CHAPTER 13
I’ve suffered a lot of injuries over the course of my life.
I’ve been hit, strangled, branded, abused in a number of ways.
This is as painful as any of those things.
Yet I keep coming back. Even though I have to because the Bureau requires it for me to keep receiving a paycheck, I still suspect that makes me a masochist.
Dr. Evangeline sits across from me in an overstuffed chair.
Today she’s wearing a tailored pantsuit in her signature color, white.
Pure, spotless white. As usual, I inspect her outfit, looking for a mark, a stain, anything that would suggest she’s the same species of human as me. But as usual, she’s flawless.
“I saw your picture in the paper,” she says.
I freeze. As far as I know, there wasn’t a story about me after the sniper attack.
It’s possible that I might have missed it, but if I did, I need to find out what it says.
What it reveals. What key piece of information some reporter might have inadvertently provided the next hitman that could improve their odds of success.
Or maybe I’m worrying about nothing. Surely someone would have said something if it were true.
And I haven’t been here for almost a month, not since I was placed on medical leave yet again after my most recent run-in with a serial killer.
It’s possible the picture she’s referring to appeared closer to our last appointment than this one.
But thinking about the most recent photograph of me that I’m aware had been printed, one where I’m sitting outside the shed where I’d been held captive, an incident I’d used to buy me as much time off from these weekly sessions as I was able, doesn’t make me feel much better.
“Your boyfriend was in it too. He’s very attractive, isn’t he?”
Exhaling with relief, I smile. She must be talking about the shot of Jake and me attending the annual Myers and Kleinman gala.
“I think so.”
She smirks in a way that suggests I just made the understatement of the year. I toss one right back at her because I’m feeling belligerent and fractious and maybe even a bit like I want to start a fight, even though it’s probably not a good idea to go to war with your therapist.
“That was a gorgeous dress you were wearing.”
“Is this what the Bureau’s paying you to talk to me about? Fashion?”
“To be honest? No. I’m sure they’d much rather that I was still trying to get you to discuss your time in Harold Griggs’ basement. Or how it felt to be kidnapped by a killer who tried to recreate that scenario for you.”
Oh. So she did see that picture. And read the accompanying article, apparently.
Dr. Evangeline sighs heavily.
“Listen, Cassidy. I know you don’t want to be here. I get it. For some people, being forced to talk about their feelings is just as painful as the trauma that caused them. And I’m going to be honest with you.”
I tuck my hands under the backs of my thighs, digging my nails in deep, bracing myself for what she’s about to say.
“I don’t think you need to be here. I think you’re just fine.”
That’s the last thing I was expecting to hear. Turns out, she isn’t as perfect as I thought, because she’s wrong.
“I know some time has passed since our last session, but after what happened to you, I’d expect you to be a wreck right now. Yet you’re not.”
Or I’ve just become a very good actress. Because while it’s true that I wasn’t completely re-traumatized by being kidnapped and handcuffed to a pole in a room designed to recreate the experience I had of being held by now-infamous serial killer Harold Griggs, I’m not okay.
My nightmares occur with even more frequency. I can still feel the hot breath of a panic attack on the back of my neck entirely too often. And though I’ve never been what you’d call a trusting person, now I have downright issues, suspecting people and their motives more than ever before.
“So I want to propose something new,” the doctor continues.
“Since you have to keep coming to these appointments for a while, why don’t we try to make this more enjoyable for you?
We can sit and chat, like friends. Or even just strangers in line at the grocery store.
Or, we can go back to me asking you questions you don’t want to answer.
It’s your call. Which would you prefer?”
I have no doubt that she’s up to something.
That there’s some kind of ulterior motive at play here.
But am I really going to pass up an opportunity to not be picked at like a peeling scab?
To seize whatever control over these sessions that I can manage, even if it means walking into some kind of headshrinking trap?
I don’t think I could make myself resist the offer no matter how hard I tried.
I’ll just have to watch my step and do my best not to reveal anything I don’t want to.
So basically, the only thing that’s changing is that instead of asking what she wants to know outright, she’ll have to work harder to try to trip me up. Works for me.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I think that talking like friends would be nice. Thank you.”
