Bloodlust

by Sandra Brown

Genres: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

#1 New York Times bestselling author Sandra Brown returns with a new title of her signature suspense.

Release date: March 17, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 448

Reader says this book is...: emotionally riveting (1) entertaining story (1) suspenseful (1) terrific writing (1) unputdownable (1)

Sample

The jangle of his cell phone jarred John from a deep sleep and caused Beth to flinch. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He slid his arm from around her and reached for the phone on the nightstand. “This is Bowie.”

“Sir, it’s Officer Brad Clarence. I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night.”

John checked the time. Actually it wasn’t that long until dawn. He paired a face with the name Clarence. The patrolman was young and green, but earnest and strived to do well. “What’s up?”

Clarence hesitated as though bracing to impart bad news. “It’s, uh, it’s Mitch Haskell, sir.”

Muttering an obscenity, John sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “What about him?”

“I got a disturbance call from a bar on Madison Street. Haskell was smashing up the place. One of the customers tried to calm him down, but Haskell was having none of it. When the bartender attempted to escort him out, it turned into an altercation. Haskell threw some punches, but none landed. Then he broke a liquor bottle against the bar and threatened the guy with what was left of the neck of it.

“It was gettin’ hairy, so one of the least drunk patrons called it in. By the time I got there, Haskell had passed out. He went down face first. Landed on the jagged glass he was holding. Cut his own self.”

“Bad?”

“Didn’t appear to be, but another inch and he could’ve slit his own throat.”

“So where is he now?”

“I brought him to the station. Took three of us to wrestle him into the drunk tank. When we tried to get some first aid on the cut on his neck, he put up a fight.”

“John?” By now Beth was fully awake and propped on her elbows, looking at him with concern.

He covered the phone with his hand. “It’s Mitch.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah.” Her tone had been sorrowful. His, pissed.

He shared a lot of history with Mitch, who was a detective in the Crimes Against Persons unit, which John headed. Mitch was a decorated Marine special ops veteran, a former DEA undercover agent, and also John’s most trusted confidant, his go-to backup guy, and longtime best friend.

Clarence was asking John what he wanted to be done with him. “For now, leave him in the tank.”

“He’s being real… vocal.”

“Ignore him. Whatever he says, no matter how offensive, don’t respond, or he’ll just keep doing it. I’ll deal with him when I come in.”

“All right, sir.” The young cop hesitated, then said, “I’m awful sorry about this. I know y’all go way back. He didn’t give me a choice, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

After disconnecting, John stayed as he was, tapping his phone against his chin, staring thoughtfully at the floor, until he felt Beth’s cool hand on his back.

For a moment, he let himself enjoy her comforting touch, then turned and took her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed her palm. She asked what had happened, and he gave her a recap.

“Is he all right?”

“Unruly and rowdy, as only Mitch can be.” Then, temporarily shaking off thoughts of his next face-to-face with his friend, he placed his hand on Beth’s distended abdomen. “How’s the little fellow treating you tonight?”

“He kicked in protest when you left us to answer the phone. He knows your touch.”

“Give me a break. My hand is bigger and heavier than yours, that’s all.”

“He knows you.”

“You think? Really?”

“Um-huh.”

Pleased, he said, “I wouldn’t mind him coming out asking, ‘Where’s Dad?’”

Beth smiled and drew him down to her. Against his lips, she whispered, “And you’ve actually got people believing you’re a badass.”

The following kiss was deep, long, loving. When he broke it, he nuzzled her neck and snarled, “I am a badass, woman, and don’t you forget it.” Laughing softly, she pushed him away.

But John’s playful mood didn’t last. As he got up, he said, “I definitely need to be one this morning.”

The midsummer humidity of Louisiana could drain an individual of all vitality within minutes. In Auclair, which was virtually surrounded by bayous and swampland, the heaviness of the atmosphere also lent an aura of somnolence to the streets of the small city.

Along John’s route to work, few homes gave any indication that the residents were up and about yet. Even the breeze was desultory, barely disturbing the stringy gray moss that draped the far-reaching branches of stately live oak trees.

But this seemingly lazy Sunday morning was a deceptive harbinger of what the day would bring. John knew that all hell was about to break loose.

