordsI’ve killed herrang in my ears, and I was impatient to find out what she’d meant.

“Do her parents know?” she asked.

“If they don’t, they will soon,” I said, sitting down on the couch across from the therapist. “The police are doing their best to inform them before the internet breaks the news.”

Brindle sucked in a deep breath, looking like she wanted to gag.

“How did she ... I mean, did they ... did they find ... ”

“They found her body this morning. They’ll be doing an autopsy soon.”

“Oh Jesus.” Brindle put her face in her hands.

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