Chapter 7
ENTANGLEMENT
LONDON
Breaking glass. Twisted metal. Ground flesh against asphalt. The smell of gas.
I relax my eyelids, trying not to force the memory. “It’s all darkness after that,” I say, lacing my fingers together on my lap. “Can I open my eyes now?”
I hear Sadie draw in a deep breath. “Let’s try a little longer. Practice your breathing technique. Let the darkness settle over you.”
With a resigned nod, I fill my lungs through my nose. Hold for five seconds, then expel the breath from my mouth slowly. I do this four more times. Each deep inhalation sends a sharp pain into my lower back. My hands clench into fists as I release another lungful, freeing a muttered curse.
I open my eyes. “The pain’s too much today.” I flex my fingers to work out the stress. “I’m sorry you came all this way.”
She tilts her head. “I’m not. No matter if we resolve anything in this session or not, I still get to visit with my friend.” Her smile is warm yet practiced. This doesn’t bother me, because it doesn’t mean she’s being insincere. Sadie just doesn’t experience emotions the way most people do.
Back in college, we noticed early on that Sadie exhibited traits consistent with antisocial personality disorder.
Which stems, at least in part, from a kidnapping she endured as a young adult.
She was tortured for days before she witnessed her abductor’s death during the rescue.
She’s been able to channel her traumatic experience into a passionate career as a criminal behavioral analyst.
Only those closest to her know that her practiced mannerisms are a performance to blend with society. It’s also why I requested she be here today, to help me work through some residual complications from my own past that I was never able to confront.
Or rather, refused to confront.
Sadie’s candor and insight might be uncomfortable for me, but she’s the only one who can give me the push that I need.
“You’ve really perfected the emotions thing,” I say, smiling. “But you don’t need to pretend with me, Sadie. You know this.”
Her features settle into their natural state. “I do it so often now, I barely notice. It’s like a reflex, as if I’m actually human or something.” She huffs a soft laugh.
I nearly reach out to her, but change course and pull my string from my pocket instead. Sadie is one of the only people I trust enough to let my guard down. “You’re as real as they come.”
Her expression shifts, more serious as she seizes a change in topic. “So, your most recent patient,” she says, “tell me about him.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Nice pivot.” She shrugs, unapologetic. “Well, since I can’t discuss our sessions…how do we do this?” I tighten the thread around my finger.
“You can tell me how the sessions are affecting you personally,” she says, “and why suddenly after all these years you’re thinking about the surgery.”
“Cause and effect.” I unwind the string. “It’s that simple, isn’t it?”
“It can be.”
I bury my thread in my pocket and cup my hands together, covering the scar along my palm. “I’m experiencing countertransference,” I confess to her.
Sadie shows no reaction. Countertransference is a normal occurrence in our field, a phenomenon where a therapist projects their own feelings onto a patient. Regardless of my training, I’m not immune.
“So this is the real reason why you asked me here,” she says.
“I mean, I am considering the surgery…but I also need to know if I should discontinue sessions with this particular patient.” My problematic attraction to Grayson is becoming more complicated.
She leans forward, and I notice for the first time that she’s wearing a V-neck shirt, allowing me a glimpse of the scar along her collarbone. Something she’s hidden since the day we met. “Are you agitated or anxious during the sessions?”
I think about our last session together. “Yes, sometimes,” I say.
“Do you think your back pain could be a distraction, some outside influence?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I wish it were that simple. I’ve dealt with that before.” I pause, mentally arranging my words before I’m able to voice them. “My attraction to him…it’s intense, Sadie.”
There’s no judgment in her green eyes. “Is it purely physical?”
I lick my lips. “It’s physical, and emotional, and something…
consuming. It feels dangerous.” I hold her eyes, then let a faint laugh slip to break the tension.
“Grayson is different,” I try to explain.
“He’s intelligent. Extremely intelligent and self-aware.
Passionate.” I inhale deeply. “And he might be the first patient I genuinely believe I can help.”
She studies me closely. “And you want that for him.”
“Of course,” I say honestly. “But he’s a manipulator, and I know the danger with manipulators. But I witnessed a breakthrough during our last meeting. I just need to work through what I’m experiencing, because I’m afraid without me, he’ll be sentenced to death.”
Sadie eases back in the chair—my chair. I’m the patient today. “You said the word afraid, London. Fear is a strong emotion. What else are you afraid of?”
I give my head a quick shake, a mock laugh held at the base of my throat. I know these tactics, I know the process, and yet it doesn’t make being in the hot seat any easier. “You want to know if there’s any correlation between my thoughts of surgery and my patient being on death row.”
