Now Tanya couldn’t help but notice that Sophie’s jaw had become unhinged. “What?” she asked.
“Go on,” Sophie managed to get out.
Sighing loudly, Tanya said in a disdainful tone, “Being psychologists, of course we had to
process
what happened, and that’s when I confessed I thought he was coming on to me. I must’ve sounded so damn desperate! He quickly assured me he was simply trying to be my mentor—that he, of course, was happily
married
, and he was very sorry I’d misconstrued his intentions—”
“Oh my God!” Sophie interrupted, almost shrieking. “He did the same thing to me!”
“He
did?”
“When I was a grad student! When I was meeting with him in his office, he hinted around that he and his wife were having problems, which only magnified the crush I had on him. Then when I tried to take it further he totally blew me off! I think he said the exact same thing to me—that I ‘misconstrued his intentions.’”
Tanya’s brown eyes widened. “Bastard! I thought it was all me.”
“Me too!” Sophie nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve been so embarrassed for four years, thinking it was all my fault.”
“Sounds like a pattern—the little prick,” Tanya scoffed. “He thinks he’s so suave. Well, Rico Suave has finally been busted.”
Sophie laughed. “Speaking of Rico, his student is about to start her defense. You better get in there.”
“Crap!” Tanya glanced at her watch and grabbed a thick manuscript off her desk. “I’ll let you know when Kirsten passes. Please close the door on your way out!” she called over her shoulder, hustling out of the office.
Sophie sat completely still, bowled over by what Tanya had just shared. She wondered how many others David had lured into his web, only to bite them with venomous shame. Sophie pursed her lips. She definitely intended to find out.
***
Grant suppressed a smile as he listened to his boss and his nephew sparring verbally on deck. They were between cruises, and he was taking an inventory of the bar supplies while Ben wiped down the benches in the passenger section with Rog. Technically, stocking the bar was Dan’s duty, but the slacker bartender was nowhere to be seen, probably off smoking a cigarette somewhere.
Grant stood and began stacking plastic cups on the bar.
His elbow perched languidly on the other side of the bar, Roger pointed to the bench Ben had just finished wiping. “You missed a spot, Barberi.”
Ben rolled his eyes and ignored the comment.
“Did you hear me, kid? I want every inch of those benches to shine!”
Ben muttered something unintelligible and Roger sharply retorted, “What’d you say?”
Standing up, Ben shouted, “Nothing shines as much as your bald head, you big fat elf!”
Roger strode toward the teenager. “You’re calling me an
elf,
you little shit? Look who’s talking, midget. You sure you’re related to Madsen over there? He’s double your size.”
“At least I’m still growing,” Ben countered. “
You
will always be short.”
“Yeah you’re growing—growing dumber by the second. C’mon, Cheech, you’re cleaning the engine room.” He not-so-gently pushed the boy toward the hatch. Ben grumbled the whole time but allowed himself to be propelled forward.
Shaking his head, Grant still couldn’t believe how disrespectfully his nephew spoke to his boss. But Rog let Ben’s comments roll right off him, seeming to enjoy the banter. Grant gathered his list and headed to the office to call the liquor store. As he passed by the ticket window, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Slowing his pace, he gingerly rounded the corner and, sure enough, found the reason for his sudden alarm.
Standing in the shadows was Angelo Barberi.
Behind the Mafia boss was a tall, muscular man, his hooded eyes staring menacingly over Angelo’s shoulder.
Grant gulped and took a step backward. Here was Carlo’s father, and Grant had no doubt he’d be seeking revenge for his son’s death.
“Grant,” Angelo called. “I want to talk to you,
nipote
.”
His heart was banging so loudly he barely heard his uncle, and Grant retreated another step.
“Please,” Angelo said, walking out of the shadows and opening his hands. Grant’s eyes darted all around, but he detected no bulge in his uncle’s jacket or pockets. He was quite certain the behemoth was packing, though.
Watching Grant’s eyes flicker to the bodyguard, Angelo turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “Leave us, Tank. This is a family matter.”