When he arrived at police headquarters, personnel who’d worked the graveyard shift were drifting out; the day force was coming in. He bid greetings to those he passed on his way up to the CAP unit, but didn’t stop to talk with anyone except for Patrolman Clarence, who answered a few terse questions John put to him.

There really wasn’t much more for the young cop to report except that Mitch’s invectives had turned increasingly abusive before he’d finally settled down.

John thanked the officer for the update, went into his office, and called the police superintendent. He caught him sleeping in, but he had wanted to inform him of Mitch’s misbehavior before the grapevine could beat him to it.

“It’s your department, John. I trust you to deal with him as you see fit.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

After signing off, John took the stairs down to the basement and briefly consulted the three officers on duty in the jail. He was told that only one cell was occupied and was pointed toward the last one in the row.

John left them and approached the barred cubical enclosure.

Mitch was half reclined on the bunk, propped up in the corner formed by pitted concrete walls. His feet were planted on the stained mattress, his head bent over his knees, which he was hugging to his chest.

Whether he had heard John’s arrival or merely sensed his glowering presence, he raised his head and said sourly, “About time.”

Upon hearing that, the cops on duty stopped whatever they were doing. Mitch seemed either not to notice or not to care that the two of them had an audience, although John was keenly aware of it.

Mitch lowered his stockinged feet to the floor, stood up, and gave a shudder like a dog coming awake. Placing his hands in the small of his back, he arched it and stretched. He popped his neck, rolled his shoulders, then ambled over to the bars separating him from John.

A trail of dried, crusty blood extended down from his earlobe onto his neck and the collar of his rumpled shirt. His eyebrows were drawn into a frown that hooded his eyes. Piercing blue and sniper sharp, they managed to project hostility and insolence despite being bloodshot.

He said, “Took you long enough. Didn’t they call you?”

“Yeah, they called me. Told me they had a drunk and disorderly asshole in the tank. A repeat troublemaker who might have gone too far this time.”

Mitch snorted. “Oh, like you’ve never been shit-faced. Many a time when you and Jose Cuervo were like this,” he said, crossing his fingers, “I had to come along behind and scrape you off the floor. Remember?” When John didn’t respond, he huffed and said, “Whatever, bro. Just get me out of here.”

John held Mitch’s surly stare for so long, the officers watching became uneasy. There was a shuffling of feet, an exchange of wary glances, a quiet cough. Finally, John motioned the officer at the desk to remotely open the cell door.

The mechanism squeaked, and steel clanked against steel as the door slid open. “That needs some WD-40,” Mitch said as he walked out of the cell. Sidestepping John, he yawned and said, “Man, do I look forward to grabbing some z’s in my own bed. See you tomorrow.”

John let him get a few feet past him, then grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him around, and slammed him back against the bars of the cell.

“What the fu—”

“Shut up,” John said, getting right in his face. “Just shut up.”

Mitch retaliated by ramming his shoulder into John’s chest. But John shoved him back, hard, and held him against the bars with a hand on each of his shoulders. “Only because, only because you did have to scrape me off the floor a few times, I’m going to do you a favor and give you a choice.

“Option one. You can choose to be booked right now, stay in here until you’re arraigned or until you can persuade somebody to bail your sorry ass out. Or, option two, you can go home, wash off your awful stink, and, within one hour, report to the unit, where you’ll call the owner of the place you busted up. You’ll plead with him not to press charges in exchange for covering the cost of repairs. Then, I expect you to be ready to perform your assigned duties. And I had better not smell any gin on your breath or discover it’s not water in your YETI.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I don’t care if it’s the second coming,” John fired back. He released one of Mitch’s shoulders and pointed an index finger directly at his nose. “Within one hour, Mitch. If you don’t show up, I’ll issue a warrant. Public intoxication. Assault. Destruction of property. Any damn malfeasance I can think of. And I am not bullshitting you.” John released him and took a step back. “What’s it gonna be?”

Mitch’s chest rose and fell with outrage. His eyes glittered with fury. Between clenched teeth, he said, “Take a wild guess.”

“Option two? Good.”

“My truck’s at the bar. Unless it’s been stolen.”

