Chapter 48 I Don’t Want Your Help
I Don’t Want Your Help
Emily's Search History: ethical boundaries of treating a partner for suspected homicide
Emily
“What if I don’t like what I find?” Eli asks, his eyes wide.
“Then we’ll deal with that together. I’m here, okay?”
He blows out a breath before closing his eyes. “I’m ready.”
I take a seat in front of him, our knees touching. “I’m going to tap your legs as we talk. Focus on the taps.” I raise two fingers, moving them slowly. “Left. Right. Left. Right.”
I continue tapping, keeping the rhythm steady. I don’t move on until Eli’s shoulders ease.
“I want you to think about the last memory you have of Jenny.”
His fists clench at his sides.
“Left. Right. Left. Right.”
“Keep that image in your mind. Now tell me—where are you?”
He breathes deeply before responding, eyes squeezed shut. “In my house.”
Left. Right. Left. Right.
“What do you see?”
He flinches. “She’s not supposed to be there.”
“Who?”
“She shouldn’t be there.” His arms begin to shake.
“Left. Right. Left. Right.”
“What can you hear?”
“She shouldn’t be there.”
“Eli. Open your eyes. Focus on my hands.”
His eyes fly open.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
I wait until his gaze tracks my movements, until he’s anchored again.
“Go back to that day. What can you hear?”
“He’s laughing at me.”
“How do you feel?”
His fingers twitch in time with my taps.
“I’m angry. She’s supposed to be mine. Why is she there?”
“What else can you see?”
His eyes snap up, a sharp gasp tearing from his chest.
“Blood.”
Eli has been holed up in our room ever since our last session. It isn’t surprising—I just wish I could do more to comfort him.
She’s supposed to be mine. He’s laughing at me. That’s what Eli said.
The she is obvious. Jenny. But who is he?
I open my laptop and type: Jenny Taylor death.
I scour article after article, searching for anything—any scrap of information.
Just as I’m ready to give up, I blow out a frustrated breath.
But then—
Second Body Discovered Alongside Recently Discovered Body of Teen.
My pulse stutters.
Could this be it?
I click the link.
My breath catches.
Melanie Calder has just been found dead, her body discovered a few days after Jenny’s.
Dread seeps into my bones. Eli’s mum?
Mrs. Calder had never been reported missing by her family. The two bodies were discovered beneath their former home. The new owners had planned to rebuild, but demolition has been paused pending the investigation.
I keep reading.
Their deaths have been ruled suspicious, and a homicide investigation is underway. Police have refused to comment on the cause of death at this time.
Two bodies. Two people.
My fingers tap nervously against the keyboard—not typing, just needing to move.
Did Eli kill his mum and Jenny?
If not, who did? And why?
It’s not the ethical or legal dilemma that has my heart racing. It’s my own feelings. What do I do now—now that the man I love may have killed two innocent people?
I’m not sure why I’m helping him anymore. Am I his therapist or his partner? The lines between those distinctions blurred long ago.
Before I can think any further, Eli creeps into the living room, his footsteps quiet and uncertain, so unlike his usual self-assuredness.
“Hi,” I whisper, smiling at him in a way that I hope is reassuring.
He sits gingerly on the other sofa. The distance is telling.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, closing my laptop so he won’t see the screen if he comes closer.
His jaw is locked tight, nails biting into his palms at his sides. “I’m sorry I’m so weak,” he whispers, the sound hollow and broken.
“You’re not weak,” I tell him, meaning every word.
He hangs his head. “I’m wasting your time.”
“No. You’re not. This process takes time, Eli. It’s not a quick fix.”
His eyes are bloodshot when he looks at me. “You must hate me.”
I shake my head, pushing off the sofa to crouch in front of him, taking his trembling hands in mine. “I could never hate you.”
His lip wobbles. “Maybe you should leave.”
The words land like a physical blow. I flinch, falling back.
This isn’t Eli. This isn’t the man I know.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m still here.”
“You shouldn’t be.” His tone turns cold. Unfeeling. “Leave me.”
It takes all my effort not to crumble—to break down crying—but I know this is his pain talking. This isn’t him.
“No,” I say, forcing steel into my voice.
“I don’t want your help, Emily.”
Not Angel. Not Em. Emily.
Anger thrums beneath my skin. I push to my feet until our faces are level, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. “Well, too bad. You have it.”
Then I leave the room.
I force my legs to keep moving until I reach the kitchen. The moment Carina’s pink hair comes into focus, I fold. My legs give out, and the tears fall.