A coughing spasm overtook the Mafia don, and Anthony Tanketti nervously hesitated, wondering if he should try to help his boss. Once Angelo was breathing normally again, Tank slunk away as ordered, retreating farther into the shadows, leaving the uncle and nephew warily eyeing each other on the dock.
Apparently Grant looked terrified because Angelo said, “Relax,
nipote
—I won’t hurt you. Your father forbade it.”
Grant forced himself to unclench his fists, and he took in his uncle’s pallid complexion beneath his black suit. Beads of sweat cropped up on Angelo’s forehead, and Grant could feel drops of sweat sliding down his back as well.
“My father?” Grant asked.
“I told Enzo everything,” Angelo responded. His jaw tightened. “I told him how you killed my son.”
“And did you tell him how your son killed my brother?”
Angelo was surprised by Grant’s seething tone. He’d thought the boy was a wimpy non-entity, but perhaps he’d been wrong.
Coughing a few times more made Angelo’s black eyes water, and suddenly Grant didn’t feel so scared.
“For what it’s worth,” Angelo began, “I didn’t approve of what my son did. No matter what you think of me, I loved Logan. Like a son,” he added quietly.
“I loved him too,” Grant insisted.
Before you destroyed him.
Sadness competed with intense anger as he spat, “What do you want?”
Angelo gave a weary smile. “It’s not what I want; it’s what your father wants.”
Grant held his breath.
“Enzo wants to see you.”
His heart pounded furiously again, and he slowly shook his head.
“He needs to see you, Grant. Soon.”
Still shaking his head, Grant smiled bitterly. “Does he think he
deserves
—”
“Hey, Ange!” Ben’s boisterous voice interrupted them.
Grant looked up with horror to find his nephew approaching.
“Ben!” Angelo boomed, erupting into a genuine grin. “I heard you were working on a boat.”
Grant nervously glanced around him, feeling quite unsafe and wondering what else Angelo had heard. Thank goodness Sophie no longer worked with him.
“Yeah.” Ben blushed, now standing next to the two men.
“But why are you working,
ragazzo?
You ever need any money, you can always come to me. You know that, right?”
The color on Ben’s cheeks deepened. “Yeah, but, um, my mom, um, she told me I wasn’t supposed to go to your place anymore.”
A wicked smile bloomed on the don’s face. “Since when do you listen to your mom, Ben?”
They both chuckled while Grant felt sick. The chuckle must have irritated Angelo’s throat because he started coughing again, and the hacking drew Tank from the shadows.
He nervously clasped Angelo’s arm. “Boss? We better go.”
Angelo, gasping for air, nodded. Weakly, he murmured, “Take care of yourselves, you two.” A few coughs later, he choked out, “Think about what I said, Grant.”
Once Angelo and Tank disappeared, Grant found himself shaking. He had no idea how to protect his nephew from their menace.
“What’d Angelo say to you?” Ben inquired.
“Nothing.” Grant aimed a deadly serious look at his nephew. “I want you to stay away from them. You’re
never
to go to that compound again, got it?”
Ben hesitated. His uncle had never spoken so harshly to him before. “Why?”
“Because they’re dangerous. Any money Angelo might give to you, you’ll pay for with your soul. You stay away from them, Ben. I better not find out you’ve been anywhere
near
the mansion.”
Grant stormed off to the office, leaving Ben standing on the dock like a chastised schoolboy.
Ben’s eyes narrowed into slits.
Nobody
was going to tell him what to do.
“You look well-rested today.”
Grant glanced up at Hunter and swallowed uncomfortably. He was still getting used to being so closely watched in therapy—he couldn’t get anything by the observant psychologist. “Yes, sir.”
Settling into his chair across from the couple, ready to begin the session, Hunter smiled to himself. He was accustomed to receiving one-word responses from stubborn clients, but he supposed the tag-on “sir,” which transformed the response to two words, made Grant seem slightly more forthcoming.
Smiling gently, Hunter asked, “Are you sleeping better?”
