Chapter 23

Jane

Shutting Mr. Lambert’s door, my mind was already racing with the bad thoughts of losing Michael forever. Of hurting him and betraying his trust.

I tried to help him. Tried to give him the best shot available to him.

Holding onto those thoughts were the only thing keeping me on the razor’s edge of sanity.

Ms. Fields replacement was standing by the pine bookcase with a dark green hardcover book in his one hand, combing through it casually. He only barely shifted his face to look at me, his golden hair swaying marginally. “You are late,” he said clinically.

“Not a good day for me,” I replied, placing my butt on the blue sofa. “Can’t we just call me fashionably late?” It was difficult to put on my social mask.

“Late is late,” he insisted, breathing with an eerie calm. I hadn’t noticed that about him. How scarily serene he always seems to be, on recollection. “It sounds to me like you should start with what went wrong today,” he closed the book in one snap, shelving it back in place. Mr. Lambert then glided to that place in the room, near the end of the dark gray rug, where he would always stand.

I couldn’t wrack my brain over why that was a tic of his. Not when my world was collapsing around me.

Michael had become my rock without me even noticing. “I was approached by some people today,” I started, remembering Connifer’s rough beard. “And I made a decision that cost me... cost me someone really close to my heart.” How could I have went through with all of this...

Mr. Lambert put his hands behind his back, and when I looked into his eyes, making direct contact, it felt like there was a hint of displeasure. “I see,” he said smoothly, like most of his actions, most of his mannerisms. “This choice that you made. Do you regret it?”

“I regret a lot of choices that I’ve made,” I revealed. Loving Michael wasn’t one of them. “But not that one, not yet at least. If he hates me for what I did,” an ache formed within my chest. “Then I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to change that,” just saying the words was heartbreaking. To feel powerless. Weak. I regretted hurting him, but I thought I was doing the right thing.

Had I taken the wrong path that morning with Connifer? I anxiously fiddled with my Olivia Burton watch.

Michael could rebuild his company. Could take the position that he always wanted.

Mr. Lambert meandered over towards the chair, which had might as well be his, now. “You made this choice for love?”

“I did,” I replied. “I thought that I did.”

“You know that you did.”

“It was supposed to be me protecting him.” I was being defensive. We’re supposed to be looking out for each other; now it only feels like we want to discard one another.

Ninth circle of hell, I welcome you.

Lambert produced his brown notebook off of the black, glass coffee table. Jotting down some notes in it with the flick of his wrist and a black fountain pen.

I shut my eyes and tried to burn away the painful memories that I opened up to Michel about. Tried to bury that dark worm of a thought, about JB’s neck being snapped.

It made me sick to my stomach thinking about him laying there in my bed like that. “There’s something else, too,” I began.

“Go on.”

I played with my wrist nervously, sucking in a long breath through my nose. “I lost my dog.” Lambert’s expression was like a still glacier. “Someone broke into my place and snapped his neck.”

“Condolences,” he offered.

His level of neutrality on that privately offended me, making me awkwardly shift against the sofa. “Whoever did that to him,” I looked down to Lambert’s shoes, “I hope they get the same treatment one day,” the words came out bitter, vengeful. I knew that wasn’t the good way to go about things, but my basic instincts seemed to fuel that dark passion. “He was my good boy. My constant companion... and... I really wish he was here right now when I’m needing him the most.”

“Have you reported it to the police?” I shook my head left to right. “You will never get justice if you do not do this,” Lambert explained.

“I won’t get justice at all.”

“That is either a sense of realism, or the line of thinking of a cynic.”

My heart was sick over all of this, and my mind was weary with the thought of going back to work. I needed to cleanse myself through the company of friends.

We talked for the rest of the session, though the mood continued to be as off-putting as it started. I still hadn’t heard back from Ms. Fields, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t coming back. “So you think this is the last time we’ll meet?” I asked him, heading for the door and opening it, the waiting room outside devoid of life and light, aside from the one orange fixture on the wall.

One light in the encroaching darkness.

Lambert thought for a moment, making a humming sort of noise with his chest. “I believe so,” he finally concluded. “Either way, if Ms. Fields does not come back,” Lambert stepped closer to me, keeping himself a reasonable distance away, but closer than I would normally like from anyone. Specifically a man that wasn’t Michael. The annoying smell of mint was still evident on Lambert’s breath, summoning back my dark past. “I will be needed elsewhere,” he smiled at me, giving me a glimpse of his teeth.

“Thank you for your help, then. You’ve been good to me,” I told him, getting ready to leave. “Goodnight, Mr. Lambert.”

“Bonsoir, mon cheri.”