1. Kennedy
Kennedy
“Tell me what you’re so afraid of, Kennedy.”
Dr. Jacob King leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded like he was settling in for a story. I knew that look. It was the same one he’d given me a dozen times over the last few years. Calm and open, but sharp. He didn’t miss much.
I knew from past offhand comments that he was in his late thirties, but he could pass for younger if he wanted.
He was tall with sharp features softened by kind brown eyes, and just enough dark stubble along his jaw to make him look rugged.
His thick brown hair always looked like he’d run a hand through it two seconds before I walked in; effortlessly messy but still intentional.
I’d heard the whispers from other girls on campus. Everyone thought he was the hottest therapist in the student health center, and apparently, some students had faked panic attacks just to get a free session with him.
They weren’t wrong in their assessment of him. He was an attractive man, and I’d be lying if I said I’d never noticed the muscles straining against his button-down shirts. But I wasn’t here to simper over a sexy guy. I was just here for therapy.
“I think you already know what scares me,” I said. “I mean, we’ve talked about it a lot, right?”
“We’ve certainly explored many subjects over the last few years,” he replied, nodding slowly. “But here’s the thing: I can tell when a patient is holding out on me. And you definitely are.”
His tone was gentle, but there was steel underneath. He didn’t want to let me sidestep this.
“I only know what you’ve told me. And to be fair, you have told me a lot,” he continued, lifting a palm. “But I can sense it, Kennedy. There’s something else you’re afraid of. Something you haven’t said out loud after all this time. And that really worries me.”
I shifted on the couch, fingers twisting in my lap. I hated that he was right.
“I normally wouldn’t be this blunt, because I completely understand why people hold out sometimes.
In fact, it’s probably the most common issue a therapist will face with patients,” he added.
“But this is your last session. You’ve mentioned that you probably can’t afford regular therapy now, and our college-sponsored program only lasts for three months post-grad.
You graduated back in May, so that means today’s it . ”
“Unless you decide to start giving everyone free sessions out of the goodness of your heart,” I said with a sheepish half-smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.
I always did this when things started getting serious.
Dr. King had explained many times that it was a defense mechanism.
Something that distracted me from the discomfort of vulnerability.
From the parts of myself I didn’t want to look at too closely, and from the truths I still couldn’t say out loud.
He didn’t smile back. He just studied me, patient and steady, like he was waiting for me to run out of ways to avoid the real conversation. Finally, he raised a brow and spoke up again.
“You’ve made a lot of progress in our time together. When we first started, you were reeling from a serious mental health crisis and suffering from severe anxiety, panic attacks, and frequent nightmares.” He tilted his head. “Can you recall how often those nightmares occurred?”
“Every night. Sometimes more than once,” I said. “And the occasional night terror too. Also, there were a few, um… hypnagogic hallucinations, I think you called them?”
“That’s right,” he said. He paused and leaned forward. “You haven’t had a panic attack in over a year now. And you said the nightmares are down to once a week?”
“Yes. Also, I haven’t had a night terror or hallucination in a really long time. And definitely no major breakdowns. Not like…” I hesitated for a second, lowering my eyes. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“I do. But here’s the thing. While the nightmares have lessened in their frequency, once a week is still too often,” he said softly.
“You’re suffering from chronic anxiety, too, and that doesn’t just resolve on its own.
So while you’ve improved greatly through our work here, you won’t fully heal if you don’t face it.
All of it. That’s not just a cliché we therapists say to fill time.
It’s real. So I’ll ask again. What are you so afraid of? ”
“I guess…” I hesitated again, then forced myself to meet his eyes. “I’m afraid he’ll come back.”
Dr. King’s brow creased slightly. He didn’t ask who.
“The Carver,” I added just in case, a prickle crawling up the back of my neck. “You know how I saw him that night? Not his face, because of the mask, but… enough to know he was real.”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes I worry he’ll come back, because he knows I saw him. And maybe he’ll decide that he didn’t finish the job that night,” I went on. “That’s what scares me most of all.”
