Sacred Sins

in her head was building to a roar. “I know it was difficult.”

    “You seem to be handling it just fine.” After yanking off his jacket, he tossed it into a chair. “You don't have to apologize to me. I'm in the business, remember?”
    “Yes, of course. Listen.” She had to swallow the bubbling heat in her throat. “I'm going to have a bath.”
    “Sure, go ahead.” He walked to the liquor cabinet and reached for the vodka he'd stored. “I'm going to have a drink.”
    She didn't bother to go into the bedroom to change. When the door was closed quietly behind her, Ben heard the sound of water rushing against porcelain.
    He hadn't even known the kid, Ben told himself as he splashed vodka into a glass. There was no reason for him to feel this ugly squeeze of resentment. It was one thing to feel sorrow, pity, even anger at the useless loss of a life, a young life, but there was no reason for this helpless, shaking rage.
    She'd been so detached. So goddamned untouched.
    Just like Josh's doctor.
    The bitterness lodged deep for years swirled into his throat. Ben lifted the vodka to wash the taste away, then slammed it, untouched, onto the cabinet. Not sure what he was going to do, he went down the hall and pushed the bathroom door open.
    She wasn't in the tub.
    Like thunder, the water hit the porcelain full force, then whirled down the drain she hadn't bothered to close. Steam was rising, already sweating on the mirror. Fully dressed, using the sink for support, Tess wept violently into her hands.
    For a moment Ben stood silently in the open doorway, too stunned to go in, too shocked to close the door and leave her the privacy she'd sought.

    He'd never seen her as the helpless victim of her own emotions. In bed there were times she seemed utterly guided by her own passion. Occasionally he'd seen her temper flare, teetering briefly on full blossoming. Then she snapped it back, always. Now it was grief, and the grief was total.
    She hadn't heard him open the door. Slowly, her body rocked back and forth in a rhythm of mourning. Self-comfort. Ben's throat tightened, driving back the bitterness. He started to touch her, then hesitated. It was harder, he discovered, unbelievably harder to comfort someone who really mattered.
    “Tess.” When he did touch her, she jolted. When his arms went around her, she went board stiff. He could feel her fighting to block off the tears, and him. “Come on, you should sit down.”
    “No.” Humiliation washed through her already weakened system. She'd been caught in her lowest and most private moment, stripped naked, without the strength to cover herself. She wanted only solitude, and the time to rebuild. “Please just leave me alone for a while.”
    It hurt—her resistance, her rejection of the comfort he needed to give. It hurt enough that he started to draw away. Then he felt the shudder pass through her, a shudder more poignant, more pitiful than even the tears. In silence he moved over and shut off the tap.
    She'd uncovered her face to wrap her fingers around the lip of the sink. Her back was ramrod straight, as if she were braced to ward off a blow or a helping hand. Drenched, her eyes met his. Her skin was already streaked and reddened from tears. He didn't say a word, didn't think of the angles as he lifted her into his arms and carried her from the room.
    He expected a struggle, some fierce and furious words. Instead her body went limp as she turned her face into his throat and let herself cry.
    “He was just a child.”

    Ben sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her closer. The tears were hot on his skin, as if they had burned behind her eyes for too long. “I know.”
    “I couldn't reach him. I should have been able to. All the education, all the training, the self-analysis, the books and lectures, and I couldn't reach him.”
    “You tried.”
    “That's not good enough.” The anger sprang out, full-blown and vicious, but it didn't surprise him. He'd been waiting for it, hoping for it. “I'm supposed to heal. I'm supposed to help, not just talk of helping. I didn't just fail to complete his treatment, I failed to keep him alive.”
    “Are psychiatrists required to have godlike egos?”
    Like a slap in the face, his words jarred her away from him. In an instant she was on her feet. The tears were still drying on her face, her body still trembling, but she didn't look as though she would collapse. “How dare you say that to me? A young boy is dead. He'll