Gazing at the beautiful woman next to him, Grant took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “Some nights,” he answered.
Sophie felt Grant’s body tense as he prepared for further questions.
Hunter nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. So, the other nights…they’re not so great?”
Grant looked down.
His heart pounded and he tried to push away the hands groping for him, but he couldn’t escape their unyielding embrace. “No!” he heard a hoarse voice repetitively scream, but it wasn’t until he opened his eyes that he realized the voice was his own.
Though it was dark in the bedroom, he could feel his face buried in her luxurious hair, and her breasts pressing into his chest. She’d drawn him into her, evidently to soothe his distress.
“Shh,” she fussed.
He felt her fingers caress his shoulder blades, holding him tighter.
“It was just a dream,” she said.
He fought for control. His panting breaths and racing heartbeat took several minutes to slow down while she lightly stroked his back.
“You’re safe, Grant,” she murmured.
Once he trusted himself to speak, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
Because I’m totally fucked up. Because I’m crazy. Because I’ll never deserve someone as perfect as you.
“Because I woke you up.”
“It’s okay, McSailor. I’m just glad you’re letting yourself close your eyes. I’m sure we’ll both be back asleep soon.”
“I’m guessing you’ve been experiencing more nightmares recently?”
Grant glared at Hunter. “How did you know that?”
“Sometimes when you discuss traumatic memories in counseling, it, uh, stirs the pot a bit. You might have more flashbacks or nightmares—”
“Wait a minute,” Grant interrupted. “You’re telling me therapy’s going to make me feel
worse?”
Before Hunter could answer, Sophie squeezed Grant’s hand and said, “Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better.”
Grant sighed heavily, suddenly weary. He was
so
tired of things getting worse.
“The increase in nightmares is why we need to shore up your coping skills before we delve into the traumatic memories,” Hunter explained. “Let’s work on developing some tools to manage the memories first, okay?”
Grant bit his lip and slowly nodded.
In a calming voice, Hunter began, “Traumatic stress reactions can occur after any kind of life-threatening event, such as a car accident, sudden death, violence, assault. The symptoms of PTSD are reliving the event—like nightmares or flashbacks, avoidance of anything associated with the trauma, and a feeling of constantly being ‘on edge.’”
Grant didn’t appreciate being labeled with some psycho diagnosis—PTSD, OCD, ADHD, or whatever jumble of letters this crackpot was throwing at him. “Okay, I’ll admit I have nightmares, but I don’t avoid the trauma, and I’m
not
on edge.”
Hunter noticed Sophie trying to suppress a smirk. “Sophie, do you have something to add here?”
Glancing nervously at Grant before returning her gaze to Hunter, she said, “He’s
totally
on edge. I’ve seen many signs of increased activation—like his exaggerated startle response. And he has trouble falling asleep. Oh, and hypervigilance too.”
“Hyper-what?” Grant said skeptically.
Hunter jumped in. “Hypervigilance is a response to trauma where your mind and body remain on alert. It’s an increased state of watchfulness that’s an attempt to protect yourself. But persistently being on edge is exhausting, and eventually you shut down. You may feel completely numb from trying to be so alert.”
Grant nodded, wondering how the psychologist knew sometimes he’d been so numb he felt almost dead, especially in prison. Sophie had been the one to finally spark some emotion in him.
“Outbursts of anger are also a sign of PTSD,” Hunter said.
Grant grimaced. He wasn’t going to blame his out-of-control anger on some stupid diagnosis. He alone was responsible for hurting Sophie.
“Would you like to hear some techniques for managing these symptoms?” Hunter asked. “It’s up to you.”
Sophie was pretty impressed. The psychologist was handing Grant the reins, a smart strategy for working with an abuse survivor. Grant had likely experienced a complete loss of control when his father beat him, so allowing him to dictate the session would help him feel more in charge.
“Yes, sir.” Grant surprised himself by agreeing.
