Keeper of Crows (Keeper of Crows #1)(2)

“Those are interesting terms, especially in that order. If you open up a little, I can better judge their accuracy.” He tried to smile and then glanced over my head at the clock again.

“If you really want me to open up…” I trailed my fingers over my thighs and spread my legs wider.

He quickly removed his eyes from my skin and stared at the documents in front of him. Clearing his throat, he remained professional. “I’m not going down this road with you, Carmen, so let’s discuss something else so our time is not wasted.”

Would I really spread my legs for an old man? No, but seeing Doc squirm a little was priceless.

“Tell me about your relationship with your father.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“He’s an influential man, powerful. I’m sure his choice to run for office made your life different; more difficult, maybe.” Doc cleared his throat. “When he brought you here, he mentioned an incident with the paparazzi right before your accident.”

Well, wasn’t Father just the proponent of airing dirty laundry—as long as it wasn’t his. “There isn’t much to tell, really.”

“Try.” He began tapping his pen. My teeth raked together.

Hell, why not? Maybe if I talk a little, he’ll let me out of here early.

“I was never beaten or abused. Father worked long hours when he was CEO of Lyta Pharmaceuticals, and now he’s running for President. He thinks his connections and money can buy him a one-way ticket into the White House, and according to the latest poll numbers, he might be right.”

“What about your mother? How did you feel about her?”

“Do,” I corrected.

“Pardon?” he asked, sitting up straight.

“How do I feel about my mother, is the question you should have asked. She might be dead, but she’s still a part of me. I love her. She had problems, but who doesn’t? She dealt with a lot of bullshit from my father, and in the end, she was too weak to endure it all. End of story.”

Doc shifted in his seat, glancing at his papers again. Maybe he had copies of Psychiatry for Dummies under there. A checklist for crazies.

“Tell me about their marriage.”

“It wasn’t bad in the beginning. At least, she said it wasn’t. But over time, Father changed. She wasn’t enough for him, apparently, because he began sleeping with other women. She always managed to forgive him for all the bad things he did, even though he never apologized for hurting her. He didn’t care. Father only cares about one person in this world. It wasn’t my mother, and it sure as hell isn’t me.”

“He brought you here to help you. That sounds like he does care.”

“Oh,” I smiled, “he cares—about his public image.”

He dug his heels in. “Tell me about your mother’s addiction and how it affected you,” he said sternly. “Addiction can be hereditary. There are studies to suggest it.”

Doc stared at me intently. I wondered how badly he wanted to glance up at the wall to see if the session time was up. Why he didn’t ask more questions about my father blew my mind. Everyone always wanted to know about the private life of the great Warren Kennedy; his habits, secrets, and scandals, but Mother and I were usually just background noise to all of his indiscretions. But, since he asked about her, I’d answer. She deserved that much.

“First of all, I make my own decisions and Mom made hers. I can empathize with her, though. Mom loved to look at the bottom of liquor bottles. It was her repeated goal in life to find them. She stared at them like she was looking through a kaleidoscope, but she never found any pretty rainbows at the end. She would chuck the empty bottle into the trash and start searching again.”

“How’d she die?” He already knew, but he wanted me to use my words.

“She took too many sleeping pills with her vodka.”

My mother liked to drown her sorrows. I liked to snort mine. The difference between me and my mom? She knew what she was doing when she ended it. She knew what to take and how quickly it would kill her. She died with a suicide note addressed to me curled in her cold, stiff fingers.

“Were you the one to find her?”

“No,” I answered simply.

Thank God. I couldn’t have handled seeing her like that. My father was busy fucking his girlfriend across town, and I was out partying when she died. The staff didn’t find her until the next morning. When they called him to come home, he told them, ‘Why bother? She’s already dead, and I need to eat breakfast.’ At least, that was what our maid told me. I believed her.

“Were you home the night she passed away?”

“No.” I shifted in my seat.

“Where were you?”

“With a friend.”

“Who told you what had happened to her?” he asked, brows raised in expectation. This was probably better than reality TV for him.

“My father told me when I got home.” My cell phone had died sometime during the night. I’d found a guy at the bar to go home with, so when I finally rolled in the next afternoon, Father told me very bluntly, ‘Your mother is dead. She killed herself and left you this. I suggest you take her advice unless you want to end up just like her.’

He’d read my fucking note. He didn’t ask whether I wanted to be in her shoes. I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat. But guilt ate at me all the same. Mom was dead, I was alone, and it could have been prevented. If I cared enough to stay home, if I stopped partying and sleeping my way through the worthless guys in Beverly Hills, I’d have been there and might have been able to save her. I could have called 9-1-1.