John looked over at the speechless officers who’d witnessed the scene. “Return him his belongings, then somebody drive him over to get his truck.” He came back around to Mitch. “See you in an hour.”

Mitch’s heavy-duty SUV was where he’d left it parked behind the bar, and it appeared not to have been messed with. As he pulled onto the road, he lowered the driver’s window because John had been right. He stunk.

He wore the stench of the cleaning agent used in the drunk tank. While strong enough to make your eyes water, it failed to eradicate the rank odors of unwashed bodies, vomit, piss, misery, and despair, all of which seemed to have seeped into his pores.

It was a cloudy morning and all the window shades in his apartment were down, so the rooms were gloomy, but he didn’t bother to turn on a light until he went into his bathroom. The fixture above the sink was bright, its glare unforgiving as it shone down on him. If a casting agent was looking for someone to play the skid row bum, he’d get the part, hands down.

He brushed his teeth ruthlessly, but shaved with care, gingerly guiding the razor around the cut on his neck. The neck of that broken bottle had come perilously close to his carotid.

In the shower, he lathered twice and scrubbed his hair and scalp. Clean and dressed, he checked his watch and figured he had time for at least one cup of coffee, which he was in desperate need of.

He made quick work of brewing one, then, holding the steaming mug in one hand, he used the other to call a number he had on speed dial. His mother-in-law answered.

“Good morning, Mitch.”

“Morning, Mary. I called to apologize for not making it last night.”

She waited for a count of five before responding. Her frequent pauses like that were intended to underscore his shortcomings. “I had told Andrew you were coming. He kept his nose pressed to the window watching for you, asking when you would get here, and whining as it got later. He wound up crying himself to sleep.”

Mitch set his coffee mug on the dining table and pressed against his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “I got held up at work. By the time I got free, there was no sense in driving to Lafayette. Andrew would have already been in bed.”

“You could have called.”

“It got late. I didn’t want to disturb you and Hank. I’m sorry. Now please put Andrew on the phone.”

“Hank is getting him dressed. We’re about to leave for Mass.”

“I know what time Mass starts, Mary. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yes, just time enough for a quick hello/goodbye from you that will get Andrew upset again. As happens every time you call.”

“An indication of how much he loves me, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never disputed that he loves you.”

The following five-count pause was to remind him that he’d brought this separation from Andrew on himself.

Then she said, “It sounds like he’s putting up a fuss about having to wear shoes. Hank needs help. Thank you for the apology.”

And just like that, the phone went dead.

Mitch cursed, dropped his phone onto the kitchen table, and covered his face with both hands. He inhaled and exhaled heavily several times, trying to get a grip on himself and suppress a riot of emotions.

But they were irrepressible. He swiped at tears that filled his eyes as the ever-simmering anger boiled up inside of him seeking an outlet, a target on which to direct his wrath with the impetus of a wrecking ball.

His mother-in-law? The exchanges like they’d just had, where more was left unsaid than spoken, didn’t change or improve anything, so what purpose would be served by a full-out go-round with her? It would only create additional tension, which Andrew would sense, and that would be detrimental to a child not yet three years old. He didn’t want to alienate Mary, anyway. She’d suffered just as he had. For the time being, Andrew needed her, and so did he.

To direct his anger at God would be a validation of his existence, which he, once a faithful believer, had soundly denounced.

But this seething rage that he’d lived with for two years was all-consuming and combustible. The only way he was ever going to be free of it was to rain down hell on the persons responsible for it.

He lowered his hands from his face and looked at the framed photo on his dresser, which he’d taken on the day of Andrew’s christening. Angela, holding the baby in the cradle of her arms, was beaming into the camera, radiating joy.

“Angela,” he whispered hoarsely, “I swear by the devil himself, we’ll have our vengeance.”

Mitch made it to the CAP unit with minutes to spare. As he pulled out his desk chair, he looked toward John’s office. Through the window in the door, he saw John check his wristwatch.

“Sanctimonious son of a bitch,” Mitch muttered, then looked around to see if anyone in the unit had been observing or eavesdropping, and saw that most, if not all, currently pretending not to, had been. Sure as hell, by now the antagonistic scene in the drunk tank had been recounted dozens of times throughout the entire PD.

