She stood there for a while, sat back down.

“Maybe I'm doing this because I feel guilty for not being closer to him. But he never seemed to want to get close.”

“Even if you had been close, you couldn't have prevented it.”

“You're saying it's a waste of time to try to stop someone from killing themselves?”

“It's always important to try to help, and many people who are stopped never attempt again. But if someone's determined to do it, they'll eventually succeed.”

“I don't know if Nolan was determined. I don't know him!”

She burst into loud, racking sobs. When she quieted I handed her a tissue and she snatched it and slapped it against her eyes. “I hate this- I don't know if I can keep doing this.”

I said nothing.

Looking to the side, she said, “I'm his executor. After Mom died, the lawyer handling our parents' estate said we should each write a will.” She laughed. “Estate. The house and a bunch of junk. We rented out the house, split the money, then after my divorce, I asked Nolan if I could live there, send him half the rent. He wouldn't take it. Said he didn't need it- didn't need anything. Was that a warning sign?”

Before I could answer, she stood again. “How much more time do we have?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Would you mind if I left early?”

She'd parked a brown Mustang off the property, out on the bridle trial that snakes up from Beverly Glen. The morning air was hot and dusty, the smell of pines from the neighboring ravine piercing and cleansing.

“Thanks,” she said, unlocking the car.

“Would you like to make another appointment?”

She got in and lowered the window. The car was spotless, empty except for two white uniforms hanging over a rear door. “Can I get back to you? I need to check the on-call schedule.”

Patient's version of don't call me, I'll call you.

“Of course.”