Chapter Forty-One Jenn #2
I exhale. “Then she texted me a few hours ago asking to meet at a local park.”
Hazel eyes steady on mine, he leans forward on both forearms. “You went?”
I nod. “I did.”
“Right. So what did she say to you?”
“She gave me some information.”
When I don’t immediately continue, he waves a hand at me. “Care to elaborate?”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the possibility that he won’t believe me.
Or, worse, that he won’t care. Well, either way, it’s too late now; I have no choice but to trust my enemy.
Not if I have any hope of taking down the man who was once my mentor.
On the drive here, I debated whether to tell Kellogg about Sam being Mary.
Or is it Mary being Sam? There’s no doubt in my mind who the woman on that park bench was, but I have no concrete proof, so I choose to bypass that part and skip right to the thing that she’s entrusted me with.
I say a silent prayer and start at the beginning.
“Julian knew Sam. He’s always known Sam. He knew she and Mary were twins. He treated them both—for more than a decade.”
David’s body has gone completely still. He doesn’t even blink for several long seconds. I’m about to ask him if he’s all right when he finally speaks.
“She told you this?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“And you believe her?”
“I do. But, more to the point, she gave me Julian’s journals. It’s all in there. One journal for each girl for each year from age five to eighteen.”
At this he sits up straight, brows arching high. “Wait, wait, wait—you have his journals? As in his patient case notes?”
“Yes. I’ve just skimmed some of the parts she highlighted for me. Once I realized what it was I was reading, I knew I was in over my head. That’s when I decided to come here. To you.”
He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Seriously? Okay, so, confidentiality violations aside—”
“What confidentiality violations?” I break in. “They came from Sam herself. And Mary’s dead. The only one who didn’t give permission is Julian, and when I tell you the rest of this, you’ll see why it doesn’t matter.”
“Wait, so there’s more? More than him seeing both girls and never disclosing that? How much worse could it possibly get?”
I lean over, reach into my purse, and pull out one of the red leather volumes, and then I hold it up for him to see. “You need to see this entry from Sam’s journal from the year she was fifteen.”
“My reading glasses are inside. We can either go in, or you can just read it to me.”
“Right, okay . . .” I hold the book close to the lantern on the table between us.
There’s just enough light for me to see the pages.
“‘Samantha continues to respond favorably to our sessions. Her attachment to me is growing stronger, which aligns with what I’ve observed in cases of patients deprived of stable affection during formative years.
For her, the boundaries between professional guidance and emotional intimacy are blurred, as expected from someone who has never known genuine care.
I find it fascinating how her psyche is shaped by the lack of nurturing in her time within the foster care system.
“‘It is evident that she views our relationship as a source of comfort and security, the closest thing she’s ever experienced to love. While conventional views might frown upon such dynamics, it’s hard to ignore the therapeutic benefits she derives from it.
Rather than any harm, our interactions serve to fulfill an emotional void.
It’s more of an experiment in understanding how fractured development seeks repair, isn’t it? ’”
When I look up, Kellogg is sitting up straight, gaping at me.
“Holy shit. Is he saying . . . ?”
“That he was having a sexual relationship with her? Yes.”
“Son of a bitch!” he mutters harshly, slapping the glass tabletop hard enough to make it wobble. “Fifteen? She was just fifteen!”
His outrage reassures me he had no idea about any of this, and it emboldens me to continue.
“Dr. Kellogg, there’s more . . .”
His head tilts to one side, jaw locked, hazel eyes blazing. “Tell me.”
I set the one journal aside and pull the second out of my bag. I open it to the page that was dogeared for me when I received it. Then I clear my throat, and I begin.
“‘The situation with Samantha has taken an unexpected turn. Her pregnancy was not part of the plan, but it presents new variables for study. She was understandably distressed when she found out, but I’ve taken steps to handle the matter discreetly. Arrangements have been made for the child to be sent to a facility in the Midwest, the Harper Home for Children. It’s a place I trust, one where the child will be well cared for, out of sight and mind.
“‘I have no intention of telling Samantha where her child is. The knowledge of the baby’s whereabouts would only complicate things, especially given her emotional instability. She’s far too fragile to handle such responsibility.
Instead, the child will serve a dual purpose—an incentive for her cooperation, as well as a reminder of the consequences if she steps out of line.
“‘Samantha needs to understand that her future depends on my decisions, just as her child’s does. This arrangement ensures control over the situation, allowing me to guide her more effectively. She has already begun to grasp the importance of our bond, but now she will know how much further that bond extends.’”
With that, I close the book, set it down on the table, and look at the man sitting across from me.
He’s red—completely crimson—and I can feel the waves of fury radiating off him.
He takes several deep breaths through flaring nostrils, as if he can’t quite trust himself to speak yet.
When he finally does, his voice is frighteningly low.
“Where are the rest of those?” he asks, nodding toward the book.
“In my trunk.”
“Right. You go grab them while I put on a pot of coffee. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.
” I don’t know what it is that he sees in my expression—relief, maybe?
But he pauses and exhales deeply, holding my gaze.
“It’s okay, Jenn,” he says, using my name for the first time in recent memory.
“You did the right thing coming here. You can trust me.”
God help me, I believe him.