“What the hell kind of therapist are you?”

I shivered nervously. “The kind who doesn’t clutter up her office with obsolete records. I have followed the guidelines for storage of records for patients who are no longer active. And I couldn’t let you see it even if it was here. Those records are confidential.”

“The death of the patient ends doctor-patient confidentiality. Everyone knows that.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong. Psychotherapy notes have special protection under HIPAA.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I didn’t write the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, but I can assure you that I’m correct. I can’t give you the file, even if it was here.”

“I’m not interested in your medical and legal jargon.”

He was so close to me now that only about a foot separated us. My pulse beat hard, and nausea churned in my throat. His breath stank of alcohol. So that was it. He had been drinking.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, Dr. Cates.”

His blue eyes glazed over with rage and fire. “I’m not sure I made myself clear. I’m not leaving without that file.”

“And I told you”—I swallowed—“it’s not here.”

He grabbed my arm, and I instinctively jerked backward, hitting the wall.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” I said.

“Then give me the file.”

“I do not have it here.”

“Listen, bitch.” He grabbed me by the throat. “You’re going t—”

“Melanie?” A soft rap on the door.

Oliver! Thank God.

Dr. Cates removed his hand from my neck, and I gasped in some air. The gasp was more from fear. He hadn’t obstructed my breathing, but damn it, I was scared to death.

“Oliver, am I glad to see you.” I smoothed out my blouse.

“This isn’t over, Dr. Carmichael,” Dr. Cates said. “I will get the information one way or another.”

Without acknowledging Oliver, Dr. Cates stomped out of my office. I could still hear his footsteps after he left the reception area and traveled down the hall to the elevator.

“Are you all right?” Oliver asked. “What was that about?”

I lost my footing, and he rushed toward me, catching me. He helped me to my couch and sat down next to me.

“Melanie?”

And the tears came. Whether they were tears for Gina or tears for the fear that had just coursed through me, I didn’t know.

Oliver put his arm around me. “God, what happened? Who was that guy?”

I sniffled into his shirt and then looked up at him, grabbing a tissue from the box on the coffee table. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose quickly.

“He was the father of a former patient of mine.”

“Should we call the cops? For a second I thought he was choking you.”

Normally I would have said yes, but I shook my head. “I’m all right. The man has been through enough.”

“Are you kidding me? He just tried to strangle you.”

“He wouldn’t have done me any harm.” And in my heart, I did believe that. “He’s distraught. His daughter was a patient of mine, and she ended up killing herself.” I bit my lip to force back tears. “I’ve been over her file time after time after time, Oliver, and I cannot find anything that indicated she was suicidal. What did I miss?”

“He has no right to blame you.”

“But I must’ve missed something.” And I had. Gina had fallen in love with me, and I’d had no idea. “And there’s more,” I continued. “His wife just attempted suicide a few days ago. She’s over at Valleycrest in the mental ward. So he’s not in his right mind.”

“That’s still no excuse for him treating you that way.”

In theory, I agreed. But the way I was feeling right now—so woefully inadequate, wishing I could go back in time and see what I had missed, to pay better attention—I couldn’t concur.

That letter haunted me. I should have given it to the attorney. I should’ve put it in the file. I should’ve let my colleague and attorney review it. But I hadn’t. I’d kept it. And now it was too late. I couldn’t bring it up now.

“Really, I’m fine. Just drop it, okay?”

“Are you still up for dinner?”

Dinner. Hell. Well, a girl had to eat. I blew my nose again and stood. “Sure, let’s go to dinner.”

Oliver stood and then reached for me and wiped away an errant tear rivering down my cheek. “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he said. “As you can imagine, in pediatric nephrology, I’ve lost a few patients too.”

“And they were children. That’s got to be a lot worse. I’m sorry, Oliver.”

He pursed his lips. “I wish I could tell you that you get used to it.” He shook his head. “I certainly never have.”

“Any physician who gets used to it probably shouldn’t be practicing medicine,” I said. “And I’m the one who decided to practice psychotherapy. I could’ve been a more routine psychiatrist, just dispensing meds and referring patients to psychologists and counselors. I knew ahead of time there would be people I just couldn’t help.”

“You have such a caring nature. I can’t imagine you just dispensing meds.” He cupped my cheek. “You’ve always been that way. Always thinking of others. You know, Melanie, I’ve thought about contacting you many times over the past decade. I read your book on overcoming childhood trauma. It was brilliant.”

My cheeks warmed. “Why in the world would a pediatric nephrologist read a book on psychotherapy for overcoming childhood trauma?”

“Because I knew the author. And I knew she was brilliant.”

I chuckled. “You were the one who was always at the top of all of our classes.”

“And you were always right behind me.” Oliver smiled.

“You have no idea how annoying that was,” I said. “My main goal in life was to pass you up, and I never could.”

“Ha! The reason you were never able to do it is because I forced myself to work that much harder to stay ahead of you.”

I warmed again. “You’re saying I was an incentive for you?”