She gives me what’s perhaps the first genuine smile I’ve seen since we started these sessions. “Great. Now. Would you like to discuss your dress? Or is there something else you’d like to talk about?”
Even though she’s just cut me what feels like the deal of a lifetime, I’m still not sure I like this woman. And I know I don’t trust her. But is that because I always expect the worst from people? She certainly hasn’t done anything to merit it.
It’s possible that I’m letting my suspicions cloud the situation. If she’s offering an olive branch here, maybe I should take it. Because there is something I desperately need to talk about, but it can’t be with someone who knows Jake, which excludes anyone I’d normally speak to.
“Actually…” I draw it out, trying to buy time to change my mind. To my surprise, my resolve sticks, even after Dr. Evangeline leans forward in her seat like she’s preparing to hear some juicy gossip. And then I see it. A small makeup smear on the collar of her jacket. Maybe she’s human after all.
So I take the leap and ask, “Do you remember me telling you how I’d discovered that Jake’s mom had helped murder my parents?”
“That’s kind of a hard thing to forget.”
“Well, she just had her first pretrial hearing. At least, she was supposed to, but it was delayed. That’s beside the point, though. Jake and I were there. And, well, I’m not sure he’s okay.”
“It’s understandable for him to be upset.”
“I know. And I’ve told him that. But he keeps insisting he’s not.”
“Plenty of men keep their feelings bottled inside.”
“It’s more than just that. He’s hiding things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“He’s hiring a defense team for his mom. Which is fine. I understand.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“He’s not the one who told me. A coworker of his did.”
“Hmm.”
“And supposedly he lost his temper with an intern, which is completely out of character for him.”
“Anything else?”
“He spoke with his father.”
Dr. Evangeline’s expression makes it clear that she doesn’t understand why that would be an issue. And telling her feels like a betrayal of Jake’s trust. But he’s betrayed my trust. Besides, it’s not like she can share anything I tell her with anyone else.
Just to be sure, I ask, “Everything we say stays in this room, just between us, right?”
“With the exception of you telling me something that made me believe you intend to harm yourself or someone else, yes, you’re correct.”
I make a mental note where to draw the line on what I confess to her, then say, “Jake’s dad is an alcoholic. A rather abusive one. After his mom abandoned them, it got… really bad. He still has scars from the beatings he took as a child.”
My gaze drifts out the window to where a blue jay hops across a patch of grass, looking for food.
“And he was never removed from his home? DCF never intervened?”
“No.”
She makes a sound of disapproval. I ignore it and forge ahead.
“I, um, spoke with his father, not long ago. While I was there, he asked me to tell Jake that he’d like the opportunity to apologize. He wanted the chance to try to repair their relationship.”
“And you told Jake that?”
“Yes.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Not well.”
“And your concern is…”
“If he has no interest in repairing his relationship with his father, why did he go talk to him? And then not tell me about it?”
“I do see how that could be frustrating.”
“But considering the context, everything else that’s been going on, don’t you think I should be worried?”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“No.”
“You probably should.”
“I know. It’s just… why didn’t he tell me? It’s not like I would have been upset. Certainly not like finding out secondhand. Every time I open my mouth to say something—about any of it—I think that if he wanted me to know, he’d have told me himself.”
“It’s likely that’s true.”
My mouth goes dry, my tongue like sandpaper as I ask, “So then you don’t think I should talk to him?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. Keep my hands away from my hair so I don’t pull it out. Watch as she shifts in her seat, not meeting my gaze as she fidgets with the pen lying on the table beside her.
“Sometimes, the most important things we have to say are hardest to discuss with the people we love. It could be because we don’t want them to think we’re weak, or don’t want to disappoint them, or an endless variety of other reasons. But something of this magnitude?”
She leans forward and touches my hand. I’m shocked by the gesture, a lump of emotion forming in my throat.
“I can see how much this is bothering you, Cassidy. So my advice—as both a friend and a therapist—would be to confront him. Calmly. Hear him out. Be patient and don’t judge. Secrets like this are only going to grow until they come between you.”
I swallow hard, knowing that she’s right. But there’s another possibility, one I’m even more afraid of. Because sometimes secrets are glue and it’s the truth that tears you apart.