Chapter 17

Friday, April 12

“One point six million,” Baljit says. “That’s the most I’ve ever lost in one sitting.”

“At a casino?” Holly asks incredulously.

Baljit nods. Wearing a gray blazer, skirt, and Jimmy Choo pumps, she sits in the matching chair across from Holly with her legs crossed, the epitome of a chic executive. “A craps table. In fucking Macau, of all places!”

“But it didn’t wipe you out, did it?”

“Nope. Neither did the other ten or twelve mill I’ve shit away over the past few years in casinos. Then again, business is good,” Baljit says in embarrassment. “And my father has deep pockets.”

“Your dad covered your losses?”

Baljit fingers the pendant on her necklace. “A few times. When I wasn’t quite liquid enough.”

“Your father sounds devoted.”

Baljit snorts.

“What does that mean?”

Baljit rubs the slight crease between her eyebrows as if trying to flatten it. “Sikhism is a relatively progressive culture and religion. All about egalitarianism. There isn’t supposed to be a distinction between men and women within the gurdwara—the community.”

“But your father isn’t so egalitarian?”

“My father puts the capital T in toxic masculinity.”

Holly tilts her head. “Sounds like he’s there for when you need him, though?”

“With money? Sure. But those loans always come with a smug ‘I told you so’ attached. Which I think makes it almost worthwhile for him. Besides, I’ve made a fortune for him and the others since I took over the family business five years ago.”

“If he’s such a chauvinist, then why let a woman take over?”

“Because he didn’t have a son. And at eighty-four, he was too frail to keep running the company himself. Trust me, it kills him to have a woman in charge.”

Holly can’t resist a smile. “Not yet, apparently.”

Baljit laughs. “Hey, that’s my line.”

“You’re an only child, right?”

“Yup. And I didn’t come easily. Dad was fifty and Mom almost forty when they met. They had to go through the whole fertility rigamarole. Back then, it was harder. And Mom had to have a hysterectomy soon after I was born. Dad never forgave me for being born without a Y chromosome. The one thing life never gave him. A son.”

“Do you think all of those emotions played into your gambling addiction?”

“You figure, Dr. Freud?” Baljit shoots up a hand in apology. “Sorry. Look. You’re the one who’s paid to do the analyzing. But as I see it, money has always been a surrogate for love for me. No wonder I got addicted to chasing it.”

Holly nods, pleased Baljit has made the connection for herself. “Have you stayed away from the casino since I last saw you?”

Baljit grins. “Not so much as a scratch-and-win ticket in over four weeks.”

“Are you still being triggered by your father?”

“Constantly. But I’m taking out my rage at the gym. On the spin bike, the elliptical, and especially any dipshit who looks at me twice while I’m working out.”

“Good.” Holly smiles. “And the cravings to gamble?”

“Honestly? Since that last session with ketamine and MDMA, there’s been nothing. It’s the weirdest thing. It’s as if I haven’t eaten in days, but I’m still not hungry.”

This is music to Holly’s ears. She makes a mental note to document Baljit’s quote verbatim in the meticulous file she’s keeping on the group. But she saves the most delicate conversation for last. “I’d like to talk about what happened with Elaine.”

Baljit shrugs. “What more is there to say?”

“A lot, for some.”

“Not me.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m not sure we’ll be able to continue with our group therapy.”

Baljit’s head snaps back in surprise. “Why not?”

“The whole point of the group was to help support one another through your struggles with addiction.”

“How has that changed? If anything, we need even more support now.”

Holly resists the urge to tell her that group therapy failed Elaine in the worst way imaginable. That she, personally, failed Elaine. All she says is “Ours is innovative therapy. Unproven, some would argue. Certainly not mainstream. And there’s a lot more scrutiny. On me, at least. Ever since the media learned about us—”

“Simon! That foolish lech should have never outed our group like that.” Baljit wags a finger. “But this isn’t really about the media. It’s about Elaine, isn’t it?”

Not only her. Holly thinks of Katy Armstrong and how the reporter would pounce were she to learn of Elaine and her association with the ketamine group. But Baljit is essentially right. And she’s far too smart to be misdirected. Still, Holly isn’t willing to share her guilt with another client. It wouldn’t be appropriate. Instead, she says, “Regardless, I think we have to take a break. At a minimum, from using psychedelics in our therapy.”

“No!” Baljit cries. She smooths her skirt before speaking in a calmer tone. “What happened to Elaine was unfortunate. But when you think about it, kind of inevitable.”

“Inevitable?”

“A lifelong opioid addict who just found out she’d been sexually abused as a kid?” Baljit shakes her head. “Might as well have locked a pyromaniac in a room full of rags, gasoline, and matches.”

Despite the hyperbole, Holly sees Baljit’s point. Moreover, she’s relieved to hear that Baljit—the first of the tribe she has interviewed since Elaine’s death—is eager to proceed with therapy. But “We’ll see” is all Holly is willing to say.

Fifteen minutes after Baljit leaves, Reese occupies the same chair, dressed in a navy suit and wearing minimal makeup. The similarities between Reese and Baljit are hard to overlook. Both in their late thirties, educated, successful, ambitious, blunt, and impenetrably self-assured. Holly realizes the same description could apply to her, as well. And yet the two women don’t remind Holly of each other, and she certainly doesn’t see herself in either of them. Racial differences aside, Baljit is married with a seven-year-old daughter, although as best Holly can tell, her husband spends most of his time in Asia. Reese, on the other hand, is single. More significantly, the two women give off wholly different vibes. Baljit seems driven by unbridled determination to prove herself—in essence, to win—while Reese, despite her intolerance for inefficiency, is far more contemplative and practical. In some ways, Holly sees her as the rock of the group.

