So far, Miranda has decided to find out what happened to Dougie Wilcox who disappeared without a trace. Mitch, her sheriff boyfriend has reluctantly agreed to help her. An old man brought her flowers after she helped him pump gas and he appeared quite smitten with her.

***********************************

Mitch swings by the following morning and takes me to breakfast. He's acting nervous and edgy, and all my mind can think is one thing.

I open the paper napkin and spread it across my lap. "What's up with you?" I ask.

He looks up, either dumbfounded by my question or shocked that I noticed. "What do you mean? I just wanted to take you to breakfast. No ulterior motive."

"Having a breakfast date is nice, but I'm calling bullshit."

Again, the panicked look.

"Mitchell, just spit it out."

He sighs but averts his eyes. "Miranda, it's just, uh, oh what the hell, I'm gonna come clean."

My stomach seems to draw up like a coin purse. "Are you breaking up with me?"

I might have actually cried had he not laughed out loud. "No. Why in the world would you think something like that?"

I bite my lip. Despite my being wrong about his intentions, he's up to something. And, if he's scared to tell me, I'm definitely nervous to hear it. "You're acting all nervous. It's not a good look on you, Mitch."

"Okay, okay. This is going to go badly no matter which way it comes out. Miranda, you see that woman at the counter? The one in the green sweater?"

I look over. I can see the side of her face. She's in her early thirties, I guess. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, revealing an upturned nose and high cheekbones.

"Are, are you seeing her?" I try to keep the nauseous burst of panic down. "Mitch, please tell me the truth."

I fight the trailer park urge to run over and yank her off the stool by her perfect little ponytail. I can't look at Mitch.

"Miranda, I should have been honest with you."

I nod, grabbing my purse and pulling a twenty out of my wallet. "Thanks for breakfast, you, you, stupid ... oh, damn it. I was so stupid. Why did I think you'd want to be with me. I'm a train wreck."

Mitch looks around nervously. "Miranda, wait. It's not what you think. Calm down. That lady is Dr. Carrie Tate. She's the therapist we use at the Sheriff's department. I was going to introduce you so you could meet her and see she's not some buttoned up freak. Then I panicked and I regretted asking her to meet us here."

The good doctor turned around and waved. She was even prettier now. I wanted to not like her, but she has dimples. You can't hate someone with dimples. It's impossible.

"Miranda, meet Dr. Tate." Mitch stood as he motioned for her to join us at the table.

"Is that okay with you, Miranda?" She waits until I nod.

The waitress brings our food and pours Dr. Tate a cup of coffee.

"Sheriff Danner thinks you might like to talk to me about the events of the past couple of years." She smiles again, revealing those absolutely adorable dimples.

"Actually, the sheriff knows I don't want to talk to you, which is why he felt the need to ambush me."

Dr. Tate looks over at Mitch. "You did say she was honest."

"I'm not going to judge you. My job as a therapist is to help you understand your own feelings. To help process emotions."

I study the yolk on my egg. It's little dome perfect until I pop it with my fork. "No offense, but I know how I feel. I also know why I feel the way I do."

"You know, my dad hated that I became a therapist. He said, 'Be careful, Carrie. One day all that crazy is going to rub off on you.' But, I've never had a crazy person come to me. They are all just regular people who need my help to deal with the crazy things that happen to them."

I push my fork down and let the yoke spill over the grits on the plate. "In your professional opinion, do you think it's crazy to keep letters from someone who watched their own husband die, killed a man who was blackmailing her, tried to kill me, and more than likely is responsible for the disappearance of another man?"

She listens and pauses. "What does she say in these letters?"

"I don't know. I keep them in a box. Don't open them, just pull them out of the mailbox and toss them in."

"Maybe it's your way of keeping them in prison just like she is."

"So, it's a control thing?"

"Could be."

Mitch's beeper goes off. "Excuse me, I need to call into the station."

She waits until he steps away before speaking. "Why don't you want to talk to a professional?"

"Because. I'm doing fine. I don't need to lie on some couch and listen to someone make little judgemental sounds when I tell them about my childhood."

She laughs and it's almost as adorable as her stinking dimples. "Good thing I don't care about your childhood. Listen, we can talk anywhere. Want to sit on the beach? We can do that. Hike and talk? We can do that, too. I, uh, hate to break it to you, but we're talking right now."

"I guess we are."

"I think you are a very smart and savvy woman, Ms. Buckley. I don't think you're crazy or ready to break, but you've been through a lot of shit. It's only natural that it's going to come out."

"So, if I were to agree to meet with you, how much would that cost me? And how long would I be obligated to continue meeting with you?"

"There is no contract. Maybe just see if you like talking to me first."

I look down at the clotting yolk. Suddenly, I'm famished.

"Mind if I eat?" I ask. I don't wait for her response, just start shoveling the food in. "How about Thursday morning?" I put my hand in front of my mouth so she doesn't have to see my food.

Dr. Tate pulls out her phone and types something in. "Ten a.m. or earlier?"

"Nine?"

She nods. "The address is on my card." She pulls a business card out of a silver holder and hands it to me.

"Can we meet on neutral ground?"

"Sure. Where would you like to meet then?"

I think back to where things started to go awry. "Haynes Pond."

"Okay. Nine o'clock on Thursday. Haynes Pond."

Mitch comes back to the table. I suspect there was no call. He probably had someone call to give him an out. "So, what did I miss?"

Carrie Tate says nothing. I let him wallow in silence for a few seconds before I decide to throw him a bone.

"We were discussing men," I say.

Mitch swallows and looks down uncomfortably.

Did I say I threw him a bone, I meant hand grenade.