Chapter 5
Cynthia’s office felt heavier than usual the next day. I’d dreaded the session all morning. Maybe because things were supposed to be perfect now. Maybe because I knew they weren’t.
We got right into it.
“How are the nightmares going?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” I said, keeping my eyes on the wall behind her.
“Emily,” she said gently. “If you’re not honest with me, I can’t help you. These nightmares, they’re getting worse and worse. And they’ve been going on for how long now? Six months?”
Longer, technically. But things had gotten really bad around that time.
“Yes.”
She reached for the timeline we’d created together—a therapy tool meant to sort out the chaos and lay it down in a clear, linear order. I hated it. Not the tool itself, but what it suggested. And Cynthia knew I did. Her fingers paused on the folder, pulled it out halfway, then tucked it back in.
“These hallucinations—”
“They’re not hallucinations,” I corrected her. “I’m not crazy. I’m not seeing things. I’m not hearing voices. The doctor said I have NREM parasomnias. Confusion arousal, sleep terrors, and sleepwalking. I wake up confused. It’s from the nightmares and only happens after I wake up.”
She nodded.
The wall clock ticked steadily, filling the pause between us
“And it all started again about three years ago, right?” she finally asked. “And got even worse about six months ago?”
I didn’t answer. She knew why.
Her voice softened even more. “Emily, I’m not saying Daniel is bad for you. How could I? I’ve seen how happy you two are together. But we can’t ignore the fact that your nightmares came back for the first time in over a decade right after you met him.”
“I thought we agreed it’s because I feel unworthy of him,” I said, forcing conviction into my voice. “That I’m so undeserving of love, my mind twists it into fear. I turn my anxiety into dreams. Doubt. Nightmares.”
I sounded like I was trying to convince her. Maybe I was.
“So, you still worry he might not be real?”
“I know he’s real,” I said. And I did. At least in that moment.
At that time, sitting there, no part of me doubted Daniel’s existence.
The penthouse, the life we’d built together.
Real. No need to mention that I’d replayed last night’s recording that morning in the bathroom, just to be sure.
It was Cynthia’s technique. Hallucinations don’t replay. Real voices do.
“Of course, he’s real. But so are your fears. They’re real too, Emily.”
I nodded.
“Have you had any luck meeting his friends or extended family?”
“His parents died in a car crash.”
“I know. But what about uncles? Aunts? Cousins? Friends?”
“He doesn’t like talking about it. Because he doesn’t have anyone. Just like me.”
“But you do have family. You’ve just chosen to cut contact.”
“And if he did the same with his extended family, I’m sure he had a reason to do so. Why push him to talk about a painful past. Daniel is kind. Strong. The best man I know. I trust him.”
“He is. And I’m not accusing him of anything. I’m just looking at the pattern. The nightmares didn’t come back out of nowhere. They started when you met him. And they completely spiraled the week you moved in together.”
“Stress triggers it. Even good stress. Falling in love, getting married—that’s pressure too. My low self-worth latches onto it and spins. I think I don’t deserve him, so my brain plays tricks on me. Makes me question what’s real.”
“That’s possible. But I still think it would help if we learned a little more about his past. Who he is.”
I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound like we married overnight in Vegas. We met at coffee shops for months before we even went on a real date. Then three years of dating. Nobody calls that rushing.”
“I don’t either,” she said. “But it might help ease your fears if you knew a little more about his past. Or if he came to a session with you.”
“No.”
And I meant it. She’d brought it up before, and my answer was always the same. Bringing Daniel so Cynthia might interrogate him was not an option.
We stared at each other in a familiar standoff. Cynthia always respected my boundaries, but lately, her concern had sharpened. More urgency. More push.
She adjusted her position in her chair, leaning forward slightly.
“Do you . . . remember my brother?” she asked. Carefully.
“The police officer or the plumber?”
“The officer.”
“Yeah, of course.”
She hesitated. “Please don’t be mad. It’s not like I had him investigate Daniel or anything. I just asked if he knew anything about the Winthrop fa—.”
“What?” I interrupted her. “Cynthia. Why the hell would you do that?”
“Because, Emily, this man is almost a ghost. There’s no trace of him online. No social media. No LinkedIn. Nothing.”
“He’s private. A lot of wealthy families keep things off the grid.”
“Sure. But even reclusive people have something. A picture of a mad ex. A public fundraiser event in a local paper. Something somewhere.”
“I’ve gone to his work many times, Cynthia. I’ve met the people who work for him. I’ve seen his emails. Overheard his work calls a million times. He’s just private. You went too far. You crossed a line.”
Cynthia’s posture stayed open, but her hands fidgeted with the pen in her lap.
“I know you’re angry,” she said. “You have every right to be. But you’re not just a client. I care about you. We’ve been through too much together for me to stay silent when I feel something’s off. I did what I thought was the right thing to do.”
“I can’t believe you had your brother dig into my husband.”
“He didn’t dig,” she said quickly. “He just looked up some basic info. And there’s nothing bad about Daniel. I swear. But he did mention something I thought you might want to know.”
I was still furious, still trying to process what she’d just admitted. But I was also curious.
Daniel and I knew each other inside out. Our favorite movies, colors, books. We could practically finish each other’s sentences. He knew I hated cheesecake. I knew he couldn’t stand the feel of certain fabrics on his skin. Sure, we had our disagreements. But never screaming, never cruelty.