He tried to appear nonchalant as he booted up his computer in order to find the phone number of the bar where he’d wreaked havoc last night. It was owned by a guy he knew only by his first name. When he got him on the phone, he said, “Gus, Mitch Haskell. Please don’t hang up on me.”

He humbly offered to foot the bill for repairs in exchange for Gus not pressing charges. Gus was querulous and slow to forgive until Mitch turned on the charm—which once upon a time he’d been reputed to ooze. “Look, I admit that I was a jerk. You have every right to be pissed over the damage I did.”

“It’s not just that, Mitch. I thought you’d given up the booze.”

“I had. What can I say? I backslid.”

“To the max. You were out of your head. Violent. You threatened to cut my bartender’s throat.”

“I’ve got no excuse, Gus.”

“No excuse, maybe,” the man said around a heavy sigh, “but you’ve got a damn good reason.” When Mitch said nothing in response to that, Gus continued. “Everybody knows about… well, your wife and all. And it sucks. Big time. In light of that, I’m willing to cut you some slack. I’m not going to press charges.”

“Thank you.” To lighten the mood, he said, “Tell you what. Cost of damages plus a bottle of Beefeater to replace the one I broke.”

“Two bottles.”

“Deal.”

“Not quite. There are a few chairs I’ve got to replace. And that mirror was all I had left to remember my wife by.”

“I didn’t know she’d died.”

“She didn’t. She split. But still.”

Mitch chuckled. “To all of the above, okay.”

“Now we have a deal,” Gus said. “You know, Mitch, for a cop, you’re okay. I like you. I appreciate your patronage. But you gotta go easy on those double straight-ups.”

“As my pal John Bowie keeps reminding me.”

“Which brings me to something else. I don’t want Bowie on my case for overserving you, so I’ve instructed the bartenders to cut you off after two. Got it?”

“Yeah. Got it.” Mitch asked him to figure up what he owed. “And thanks again, Gus.”

As Mitch was disconnecting, John came out of his office and walked over. Before John could say anything, Mitch held up his hands in surrender. “Gus is a decent guy. After some initial grumbling, we came to terms, and he agreed not to press charges. He accepted my apology and even told me he likes me.”

“Glad to hear it. Also glad you came in.”

“In under an hour, too.”

“You look better. Smell a hell of a lot better.”

“I had only one way to go.”

“You hungry? Beth offered to cook breakfast for us.”

Mitch patted his middle. “Thank her, but the tummy isn’t quite settled yet. Even coffee didn’t sit well.”

John nodded but did so absently. He kept his eyes lowered as he contemplated the toes of his boots, then he lifted his head and said quietly, “Before I left the house this morning, Beth brought it to my attention that yesterday was the second anniversary of—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Did the date have anything to do with your bender last night?”

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, that’s too bad, Mitch. You’ve got to talk about it.”

“Wrong, bro. I don’t gotta.”

“You do gotta. I’m making it mandatory.”

Mitch recoiled as though he’d been clipped on the chin. “Excuse me?”

John repeated the simple statement, adding, “I consulted the superintendent this morning and got his backing. His full backing.”

Mitch took a swift look around the large room. The detectives and uniformed officers scattered throughout it had made themselves appear busy, but he knew that they were attuned to what was taking place at his desk. Everyone in the department knew that his relationship with John was an unshakable, long-lasting friendship.

It had begun when they were partnered as detectives. Working together like a well-oiled machine, the partnership continued until Mitch was recruited by the DEA, based on his covert mission experience in Afghanistan.

Then, a few years later, and coinciding with Mitch’s decision to quit the undercover work, John had cracked a cold case, the famous Crissy Mellin case, which his now-wife Beth had documented on the true crime TV series Crisis Point.

The fallout from John’s investigative work, and Beth’s compelling documentation of it, had culminated with the exposure of rank corruption within the CAP unit. The head of it was indicted, tried, and convicted of numerous felonies, including the murder of one of his own henchmen. He was presently serving what amounted to a life sentence.

John had subsequently been appointed to take over the leadership position of the unit, and one of his first moves had been to bring Mitch back into the PD. They’d picked up where they’d left off years earlier, working in tandem. Although it wasn’t official, it was universally understood that Mitch was John’s second-in-command.

