Speaking in Tongues

you can’t talk—then you have less than nothing. It’s the worst kind of pain.
    The house hummed and tapped silently. A motor somewhere clicked, the computer in the next room emitted a pitch slightly higher than the refrigerator’s.
    The sounds of alone.
    Maybe she’d take a bath, Bett thought. No, that would remind her of the soap dish Megan was going to give her. Maybe—
    The phone rang. Heart racing, she leapt for it. Praying that it was Megan. Please . . . Please . . . Let it be her. I want to hear her voice so badly.
    Or at least Tate.
    But it was neither. Disappointed at first, she listened to the caller, nodding, growing more and more interested in what she heard. “All right,” she said. “Sure . . . No, a half hour would be fine . . . Thank you. Really, thank you.”
    After she hung up she dropped heavily into the couch and sipped her wine.
    Wonderful, she thought, feeling greatly relieved after talking to him for only three minutes. The caller was Megan’s other therapist—a colleague of Dr. Hanson’s, a doctor named Bill Peters, and he was coming over to speak to her about the girl. He didn’t have any specific news. But he wanted to talk to her about her daughter’s disappearance. He’d sounded so reassuring, so comforting.
    She was curious only about one thing that the doctor had said during his call. Why did he want to see her alone? Without Tate there?

III
THE DEVIL’S
ADVOCATE

Chapter Nineteen
    “When you called,” Bett McCall confessed, “I was a little uneasy.”
    “Of course,” the man said, walking into the room. Dr. Bill Peters seemed confident, comfortable with himself. He had a handsome face. His eyes latched onto Bett’s and radiated sympathy. “What a terrible, terrible time for you.”
    “It’s a nightmare.”
    “I’m so sorry.” He was a tall man but walked slightly stooped. His arms hung at his side. A benign smile on his face. Bett McCall, short and slight, was continually aware of the power of body stature and posture. Though she was a foot shorter and much lighter, she felt—from his withdrawing stance alone—that he was one of the least threatening men she’d ever met.
    He looked approvingly at the house. “Megan said you were a talented interior designer. I didn’t know quite how talented, though.”
    Bett felt a double burst of pleasure. That he liked her painstaking efforts to make her house nice. But, much more significant to her, that Megan had actually complimented her to a stranger.
    Then the memory of the letter came back and hermood darkened. She asked, “Have you heard about Dr. Hanson? That terrible thing with his mother?”
    Dr. Peters’s face clouded. “It’s got to be a mix-up. I’ve known him for years.” He glanced at a crystal ball on her bookshelf. “He’s been an advocate for assisted suicide and I think he did talk about it with his mother.”
    “You do?”
    “But I think she misinterpreted what he said. You know that a nurse said his mother lifted the hypodermic off a medicine cart.”
    Bett considered this. Maybe Tate had been wrong about somebody framing Dr. Hanson to get him into jail and unavailable to speak to them.
    “Doctor . . .”
    “Oh, call me Bill. Please.”
    “Is he a good therapist? Dr. Hanson?”
    The therapist examined a framed tapestry from France, mounted above the couch.
    Why was he hesitating to answer?
    “He’s very good, yes,” Dr. Peters said after a moment. “In certain areas. What was your impression of him?”
    “Well,” she said, “we’ve never met.”
    “You haven’t?” He seemed surprised. “He hasn’t talked to you about Megan?”
    “No. Should he have?”
    “Well, maybe with his mother’s accident . . . he’s had a lot on his mind.”
    “But that just happened this week,” Bett pointed out. “Megan’s been seeing him for nearly two months.”
    In his face she could see that he couldn’t really defend his friend.
    “Well, frankly, I think he should have talked to you. I would have. But he and I have very different styles. Mrs. McCall—”
    “Bett, please.”
    “Betty?”
    “Betty Sue.” She smiled, and then blushed. Hoped he couldn’t see it, thankful for the dimmed lighting. “All right . . . Deep, dark secret? The name’s Beatrice Susan McCall. My sister—”
    “Your twin. Megan told me.”
    “That’s right. She’s Susan Beatrice. We were named dyslexically. I can’t tell you how many years we plotted revenge against Mom and