It was technically true. I was afraid that the Carver would return one day. But it wasn’t the thing I was holding back from Dr. King. Wasn’t the thing I was too afraid to say out loud.
I still couldn't bring myself to say it, though. I wanted to, but every time I got close, my thoughts spun out, my skin went hot, and my mouth clamped shut like it was wired that way. Then the words dissolved before they ever made it to my lips.
Also… I wasn’t just scared to admit the truth. I was ashamed, too.
It was utterly maddening, because I really did want help for my issues.
And Dr. King had helped me a lot so far, so I knew his advice was effective.
As he’d mentioned earlier, my night terrors were completely gone, and the nightmares were less frequent.
But I still wasn’t healed, and I wouldn’t be unless I fully opened up.
But I just couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried. I was the big stone wall standing in my own way.
Dr. King didn’t react to my answer right away. There were no visible signs of doubt or disbelief, but I knew he could tell I wasn’t being entirely honest. I saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, and the way his pen tapped against his clipboard once before stopping.
“All right,” he said evenly. “Thank you for sharing that. I can certainly understand why that’s a serious concern for you.”
He must’ve realized that I still wasn’t ready to share everything—not even after all this time—and he’d decided not to push me any further, despite his earlier determination to get it out of me for my own sake.
He leaned forward just slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “Let’s go over the coping and grounding techniques we’ve talked about, so we can ensure that you’re well-versed in them for the future. When you wake from a nightmare, what’s the first thing you do?”
I drew in a breath. “Sit up. Tell myself I’m safe. Try to identify what triggered the dream if I can.”
“Good.” He nodded. “And the breathing pattern?”
“Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight.”
He smiled faintly. “Exactly. And the memory anchors?”
I gestured toward the worn friendship bracelet on my wrist. “This. You told me to always wear something tactile. Something that reminds me I’m here , not in the past.”
“Good. And are you still journaling before bed?”
“Most nights.”
“Make sure to keep that habit going. You might not think it’s helping in the moment, but the routine itself reinforces your sense of control.”
I nodded, even though the word control felt laughable right now.
Dr. King straightened up, tapping his pen once more before setting it aside. He remained quiet for a moment, watching me in the way he always did when he was deciding whether or not to gently push against one of my boundaries.
Then he cleared his throat and finally spoke up. “Listen, Kennedy… this is probably going to sound inappropriate, so I want to preface it by saying that I’m not trying to cross any lines here.”
I raised an eyebrow, my interest piqued.
“Earlier, you made a comment about me giving free sessions. You may have thought it was just an offhanded joke, but sometimes jokes are reflective of real needs. And as I said before, I know your free sessions officially end today,” he continued.
“So… if things suddenly get worse, or if you ever just feel like you need to talk, I’m willing to meet with you. Informally. For no cost.”
He must’ve seen the flicker of surprise in my expression, because he quickly added, “I’m not offering this to anyone else. I can’t offer it to anyone else. If word got out, my job here would be on the line, for reasons I suspect are blindingly obvious.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“So I’m really hoping you won’t take this the wrong way and report me,” he went on, gaze not wavering from my face. “Because I know how it sounds, believe me.”
I studied him for a beat. I knew exactly how other young women in this situation might take his offer, but I was fairly sure I knew that look in his eye, and it wasn’t attraction. It was interest.
Not sexual or romantic interest. Academic, psychological interest.
He was fascinated by me. But not really me as a person. Just me as one of only four people who’d actually seen the Carver before he abducted a victim.
The look in his eyes was the exact same one my old high school therapist had back in the day.
That guy had constantly asked me about ‘the night of the murder’ like we were co-authoring a memoir when he was supposed to be helping me with my anxiety issues.
He’d eventually admitted he was writing a book on the Carver case.
Said I was one of his ‘primary sources’.
Basically… I’d been studied in that way before, and I didn’t like it very much. It was one of the main reasons I’d pushed back on Freya’s podcast idea at first. I knew what it felt like to be exploited by true crime aficionados, and I didn’t want to be the one doing the exploiting instead.
“Thanks, Dr. King,” I said, schooling my face into something neutral. “I’ll think about it.”