Everyone in the department knew the strength of their bond. They had few, if any, secrets from each other. They’d seen each other at their ideal best and at their most miserable worst. For years, they’d served as each other’s sounding board. Even if they disagreed, nothing had ever created a fissure in their friendship. No one had ever seen John pull rank on Mitch. He never had.

Until this moment.

“Let’s go into the office,” John said. “We’ll talk there.”

“I’m not going to talk about it in there, or out here, or anywhere. You ordered me to resume my duties. That’s what I’m going to do.” He swiveled his chair around and brought his computer to life.

John swore under his breath, then reached over Mitch’s shoulder and laid a sheet of paper on his keyboard. Mitch picked up the sheet, read what was on it, and turned his chair back around to face John. “What’s this?”

“Exactly what it looks like. A list of names with their contact info.”

“Huh.” Mitch raised the sheet closer to his face and scrutinized it. “I can’t help but notice that all these people are designated as doctors.”

“Of psychology.”

“Shrinks?”

“Therapists.”

“Huh,” Mitch said again. “Why are we investigating them? What are they suspected of? Overcharging the unbalanced among us?”

John’s eyes took on a familiar, quelling glint, but his tone of voice remained even. “These psychologists have ranging experience counseling law enforcement officers specifically, but all have excellent credentials and reputations.”

“Says who?”

“I’ve vetted them myself.”

“No one would ever accuse you of being a slacker, John.”

John gave him a stern, “cut the crap” look. “Pick one.”

“Pick one?”

“Doesn’t matter to me which one you choose. All have agreed in advance to see you no less than twice a week for the next six weeks. If you stay sober till then, and the chip on your shoulder has shrunk to the size of a pimple, I’ll consider cutting the sessions to one a week.”

Mitch took another survey of the room as though to ask those eavesdropping if he’d heard right. Coming back to John, he huffed a laugh. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“No. You won’t seek help on your own, so I am making it compulsory. You’ll continue your duties and draw full pay. That is unless you fall off the wagon like you did last night. If you do that, I’ll have no choice but to suspend you.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious. Because you’ve got a serious problem, Mitch, and, before you react, please hear me out.” His expression changed to one less stern. “You’ve got to unload to somebody about Angela. You can’t keep it bottled up, or it’s going to destroy you. Will you ever get over losing her? No. But you’ve got to learn some coping skills. You need professional guidance on how to deal with it.”

“I’ll deal with it how I choose to.”

“You’re not dealing with it at all.”

“Well, I don’t need guidance. Coping skills? What the eff? That’s all bunk.”

“Says the guy who last night got drunk on his ass, brandished a broken bottle at a man, and then passed out and fell down face first.”

“That was an isolated—”

“Not that isolated. You think I don’t know that you fell off the wagon weeks ago, and that since then you’ve been half drunk half the time? You need help. You won’t talk to me or Beth, and both of us have tried to get you to open up. You won’t talk about it with your in-laws. They tell me—”

“You’ve taken this up with my in-laws? Behind my back?” he shouted. “Damn you, John. Where do you get off—”

“Your mother-in-law told me you’re reluctant even to speak Angela’s name.”

Mitch shot up out of his chair, his hands forming fists at his sides.

John didn’t even flinch. “What? Are you going to hit me?” he asked with maddening composure. “Threaten me with a broken bottle? Give me no choice but to fire you?” He waited, and when Mitch only stood there steaming, he said, “I’m begging you to listen to reason.”

He leaned down and picked up the sheet of paper, which Mitch had dropped when he came out of his chair. John pushed it toward him and pressed it against his chest, holding it there.

“Call one of these doctors today and make an appointment for tomorrow. If I don’t hear from one of them telling me that you’ve had your first session, don’t bother coming in on Tuesday. Are we clear?”

“You son of a bitch. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“I’m being your friend. I am your friend. I’d be no friend at all if I turned a blind eye and let you continue as you are.” He applied pressure to the sheet he still held against Mitch’s chest, then removed his hand.

Mitch caught the piece of paper as it fluttered toward the floor. He ripped it in half, then in half again and tossed the pieces into the air.

Unfazed, John said, “I’ll text the list to you. Think hard on this, Mitch. If you don’t care about what you’re doing to yourself, think about what you’re doing to Andrew.”

