A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(6)

Lowering her gaze, she frowned at the running water. She’d been scrubbing her hands raw. How long had she been washing them? Two minutes? Three? And she’d been scraping her skin with her fingernails.

She snatched her hands away and turned off the water. Damn it. Third time this week. It got more and more frequent. To think that only a few months ago, she’d thought she’d gotten over this habit.

Maybe there was no getting over it. Maybe, like the small red patch on her neck, it was a scar that would never entirely heal.

Wiping her hands, she checked the mirror. Presentable. She patted her wavy blonde hair, making sure it covered her ears, and straightened her glasses. Her sandy complexion was a bit paler than usual, and her eyes were slightly puffy from lack of sleep. But there was nothing she could do about that right now.

She stepped out of the bathroom, checking the time. She still had an hour before the next simulation started. She walked back to her desk and sat down, then jostled the computer mouse to wake up her laptop. Lately, it had been going into sleep mode every five minutes if she didn’t move the cursor, as if the computer were the one who was sleep deprived. Maybe the computer had it right. She could try to sleep whenever no one talked to her for five minutes and only wake up if someone moved her cursor.

It almost sounded like weird sexual innuendo. How was the date last night? Did he move your cursor? Nudge, nudge.

Not that she’d gone on a date last night. She had no interest in anyone moving her cursor at the moment. She just wanted a good night’s sleep.

She yawned and focused on the screen. The transcript she was reading was dated August 2019, two months before. It was a conversation between Sergeant Gutierrez, one of the NYPD’s hostage negotiators, and a man who had barricaded himself in his ex-wife’s apartment, threatening to shoot himself. The man, thanks to Gutierrez’s efforts, hadn’t killed himself or anyone else.

A big part of Abby’s job was to dissect the transcript, figure out what Gutierrez did right and what he did wrong. Then she would incorporate it into the protocols and training material. She was in charge of the department’s crisis intervention course as well as the training of the force’s hostage negotiators. She had, in fact, trained Gutierrez.

She skimmed over the pages, noting approvingly how Gutierrez had managed to keep the man talking for over two hours. It had taken an hour and a half for Gutierrez to start nudging the subject softly, letting the man convince himself to unlock the door and hand his gun to the cops.

After a while, she found herself reading the same line over and over again, her brain not even registering the words. She sighed, minimizing the transcript window. Leaning back, she rotated her neck gently, letting her hands drop to the sides of her body. If only they had a masseuse in the office. Just a nice woman who’d walk by every hour or so and give your shoulders a relaxing massage. She glanced at the framed photo on her desk, Ben and Sam smiling at her. Well, Ben was smiling, and Sam was doing that thing she did when told to smile for the camera. A sort of grimace, not unlike the face she’d make if electrocuted.

Abby straightened the photo. Went over some paperwork on her desk, reshuffling it. Tried the four pens in her pen holder, verifying they all worked. Watered her succulent plant with her water bottle. Her very own procrastination ritual. Then, almost compulsively, she double-clicked an icon on the laptop’s desktop, opening another transcript. This document was older, a scanned handwritten report. It was shorter than the Gutierrez transcript. Much shorter. And she knew it by heart. She skimmed it, reading fragments of sentences as if this time they might be different.

. . . a gun pointed at my head. He says if you come closer, he will shoot. He says you should stay back.

. . . put him on the phone?

. . . together in the dining hall. All sixty-two . . .

Hearing footsteps behind her, she guiltily closed the document and turned around. One of the instructors walked by, smiling at her distractedly. Abby smiled back, her cheeks flushed as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

And perhaps she really shouldn’t have.

She tried to get back to work, but couldn’t focus. The skin on the back of her hands stung from the recent abuse. She should really buy some cream for that. Though that would only cement the problem. It would be better to just stop doing it.

Her phone blipped, and she glanced at the message. It was her friend Isaac. How was last night? Better?

She sighed and tapped back, Ben didn’t wake me up tonight, but I had to answer a call. I’m exhausted.

I’m sorry :( anything serious?

Yes, but it ended well

Oh, good. Did you see the new forum post?

Her interest was piqued. Checking it now

She opened the browser, then logged into the support forum. She and Isaac had both been members for years. She checked it daily, rarely participating herself. She wasn’t there for the support. She was there for information.

A new user had joined the forum. Like many others, she wasn’t sure she was in the right place. After all, the forum was for cult survivors. And she wasn’t really in a cult. At least, she didn’t think so. It was a dedicated group, the woman explained, and the guy who managed it had become difficult. Abby read the post about the so-called-group, whose goal was to follow and spread some sort of revolutionary diet. The woman detailed the increasing demands for their loyalty. The punishments for perceived disloyalty or other infractions, which became more and more severe. The pressure to donate money to the group. The woman had been encouraged to cut connections to family and friends, who were a “distraction.” And then came the pressure to give more and more of her time. Until she lost her job.