Chapter 49
FORTY-NINE
Blakely
I stomped up the flight of stairs and yanked open the door to Dr. Mann’s office. The waiting room was thankfully empty, but for Megan, who was sitting behind her desk, intently typing with her eyes narrowed on her computer screen.
“Hi, Blakely, it’s nice to see you. Dr. Mann is running a little behind, but if you want to take a seat?—”
I cut her off with a frustrated groan and glanced over her head at the clock on the wall. It was five minutes past my appointment time, which only made my irritation grow.
Begrudgingly, I slumped into the chair closest to her desk and tried not to appear as angry as I felt.
“I know it’s frustrating—he runs behind quite often, but at least he’s good at what he does,” Megan said. Her smile was small and apologetic, and although it didn’t help, I appreciated her attempt at curbing my frustration.
I nodded and barely managed a small smile back. “Sure.”
“And he’s a really good boss, too. He’s always been fair, even when he left?—”
The door to my left opened, and Dr. Mann stepped into the room, his client likely taking the back staircase rather than walking through the waiting room. “Blakely?” he prompted, and I was out of my chair in a second flat.
Dr. Mann stepped aside as I brushed past him and into the office, dropping my bag by the couch but bypassing my usual spot to pace back and forth behind it. I wished it were possible to walk off anger, but I was shit out of luck.
“An emergency appointment and pacing back and forth?” Dr. Mann asked. “Want to tell me what spurred this?”
“It’s been almost two weeks,” I explained, tugging my hair and twisting it into a bun at the back of my head. “He’s been MIA for two weeks , so why did he decide to pop back up now?”
Undisturbed by my pacing, Dr. Mann took his usual seat in the leather chair. “I’m going to guess that by ‘he’ you mean the stalker?”
I stopped at the word and the casual way he tossed it out. But it wasn’t him who had the…stalker. The stalker was mine, so why would he have an issue using the word? It didn’t make him want to itch his skin off and find the deepest, darkest hole to bury himself in.
“Yes,” I said, continuing my pacing. Reaching one end of the couch, I pivoted and went back the other direction, repeating the pattern over and over again.
“What happened?”
I sighed. “I went to check my mail this morning, and with my water bill and a misaddressed postcard meant for my neighbor were a handful of black roses…”
I didn’t say anything else, letting the words hang between us as I gave up pacing for the moment. I stared down at my shaking hands and took a deep breath.
Over the past two weeks, I’d stayed with Devon every single night. I’d offered to find a hotel or rent someplace else, but there was no point arguing with him. He wanted me to stay, wanted me close, and I wanted to be near him as well. And with his little apartment above the garage, it didn’t feel so much like we were sharing a home with his mother. She didn’t like climbing the stairs to his apartment anyway.
Tato had also gotten over his concern about Stormy, and they’d formed a mutual respect for one another. They got within a few feet of one another without the other scurrying away.
Tato and I were both mostly settled at Devon’s place, so I only went back to my house when I needed to switch out clothes or check the mail. Every time I walked in there, I still felt like the air had changed. Like his presence was lingering over my furniture and embedded in the paint.
Everything I’d very thoughtfully chosen only a few months ago was tainted by him. And I didn’t even know who he really was.
“Flowers? Was that all?”
Dr. Mann’s questions snapped me back to the present, and I jerked my head in his direction.
“What?”
His stare was expectant and unwavering as he asked again, “Was there only flowers in the mailbox? You sounded like you were going to say something else.”
I shook my head and resumed pacing. “No, it wasn’t just flowers.” My anger wavered for a moment when I thought about the letters and the word written on the inside of the petals. I forced myself to swallow around the rising bile and the pressure in my chest. “He wrote “ broken” on the petals. On the inside of the fucking petals.”
We were both quiet for a second, considering what I’d just said. He’d gone to the extent of carefully writing each letter on the inside of the petals without removing them from the rest of the flower. Because he knew the impact that word had. He’d said it so much during those months that I started to think it was my name by the time I was finally free.
That was all he wanted: to break me so completely that there was no way I could come back from it .
But it didn’t work. I felt broken for a long time, but it wasn’t permanent.
What I didn’t expect was for him to continue trying long after I’d escaped.
“You sound angry,” Dr. Mann remarked, and I turned to consider him. Seated in his chair, an ankle propped on the opposite knee, with his fingers steepled in front of his chest, he was so calm. I wished I could be that calm.
“I’m fucking pissed ,” I seethed instead.
“Can you explain the rage to me?” I balked at his question, but he shook his head and quickly added, “I’m not questioning whether the emotion is valid, I just want to talk through it. Where do you feel that emotion in your body?”
Quickly, I tamped down my annoyance and confusion because I was in therapy, of course he wanted to discuss my emotions. Emotions that were making me overreact to everything.
“I feel it everywhere. He held me hostage for months. He kept me in a basement, fed me barely anything, and psychologically tortured me, but that apparently wasn’t enough. Does he not have anything better to do with his time? Why can’t he leave me alone? I’m not that important!”
Dr. Mann only raised his eyebrows, likely not prepared for my outburst. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d yelled, but it actually felt good.
“I just thought he would’ve moved on by now. Why is torturing me and stalking me so much fun? What does he want from me?”
“You may never know his thought process, Blakely. And that being said, I think we need to work toward accepting that.”
I groaned and finally slumped down onto the couch. “Yes, I know, I just wish I understood. What’s the point?”
“If it means that much to you, then let’s talk through it. If you had to guess, what is the point?”
I tugged the pillow into my lap and squeezed it before I began fidgeting with the edge of the fabric. I’d thought a lot about it over the past few weeks. Since Nick Hammond, the peanut butter cookies, and the photos, every day I’ve considered what his motive might be. And maybe if I did know, I would have felt more comfortable leaving the house. But it had been hard when I didn’t know what might happen next.
Two weeks without anything new made me cocky. Like maybe I could leave Devon’s house and not find something in my fucking mailbox. Although the cops hadn’t made any progress on finding him, I felt like maybe he’d lost interest.
I was wholly wrong.
“I have lots of theories,” I admitted.
“Share them, please.”
With a sigh, I began, “I think maybe it’s obsessive? Which sounds conceited because I’m not worth obsessing over, but…maybe he just can’t let it go. I escaped, whether intentional or not, and maybe he feels like he can’t let it go because, for him, it’s not over. And maybe he’s looking for reactions and taunting me until he strikes once again.” I shook my head and cleared my throat. “But stalking me, trying to scare me? It feels cowardly. Leaving notes and flowers…it makes me angry. It’s pathetic.”
Dr. Mann coughed, and I looked up from my lap to find him taking a sip of the water next to him. He sat back. “Those are all very good theories, but Blakely, I’m more concerned about you in all of this.”
“I’m concerned about me, too,” I answered honestly. “Because I’ve never felt anger like this before.”