Hunter looked pleased. “I want to explain some grounding techniques, but first let’s talk a bit about your brain. When a trauma happens, it can stimulate a flood of adrenaline and other chemicals, activating the lower parts of your brain and keeping them disconnected from the higher levels. One lower brain structure is the amygdala, the center for emotions like fear. When children experience intense, frightening events, their basest survival instincts click in, and the higher levels of their brain may go ‘offline.’ They react purely on instinct and emotion, without logic and reason, and this reaction can help them survive. Are you following me so far, Grant?”
“I think so, sir.”
“The problem is that when these children become adults and their emotional memories are somehow triggered—say they experience a certain sight, sound, or smell that reminds them of the trauma—they react just like they did as children. They might freeze, with a pounding heart, shortness of breath, sweating. Their brains are living in the past and preventing them from realizing the threat’s no longer viable. Their higher-order brain functioning is thrown offline, and they can’t distinguish past from present. These grounding techniques help bring the pre-frontal cortex back ‘online’ to help these individuals figure out they don’t have to engage in fight or flight at the moment.”
“Wow, do you specialize in trauma?” Sophie cut in. “I’m learning a lot here.”
“Really?” Hunter responded. “I thought you’d have learned this stuff on your internship at the VA Hospital.”
“Well, yes, but that was a few years ago and—”
“You worked at a VA hospital?” Grant interrupted.
Sophie nodded. “My pre-doctoral internship was at the Hampton VA, in Virginia.”
Grant looked impressed. His eyes locked on hers as he said, “Thank you.”
“I should be the one thanking
you
,” she countered, “for serving our country. In that hospital I saw firsthand the sacrifices made by soldiers and sailors.” Sophie smiled warmly and gave Grant’s hand another squeeze, then she turned to Hunter. “Sorry, I got us off track.”
“Getting to know each other on a deeper level is one of our goals in here.” Hunter shrugged amicably. “Seems like you two have yet one more thing in common. Anyway, I was talking about grounding techniques. One thing that happens during a nightmare is your breathing becomes shallow and rapid. So, the first technique is to take deep, diaphragmatic breaths.”
Hunter showed Grant how to push his stomach out with each breath, and Sophie joined in too.
“Then you want to try to reorient yourself to the present,” Hunter said. “Look around you. Tell me what you see.”
It took Grant a second to realize Hunter had given him an instruction, and he jumped in his seat. “Oh, yes, sir. Um, I see…your desk, uh, your aquarium…”
“There’s Nemo and Nema,” Sophie prompted, and all three grinned.
“What do you hear?” asked Hunter.
After a beat, Grant responded, “The aquarium pump and the clock ticking.”
“Do you feel the surface of the sofa beneath you?” When Grant nodded, Hunter suggested, “Stomp your foot. Feel the floor under you.”
Feeling rather dorky, Grant complied and stomped his foot. The ground felt solid beneath the sole of his leather shoe.
“Another way to orient your brain to the present is to tell yourself out loud that you’re right here, right now. It may sound weird, but Grant, I’d like you to say, ‘It’s September sixth.’”
Cynically raising one eyebrow, Grant dutifully replied, “It’s September sixth.”
“I am an adult.”
His voice was a little more confident as he mimicked Hunter. “I am an adult.”
“Good.” Hunter nodded. “When you experience a flashback or nightmare, I want you to try some of these grounding strategies. Perhaps you have a recurring nightmare and you wake up consumed by terror—that’s the time to take deep breaths and orient yourself to the present.”
Sophie chewed the inside of her cheek. “Recently, Grant keeps saying the same thing during every nightmare,” she offered.
“I do?” Grant looked shocked.
“Yes.” She glanced with uncertainty at Hunter, who gave her an encouraging nod. “He says, ‘Don’t make me do it. Please, don’t make me do it.’”
Hunter’s forehead creased. “Don’t make you do
what?”
Pull the trigger.
The words immediately popped into Grant’s mind, and his lips parted with surprise as his heart began thrumming in his chest.
Hunter stared at him intently. “Did you just remember something, Grant?”
His face was pale. “I—I don’t know.”