And yet, Cynthia was right about two things. My nightmares had started again after I met Daniel. That was a fact. And they’d spun completely out of control the week we’d moved in together. No matter how happy I was, no matter how loved I felt, I couldn’t deny the timing.
She was right about his childhood too. I didn’t really know much about his past. Just a few scattered stories, nothing deeper. I’d never met a single family member. Never overheard him on the phone with anyone outside of work or a couple of friends from college.
To be fair, he didn’t know much about my past either.
Cynthia took my silence as permission to keep going. “Did you know that Daniel grew up on an estate called the Breakers?”
“The Breakers?”
She nodded. “It’s a massive mansion on a private island off the coast of Maine. It’s where the family lived for over a hundred and fifty years. Did he ever tell you that’s where he’s from?”
I shook my head. “No.”
In fact, I could clearly remember him telling me he was born and raised in Boston.
“This is what I mean, Emily. Nobody’s accusing Daniel of anything bad. But it’s strange for someone so close to you to leave out something that big.”
“Maybe it hurts too much. Maybe that place is tied to grief. You don’t really have a life after losing your whole family.”
She paused, then nodded. “That’s fair.” Her tone had shifted. Softer. Honest. “I promise, there’s no smoking gun. But my brother did find one more thing. If you want to, I’ll share it.”
I stayed quiet. Again, she took this response as a yes.
Cynthia opened her mouth, but the next sound wasn’t her voice.
A deafening crash exploded from the hallway.
Glass shattering.
Someone screaming.
“Oh my God!” Susan shouted from the front desk.
“Shut up!” a man’s voice barked back.
Cynthia and I exchanged a quick, panicked glance.
Then pounding. Heavy footsteps stomping down the hall.
Chairs scraped back as both of us rose, tense and alert.
The office door burst open with such force that it slammed into the wall.
A young man stood in the doorway. He was a mess.
Eyes bloodshot. Face twisted with rage. His grip was locked around a handgun.
His fingers were trembling, his knuckles bleached white.
The way he held the gun made it clear he was moments from losing control.
“You bitch called CPS on me!” he yelled. The gun in his hand rose toward Cynthia.
Terror hit like a physical blow. My stomach dropped. My limbs went cold.
“Malcolm,” Cynthia said, her voice steady but tense. She raised her hands slowly. Her eyes flicked to mine. Don’t move, they said.
“You promised everything in here was private!” he shouted.
“It is,” she said. “But I’m required to report when a child is in danger. That’s the law, Malcolm. We can talk this through.”
“No, we can’t! They took them!” he yelled, shaking. “Amanda left too! Said she’d only get the kids back if she left me!”
“We’ll talk to Amanda. But you need to put the gun do—”
A shot tore through the air. The sound exploded like a bomb in a small room.
My body recoiled. For a moment, I heard only ringing. No voices. No breathing. Just a shrill, piercing tone in my ears. Then Cynthia’s body hit the floor with a sickening, heavy thud.
I remained still, rooted to the spot. My feet refused to move. My mind struggled to process what I was seeing.
Then it hit me all at once. I opened my mouth and screamed her name. “Cynthia!”
The chair clattered behind me as I dropped to my knees. Blood was already pooling beneath her. I could feel the warmth of it through my jeans as I grabbed her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, locked on something that wasn’t there. Her mouth hung open, her lips parted in shock.
“No, no, no, no, Cynthia. Please,” I begged.
I pulled her into my arms anyway, clinging to her like I could anchor her to life if I just held on tight enough.
A hot wave of nausea hit my stomach and surged up my throat. I nearly vomited and had to swallow hard to keep it down.
From somewhere behind me, heavy footsteps pounded back out the door.
Malcolm.
He didn’t even look back. He tore through the open doorway, his shoulder slamming into the frame as he fled. The gun was still in his hand. His jacket flapped behind him. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t say a word.
Time moved faster, then slower. It was like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. I had no sense of how long I’d been holding her.
Then hands grabbed me—big, rough, urgent hands.
“Step back!” a man barked in my ear.
I fought him at first, not understanding.
“Ma’am, get out of the way. Now!”
Someone pulled me into the hallway. A group of EMTs and police officers stormed past me. One EMT dropped to the floor. Another pulled out bags, shouting. But it was too late.
The gash in her forehead was deep. Clean. Fatal.
No one said the words, but I knew.
Cynthia was dead.
The hallway outside the office was chaos. Shouting. People crying. Police officers barking commands. One of the EMTs pulled me toward the waiting room, hand tight around my wrist, guiding me through the confusion as if I were a child lost in a crowd.
I collapsed into a plastic chair. My whole body was shaking. I couldn’t feel my legs.
A flashlight clicked on, and someone shone it into my eyes. “Are you hurt?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t move. My mouth was open, but no words came out.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?”
My lungs were tight. The room swam.
I nodded. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I only thought I did.
None of this felt real. It felt like watching someone else’s nightmare from the back of the room. Like I was floating above my body, numb and detached.
The ringing in my ears hadn’t stopped.
I looked down and saw a blood stain on my shirt. Warm smears of red ran across my body.
Cynthia’s blood.
My friend.
My anchor.
Gone.