“Don’t… don’t…” He pointed his index finger at John’s face, but realized his hand was shaking. “Fuck you.” He shoved his chair under the desk and stormed out, glaring at anyone who dared to make eye contact.

It turned ugly there at the end,” Roland Malone said into his phone. He’d been relating to the man on the other end of the call what he’d been told by his plant in the Auclair police department about the drama that had played out there that morning.

While giving the account, Roland turned the signet ring on his right pinkie ’round and ’round his finger, as was his habit. Since he was never without the heavy gold ring with the ruby stone, one would assume it was a family heirloom with sentimental significance. In a way, it was.

Roland had taken it as a trophy off the first man he had killed: his father. He’d been fifteen. He’d fled the Bronx that day, wound up in New Orleans, and had never looked back. He considered the ring his good luck charm.

He continued his account of the standoff between John Bowie and Mitch Haskell. “My mole said their body language toward each other spoke louder than words. They looked close to coming to blows. Shocked the hell out of everybody within earshot. Nobody in the room said anything or barely breathed for a full five minutes after Haskell left, like he’d sucked all the oxygen from the place, created a vacuum.”

“And Bowie?”

“Went into his office and closed the door. He made a couple of phone calls, then left, looking like a thundercloud.”

“Hmm.”

Roland knew that sound. It was his cue to stop talking. The man he did special jobs for often lapsed into contemplative silences. He never missed anything, not a beat, not a single minute detail, but he liked to mull over new information before proceeding with either further discussion or swift and decisive action.

On the street, Roland’s partner in crime was called Oz. Like in the story, nobody knew the god-figure’s identity, but he seemed omnipotent. His nickname, even spoken in a whisper, evoked terror.

Roland, who didn’t suffer fools, held Oz in high regard. He was damn smart and ten times as careful. He had to be in order to maintain such a high public profile while simultaneously running the largest illegal drug trafficking operation in the southeastern United States. It was a dicey juggling act, but not only did Oz manage to pull it off, he’d mastered the art of deception.

While waiting out Oz’s ruminating, Roland patiently played with his signet ring. Oz finally broke his silence. “New topic. What about the skimmer?”

“Adler? Still skimming. You told me to hold off till I had indisputable proof.”

“Well?”

“Now I do. I had a nanny cam installed in his base of operation, a ratty apartment out near the airport. This past week alone, he dealt himself ten K off the bottom of the deck. Camera shows him stowing the cash in a hole in the floor covered up by a leopard print rug.”

“Indicating that he’s too stupid to work for me,” Oz said. “Stupid people are high risk.”

“I agree.”

“What kind of ripple effect would it have to take this Adler out?”

“None to the business,” Roland assured him, and went on to recommend a young man from El Paso who was eager to relocate out of a zone that had become hot for him.

“He’s been in the business since he could wipe his own butt. Knows it inside and out. Tough, savvy, has an attitude, and is as mean as hell.”

“Then why is he eager to relocate?”

“Outrunning a girl he knocked up. Plus her brothers. Anyhow, he’s qualified. He can slip right in and take over for Adler, who won’t be missed except maybe by his current squeeze, who’s also his best customer. Cokehead.”

“Dispense with her, too. Make their departure from this life one for the record books. Grisly enough to change the mind of anyone with an idea to cheat me.”

“Consider it done. Anything else?”

“Mitch Haskell.”

Roland made a sound of dismissal. “Not a worry. He’s history.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s like a lit fuse. You know, like in the movies. It burns slow, then kaboom.”

“He’s a drunk. No kaboom left in him.”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s hit rock bottom and proved it last night. Even his bosom buddy John Bowie has written him off. Good as, anyway.”

After a moment of thought, Oz said, “Well, I’m not ready to write him off. Bowie issued an edict. Haskell may cave to it.”

“And start seeing a shrink?” Roland scoffed. “Doubtful.”

“But possible.”

“Okay, possible. But so what if he does?”

“I don’t want him out there stirring up chatter about what happened to his wife.”

Oz had a point, but Roland wouldn’t exactly classify going to therapy as “stirring up chatter.” Therapists abided by the same rules as lawyers and medi