Had
he pulled the trigger?
Had
he killed somebody? He’d been forced to shoot Carlo in self defense, of course, but this memory seemed different—from long ago.
Noticing Sophie was also staring at him, Grant blurted the next thing that came to mind: “My father wants to see me.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Did he call you?”
Grant shook his head. “No, Uncle Angelo visited me on the docks.”
Her eyes got bigger. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, he didn’t hurt me. But he did insist on inviting Ben to the compound.”
“I’ll have to talk to Ben about that,” Sophie responded in an unsteady voice.
“Don’t worry—I already warned him not to go near there. That’s the
last
thing he needs right now.”
Sophie appeared pensive. “Is that why you made Ben keep working on the cruise? To keep him out of trouble after school?”
“Yeah,” Grant nodded. “But the cruises stop running in a few weeks, so I don’t know what I’m going to do with him then. I guess I’ll be calling his mom for a consult.”
“You have to find another job too, right?”
Grant sighed, “Yeah.”
Hunter re-entered the conversation. “Do you know why your father wants to see you, Grant?”
“No, sir, but it’s probably a moot point. Since I’m on parole, I don’t think I’m allowed to go to Gurnee as a visitor. Hopefully I won’t be returning as an inmate,” he added scornfully.
“You might want to ask your PO if you’re allowed to visit,” Hunter said.
“Why would I want to do that, sir?”
“Because it might be a good idea to visit your father.”
Grant and Sophie gaped at the psychologist.
“What?” Sophie shrieked.
“You’re not ready now, of course,” Hunter said. “But, Grant, when you work through some of this trauma, it could be quite healing to confront your abuser.”
Grant tried to hide it, but he trembled at Hunter’s suggestion.
“You remember when you said you don’t avoid anything reminding you of the trauma?” Hunter asked, receiving a nod of recognition from Grant. “Your reluctance to visit your father is precisely that symptom. You’re avoiding seeing him because he triggers memories of the abuse. At some point you may need to face that fear to reduce its hold over you. Your father hurt you when you were a child, but now you’re an adult, and he can’t hurt you any more.”
Grant quietly considered his words, and Sophie asked, “Is this like exposure treatment?”
“Exactly,” Hunter answered. “Research shows that an effective treatment for PTSD is to expose oneself to the trauma—either by retelling the story or by facing significant triggers—and responding differently this time using new skills and perceptions about it.”
Hunter let that sink in before continuing. “For example, many abused children believe the abuse was their fault. This makes sense because children are egocentric, assuming the world revolves around them—if they’re hurt, they
must
have been the ones to cause it somehow, they
must
be to blame. But when they’re older and tell their stories, they learn they couldn’t have stopped the abuse, and they did the best they could to survive the situation. They learn it wasn’t their fault. When they subsequently flash back to the trauma, they react with less shame. They tolerate the memories better by using grounding strategies.”
Haunting coal-black eyes flashed through Grant’s mind, and he felt beads of sweat on his upper lip. “I still don’t want to see him,” he stated decisively.
“I can appreciate that,” Hunter responded. “I don’t want you to see your father either, unless you’re ready. We’ll go at your pace and only proceed if we both make the decision that it’s a good idea.”
Grant gulped. “I don’t think I could take it.”
Hunter looked at him kindly. “I know you’re strong enough to handle it.”
“I’m not strong.”
“Yes, you are.”
Grant quietly asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “How do you know?”
“I know you’re strong because you’re the only one left standing in your family. It’s taken incredible fortitude to survive the challenges you’ve faced. You’re the only Barberi left.”
Grant dropped his gaze, wringing his hands in his lap. The throbbing ache in his heart from his mother’s death eighteen years ago was only compounded by the loss of his brother. Was Dr. Hayes right?
Was
he strong? Or was it just pure luck that he wasn’t locked away in a cell or a coffin?
Sensing that Grant needed a little respite, Hunter turned to Sophie. “We haven’t had the chance to talk about you much today, Sophie. How are things in your world?”