“How are things?” Holly asks.

“Six weeks without a drop,” Reese says matter-of-factly.

“And how are you feeling about it?”

Reese considers the question for a moment. “I’ve been through rehab three times and gone to God knows how many AA meetings. I was beginning to think I’d never be able to stay on the wagon.”

“No?”

“I used to go to bed drunk. Even if I blacked out, I’d still get up the next morning and be at work on time. I’ve always done my job well and risen steadily up the corporate ladder. I’m a top-earning partner at thirty-eight, despite the drinking. But I’d basically resigned myself to the idea that I would live my whole life as a functional alcoholic and then die alone.” She sighs. “It’s not an uncommon fate for lawyers.”

“You’re not resigned anymore?”

Reese sweeps her hand around the room. “This changed everything. The ketamine. Our group. You. A few months ago, I didn’t think sobriety would ever be in my future, and now it feels… easy.”

“I’m glad, Reese.”

“Me, too. Because while I could drink my way through my career, I couldn’t do the same with the rest of my life.”

“You mean with your family?”

“I don’t have a family. I was an only child. And my parents are dead.”

Reese has always resisted discussing her childhood, but Holly senses an opening. “How old were you when your parents died?”

“Mom passed about fifteen years ago. But it was a blessing. She had early onset Alzheimer’s.”

Holly offers a sympathetic smile. “And your father?”

“I was eight.” Reese snorts. “They told me he died of cancer.”

“He didn’t?”

“When I was in ninth grade, one of my cousins broke it to me that Dad actually died of cirrhosis. I think he called it a ‘shot liver.’ Because as my loveable cousin stressed—in front of a bunch of my classmates, mind you—Dad was a fall-down drunk.”

“That’s awful.”

Reese shrugs. “Like father, like daughter, huh?”

“I meant finding out that way.”

“Not the best way to hear it. Then again, I like to think my cousin came to regret humiliating me. Especially after his prized dirt bike blew up. Well, caught fire.” A small smile tugs at the corner of Reese’s mouth.

Holly arches an eyebrow. “How?”

“A loose wire and a leak in the gas tank.” Reese eyes her knowingly. “He wasn’t hurt, but I don’t think his motorbike was ever rideable again.”

“I see.” Holly maintains a neutral expression, but she’s surprised to hear that her most unflappable client acted out to that degree. Even as a teenager.

As if reading her mind, Reese says, “I know it’s not really an excuse, but I was young and stupid and going through one of the worst periods of my life.”

“Why’s that?”

“My mom had just been put into a home.”

Holly frowns. “When you were in high school?”

“Her dementia spiraled quickly. She was only in her forties, but she didn’t even recognize me anymore.” Reese swallows. “My aunt and uncle took me in when I was thirteen.”

“That must have been hard.”

Reese shrugs. “They did their best, but they had three young kids of their own to cope with. Last thing they needed was a teenager sulking around. And, as you can probably tell, I wasn’t the easiest kid.”

“Firestarter with a sass mouth?”

Reese laughs softly. “Little bit.”

Nodding, Holly considers how the trauma of being effectively orphaned in her adolescence, coupled with a genetic predisposition, could easily have triggered Reese’s descent into alcoholism.

“Lucky for me, the DNA tests say that I’m not at increased risk for early onset Alzheimer’s,” Reese says. “And so far, my liver has handled everything I’ve thrown at it like a champ.”

“Still…”

“It’s life, Dr. Danvers.” Reese’s smile is almost serene. “The point is, I never thought marriage… or kids were even on the table for me. But now—for the first time ever—I’m thinking I might be able to actually have a family of my own.”

“That’s beautiful, Reese.”

“No. It’s simply a fact.”

Holly hesitates. “The last thing I want to do is dampen your optimism. But things are going to have to change in our therapy. At least in the short term.”

“Because of Elaine?”

“Yes.”

“Change how?”

“I’m not sure if we’ll be able to continue with the psychedelics in the same way.” Holly repeats the same rationale she shared with Baljit.

“It’s such a waste,” Reese mutters. “All of it.”

“I agree.”

“How Elaine ever managed to convince herself that you’d be stupid enough to molest her in the middle of a group session…”

Holly can feel her cheeks flush. “You knew about that?”

“We all did.”

“The whole group?”

Reese nods. “She told JJ.”

“JJ? Why her?”

“JJ called Elaine after she skipped our last group session.”

Holly’s skin crawls. “There was no substance to Elaine’s allegations!”

“Obviously,” Reese says, as if Holly is having a hard time keeping up. “That’s what we all tried to tell her.”

“We all?” Holly’s jaw drops. “You discussed it with Elaine? All of you?”

“We went to see her. The whole group. To try to talk some sense into her.”

“When?”

“The day she overdosed.”

Holly closes her eyes and sees Elaine slumped in the chair again, the needle at her feet. She must have overdosed shortly after the tribe’s visit. A question, unbidden, comes to mind: Could one of you have been involved?