Tormentor Mine(58)

“I’m so sorry, Monica,” I say when she calms down. “I still think going to the police is the best option for you and your brother. Isn’t there anyone else you could turn to? A family friend? A relative, perhaps?”

The girl’s expression turns hollow. “No.” Jumping off the table, she pulls on her clothes. “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Cobakis. Take care.”

She walks out of the room, and I stare after her, wanting to cry. The girl is in an impossible situation, and I can’t help her. I can never help girls like her. Except—

“Wait!” I grab my bag and run after her. “Monica, wait!”

“She already left,” Lydia says when I burst into the reception area. “What happened? Did she forget something?”

“Sort of.” I don’t bother explaining further. Rushing to the door, I step out and survey the dark, deserted street. Monica’s small, dark-haired figure is already at the end of the block, walking fast, so I run after her, desperate to do something at least this once.

“Monica, wait!”

She must hear me, because she stops and turns.

“Dr. Cobakis?” she says in surprise when I catch up to her.

I stop, panting from the exertion, and rummage inside my bag. “How much do you need to tide you over?” I ask breathlessly, pulling out my checkbook and a pen.

“What?” She gapes at me as though I’ve turned into an alien.

“If you go to the police and they take your stepfather away, how much will you and your mother need to not end up on the street?”

She blinks. “Our rent is twelve hundred a month, and my mother’s disability check covers about half of it. If we could last until this summer, I’d get a full-time job and pitch in, but—”

“Okay, hold on.” I prop the checkbook against the side of a building and write out a check for five thousand dollars. I planned to use that money to send my parents on an anniversary cruise this summer, but I’ll come up with a less costly gift.

My parents won’t mind, I’m sure.

Tearing off the check, I hand it to the girl and say, “Take this and go to the police. He deserves to be in jail.”

Her rounded chin quivers, and for a moment, I’m afraid she’ll start crying again. But she just accepts the check with trembling fingers. “I… I don’t even know how to thank you. This is—” Her young voice breaks. “This is just—”

“It’s okay.” I put my checkbook away and smile at the girl. “Go cash it in, and put the bastard away, okay? Promise me you’ll do that?”

“I promise,” the girl says, stuffing the check into her jeans pocket. “I promise, Dr. Cobakis. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“It’s okay. Go now. It’s late, and you shouldn’t be out alone.”

The girl hesitates, then throws her arms around me in a quick hug. “Thank you,” she whispers again, and then she’s off, her small figure bobbing between the streetlights before disappearing from sight.

I stand there until she’s gone, and then I turn to go back to the clinic. My bank account just took a serious hit, but I feel as jubilant as if I’ve won the lottery. For the first time since I’ve started working at the clinic, I’ve truly helped someone, and it feels amazing.

The cold wind slaps me in the face as I start walking back, and I realize I forgot my coat at the clinic. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m glowing with an inner joy that’s no match for the chilly March evening.

I can’t fix my own life, but maybe I just helped fix Monica’s.

I’m less than half a block from the clinic when a flicker of shadow on the right catches my attention. My heart jumps, and adrenaline floods my veins as two homeless-looking men step out from the narrow alley-like space between two houses, the light from the street reflecting off the gleaming blades of their knives.

“Your bag,” the taller one snarls, gesturing toward me with the knife, and even from this distance, I catch the nauseating stench of body odor, alcohol, and vomit. “Give it here, bitch. Now.”

I reach for the bag before he even finishes speaking, but my icy fingers are clumsy, and the bag falls off my shoulder.

“You fucking bitch! Give it here, I said!” he hisses, increasingly agitated, and I realize he’s on something. Meth? Coke? Either way, he’s unstable, and his partner—who started giggling like a hyena—must be too.

I have to pacify them. Quickly.

“Hold on, I’m giving it to you, I promise.” Shaking, I kneel to pick up the bag so I can hand it to them, but before I can get up, a blur of motion cuts in front of me.