Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) by Sarah Lovett

relationship was different now. Monica had been the one to care for Malcolm in the last months of his illness. "I'm okay," Sylvia said.
    "I've thought of you often since the funeral."
    "I've been so busy—"
    "You don't have to explain," Monica said quietly.
    It was the silence that gave her away. She knows, Sylvia thought. She knows about Malcolm and me. There had been no husband's confession from Malcolm, of that Sylvia was certain. Monica and he were already separated when Sylvia began her professional partnership with Malcolm. For all his faults, Malcolm wasn't a man who manufactured drama for its own sake. And Sylvia had taken great care that their affair remain private, unspoken. Still, it was clear Monica Treisman knew that Sylvia had been in love with her husband.
    Breathless again, Monica said, "I was going to call you. I need your help."
    Sylvia, caught off guard, said, "Anything. What?"
    "It's Jaspar." After a quick beat, Monica jumped into the phrase like a person who starts a dance step on her left foot. "He's having such a hard time with his father's death."
    Sylvia stood up and paced the few feet the room would allow. She shook her head, saw herself maneuvering mentally, gaining a professional distance. She sat back down. "What exactly? Nightmares?"
    "Yes, every night. And he wet his bed last night, too. He's afraid of the dark now,
really
afraid." Monica stopped and started, the anxious tremor punctuating her words. "Oh God, Sylvia, he's all I have . . ." Now the words dangled helplessly.
    "Monica, are you and Jaspar seeing anyone? I can recommend a good child psychologist."
    "I don't want a good child psychologist." Monicacarefully mimicked the last three words. "I want you to spend some time with him."
    "Me?"
    "He'll trust you," Monica said.
    "It makes much more sense for Jaspar to see a stranger," Sylvia said. "I don't want to get into dual relationships here, and ethically—"
    "Don't give me ethics or dual relationships." Suddenly, the wispy voice was replaced by a command. "I know who Malcolm would trust with his only son."
    That was it; Sylvia understood there was no way she could refuse. "All right," she said reluctantly. "But if it turns out I think he needs some actual therapy, I'll give you several names of qualified people who work with kids."
    "Fine."
    They agreed she would stop by the next afternoon. As she hung up the phone, Sylvia remembered the last time she and Malcolm had made love. In this house, on her bed.
    For an instant, the sound of his voice replayed in her head. A joke; he'd told a joke, and she'd laughed so hard her stomach hurt.
    How's your aptitude for fucking?
She'd said that.
    Malcolm had sat up and raised one eyebrow. Then he'd rolled over onto her body, let his weight press her against jade-colored sheets.
    He had never once said he loved her.
    Sylvia worked at her desk for another hour until the typed lines on the pages blurred into tiny rivers of ink. In an unconscious gesture of concentration, she pulled her dark mane of hair away from her face, then closed her eyes.
    Rocko's canine ears picked up a dull thud outside the window, and he gave a low growl. As Sylvia straightened, he let loose a soft woof that exploded into wild barks. She snapped off the Tensor lamp and closed the window blinds. Before last week, she wouldn't have been so easily spooked.
    L UCAS W ATSON HAD a dream that night. Curled up in his cell, he went back to his mother's bedroom and let the sunshine warm him. It poured through the windows like caramel, lending the room its liquid edge. He examined his face in her vanity mirror, touched the half-empty bottle of White Shoulders, ran his fingers over the sheets still bearing her imprint. He thought the house was empty until she whispered his name. A great sadness washed over him, and he realized that she would die a second time. He crawled onto her bed, pulled his knees to his chin, and began to suck his thumb. When he woke, his face was wet.
    Three days