Chapter Thirty-One I Don’t Want to Be Here
thirty-one
I Don’t Want to Be Here
I walk into the psychiatrist’s office with a churning stomach and a heartbeat that’s vibrating in my throat. The walls are painted a soothing shade of blue, and soft music is playing from a small speaker in the corner, but I don’t feel soothed. I only feel dread.
“I’ve worked with Dr. Wilmer before,” Foster assures me when he sees my face. “She knows what she’s doing, I promise. She’ll talk you through the process.”
Dr. Wilmer is a petite woman in her forties.
Her gentle eyes observe me carefully as we exchange introductions.
I assumed Agent Foster would be in the room for this, so I’m startled when he makes himself comfortable on the love seat in the waiting area.
My heart beats even faster as I follow Dr. Wilmer into her office, watching her close the door behind us.
“I understand why you’re here, Ryan,” she says. “That you’re desperate for answers. But while hypnosis is a powerful tool, it’s not about forcing memories. It’s more about letting yourself experience them in a safe, guided way.”
I nod, trying to steady my breathing.
“Are you ready to start?”
“Already?” I say in surprise. I assumed she’d ask me a bunch of questions first, break the ice or something.
“Yes. Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow.” She gestures to a recliner. “Have a seat.”
I sink down, running my hands over the textured upholstery.
“Good. Now, close your eyes, Ryan. Let’s start with some relaxation.”
I follow Dr. Wilmer’s orders, focusing on the sound of her voice as she guides me through a visualization.
“Picture yourself on a quiet path,” she says. “There are trees surrounding you, and the sun is filtering through the branches. Feel the warmth, the peace.”
I do as instructed, trying to give myself over the imagery, allowing myself to drift away from the tension in my chest. Her voice soon becomes a soft rhythm, each word pulling me a little deeper.
I don’t know how much time passes, but it feels like it’s moving slower now. Like I’m experiencing it in a dream.
“Now, I want you to imagine a door. It’s a door that holds the memories you’re searching for. Behind it, there may be things you’re afraid to see, but remember—you’re safe here. You’re in control.”
I feel my hands clenching and force myself to uncurl my fingers. I keep breathing, imagining that door in front of me. It’s old and heavy, like it’s been locked for years.
“When you’re ready, Ryan, open the door. Tell me what you see.”
I exhale a shaky breath, and in my mind, I reach for the door handle. It’s cool to the touch, resistant at first. It doesn’t want to give in. But then, with a push, it creaks open.
Behind it, flashes of my father’s face appear, flickering like a film reel, fast and disjointed. My pulse quickens, but Dr. Wilmer’s voice holds me steady.
“What do you see?”
“There’s…I see a forest. We’re walking through it.”
“Who’s we, Ryan?”
“My dad. Me and my dad. We’re walking.” My fingers dig into the arms of the recliner.
“You’re doing great, Ryan,” she murmurs. “Take it slow. Let yourself see whatever comes.”
I try. I try hard to see. But there’s nothing. Just the trees and the leaves and the sunshine. “There’s nothing here,” I say in frustration. “It’s just the forest. The trail.”
“That’s all right. Keep breathing with me. Deep inhale, one, two…long exhale, three, four…”
I breathe with her. Inhale. Exhale. One and two and three and four and—
“We have to be fast, sweet pea. Before your daddy gets home from town.”
A gasp escapes.
“What is it, Ryan? What do you see?”
“My…mom.” Emotion fills my throat, making it hard to breathe.
I see her. Mom. Her cinnamon hair in a ponytail. Her eyes sparkling.
“She’s happy. We’re going to surprise him,” I mumble.
“Surprise who?”
“My dad. We’re going to his studio in the woods because Mom is looking for the portrait. She’s going to frame it for his birthday,” I say absently. “It’s going to be my present to him.”
“What portrait, Ryan?”
“Of me.”
In my mind’s eye, Mom and I walk into the studio, giggling to each other like coconspirators. She’s so…alive. Her skin is glowing. Sunshine streams in from the windows, casting warm stripes on the wooden plank floor.
“Your daddy is going to love this.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
I hear papers rustling as she flips through the sketches on Daddy’s big drafting table. I wander through the cabin, smiling at all the birdhouses in various stages of construction. We’re supposed to paint this one on the weekend. Daddy said so.
“Here we go!” Triumphant, Mom holds up the thick paper. My own face stares back at me. “Look how pretty you are.”
“Are you still in the studio, Ryan?” Dr. Wilmer now.
“Uh-huh. But we’re about to leave and—no, she’s stopping.”
“Careful, sweet pea. That board is loose.”
My throat is impossibly tight. I can’t breathe.
“Ryan?”
“She found the sketches.” I moan in despair. “Of his victims. She just found the drawings he hid under the floor.”
Dr. Wilmer’s tone becomes firm, but not aggressive. “What is your mom doing now?”
“She’s looking at them.”
I see her hands trembling. Her lips parting in shock.
“What’s wrong, Momma?”
She takes a ragged breath. “Nothing’s wrong, Gabby. C’mon. Let’s go back to the big house.”
“She slipped something into her pocket.” I bite my lip so hard it stings. “We’re leaving now. We’re back in the woods. We’re…walking. Home, I think.”
“Let’s refocus on your breathing, Ryan. I can see you holding your breath.”
I am?
Oh. Maybe that’s why my lungs are burning.
Dr. Wilmer softens her voice. “Deep inhale, one, two…long exhale, three, four…”
I breathe.
One and two and three and four—
“We’ll be there tonight. I just booked the flights. Please, Mom, stop. I’ll explain when Gabby and I get there. What? For Pete’s sake, no. No. Gabriel won’t be joining us.”
“I wanna talk to Granny!”
Mom covers the phone. “Gabby,” she chides. “I told you to go and pick a few toys to bring with you on our trip.”
“It’s the night he shot her,” I blurt out. “No. I don’t want to be here.”
“It’s all right, Ryan. You’re safe. You’re here with me. Just breathe.”
Flashes of that night play through my mind. The frantic packing. My confusion. The fear.
“What is this? Why do you have this?”
“She’s screaming at him,” I whisper.
“Your mother?”
“She’s screaming. And shaking. She’s waving something in his face.”
“Where are you, Ryan? Try to look around.”
My heartbeat is out of control. I try to focus on the scene, but it’s blurry. I see…the suitcase. The items strewn on the floor. She dropped them when he interrupted her.
“This is Leah’s! She was wearing it the night of the Starling Christmas parade. And those drawings of Anabel White!”
A desperate, animalistic wail reverberates through my head.
“Why was there blood on those sketchbooks? What have you done, Gabriel! What have you fucking done!”
“I don’t want to be here,” I whimper.
Panic shoots through me, making it impossible to remain in a relaxed state. Sensing that, Dr. Wilmer guides me back, her voice bringing me out of the visualization, grounding me in the room.
When I open my eyes, the sensation is almost surreal, as if I’ve just crossed back over from another world.
“How do you feel?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I was hoping…” I trail off, swallowing my disappointment. “I wanted a location.”
“I know. But as I told you, this process is not about forcing anything. If and when a memory surfaces, it will come naturally. If you find yourself having strange or lucid dreams over the next few days, don’t be alarmed.
Sometimes that happens with this process.
A memory might also hit you out of nowhere—that’s also normal. ”
I tune her out, too upset to focus. I’ve never been much of an optimist, but I truly believed this would work. That I would close my eyes and somehow have a memory of my father telling me where the bodies are.
I should’ve known better, though. Nothing in my life ever just…works.