She ticks her head to the side in a half shrug. “Is there?”
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “I don’t think there is. The reasons for why I’ve put the surgery off have nothing to do with how I’m reacting to my patient.”
“London, we’ve never fully addressed your survivor’s guilt,” she says, digging deep. “Are you taking any steps to finally confront it?”
“I’m considering the surgery, aren’t I?” I glance away, steal a steadying breath. “Sorry. I’m snappy today.”
“No, you’re right,” she says gently, unfazed. “It’s a significant step to accept you’re not responsible for your father’s death.”
Her words slice deep, provoking a reflex response just as sharp. “I have never said that I blame myself—”
“You’ve refused surgery that will correct your L-five and L-three injuries since the accident,” she says, pressing the matter.
“You live with the pain daily because you were driving the car that night, punishing yourself by holding onto guilt that isn’t yours.
And now, faced with a patient you truly believe you can help, who might be sentenced to death, you’re projecting your shame onto him.
If you fail to save Grayson, you’ll shoulder guilt for yet another life you couldn’t save.
Have you ever asked yourself why you feel this need to seek mercy for murderers in the first place? ”
Brutal honesty—what I asked for when I allowed Sadie into my mind. With a shaky hand, I wipe the perspiration from my forehead. When I look down, I glimpse the inked key beneath the layer of makeup. My temples pound in sync to my increasing heartbeat.
“I need a break,” I say, standing. I cross toward the mini-fridge and grab a bottled water, taking a long pull before I bring a bottle back for Sadie.
She accepts the water and sets it on the floor. “Too deep for a reentry session?”
I huff a laugh. Then serious, I look into her supportive gaze. “I killed my father.”
I’ve never said those words out loud.
Sadie doesn’t recoil. “The car wreck killed your father.”
I nod, even though I know better. “I identify with him,” I say quietly. That I’m referring to Grayson is understood. “My patient is the Angel of Maine. He kills ruthlessly, without mercy, despite what his moniker suggests. And yet, I can’t find a fault there. I feel no remorse for his victims.”
Silence falls between us, the quiet stretching until I can no longer stare at the floorboards. When I look up, Sadie’s expression still holds no hint of judgment, and somehow, that makes it worse.
“I know.” I remove my glasses and clear my bangs from my vision. “I need to stop the sessions with him.”
“No,” she says, surprising me. “You need to go deeper, trusting yourself to explore both transference and countertransference for both you and your patient.”
My brow furrows. “Psychoanalysis? I thought we agreed long ago that Freudian methods were outdated.”
“Or maybe I just thought you were shit with them,” she says with a smile, making me laugh. “But it would be a shame if you let the fear of a challenge prevent you from discovering something meaningful.”
“Challenge myself,” I say, steadying my voice. “Is that doctor’s orders?”
“In fact, it is,” she says, her expression brightening. “The real danger isn’t in developing personal feelings for your patient. We can handle that. A few sessions together, and we’ll resolve it. You’ll move forward with your career.”
I hang on to her last words, my breath stalled as I wait for the second half to drop. There’s always a downside.
Sadie leans in closer. “The danger lies in facing hard truths. There are doors our minds close to protect us, whether it’s blacked-out memories or denial—” her gaze doesn’t waver “—we’ve chained those doors shut for a reason.
Once you break the locks, there’s no going back.
You’ll be forced to accept a new reality, London, and that can be frightening. ”
I knew in asking Sadie here I wouldn’t be able to continue to hide the truth. She’s mastered her abilities. “I’m already scared that I’ve began the process.”
She reaches across to take my hand, and I let her. It’s the kind of comfort you offer someone when they’ve lost too much—the pure desolation of one’s soul. Although Sadie is here with me, I’m embarking on this journey alone.
I’m not afraid of what lies beyond the blackness. I know what’s there lurking, waiting. Threatening. I’m afraid that once I set it free, I’ll lose the last threads of my humanity.
“Tell me what happened before the wreck,” she says, her voice soft, encouraging. “Let me be your anchor.” Sadie’s hand closes over mine, holding on tighter.
Her question lashes out like a whip, cracking the seams of time, and the past bleeds into the room. First, a hazy red at the corners, then the dark blood of my memories.
So much blood.
If Sadie knew the truth—the whole story—then her advice to pursue a deeper connection with my disturbed patient might be different. Beneath my professional obligations to him, a voice whispers from the dark recesses of my mind.
A warning.
To protect myself, I have to escape Grayson.
He’s a danger.
I swallow hard. Once I begin the story, I don’t stop until I have no breath left to tell another soul. “He wore a key around his neck.”