The Patient Page 12

  My right brow buried itself beneath my unruly bangs in surprise.

  She laughed a little. It was a soft sound, not one full of judgment but rather understanding.

  “I know,” she said. “Two women having a conversation in a therapy room. Not quite the way most people start their relationships, but . . . you’re here because you need someone to trust, someone to share something with, and I’m honored you chose me to talk to.”

  Honored? I pasted the sweetest smile I could stomach on my face and nodded. I was here because I’d made a mistake, because I was in over my head with a patient and was desperate to be told I wasn’t overreacting.

  “So, how are you feeling, Danielle?”

  I swallowed the stress ball full of sharp rocks in my throat and said the first thing that came to mind.

  “I’ve a bit of a headache, to be honest. Feeling a little unsettled and . . .” I searched the room as if the word were hidden behind an invisible book. “Uncomfortable.”

  She wrote this down. “I’m sorry about the headache. Do you get them often?”

  I shrugged. Daily. Constantly. My head always felt like it was about to explode, but when you said things like that, people tended to produce weird looks.

  “Enough. I take Tylenol, which helps dull it.”

  “Have you tried any alternative methods instead of pain medications? Yoga, massages, meditation, oils?”

  I reached for the small gold cross around my neck and rubbed, the slight etching around the sides grounding me.

  “I’ve tried it all, but nothing seems to work. I think it’s stress.” The corner of my lip lifted as I stared at the ground. “But that’s why I’m here.”

  Normal people might have no issues admitting when they’re stressed.

  I wasn’t normal.

  I was a trained therapist who should have been able to handle stress. I knew all the classic signs, I knew all about boundaries and ways to alleviate stress, and yet . . . here I was.

  I knew what to do, but for the life of me, I couldn’t grasp on to it long enough for anything to work. I was the mouse riding a crocodile crossing a flooded river, and I was about to drown as the creature dragged me beneath the swirling waters.

  “Stress is normal, Danielle. Even the best of us”—she paused, swallowing hard—“get bogged down by it. I’m sorry you have a headache today. We’ll try to keep our session as light as we can, okay? Is there anything I can do to help before we begin? Would you like the window open? More tea?”

  I ran my fingers along the base of my neck, pressing hard into the tissue, hoping for one second of relief from the pressure that continued to build the longer I sat there.

  “I’m good, but thank you.”

  There was a buildup of silence between us. She reached for a file, I assumed mine, and flipped through a few pages.

  My heart raced, and beads of sweat formed on my forehead. My nostrils flared as I tried to keep my breathing shallow, but the pit of snakes in my stomach made me queasy.

  “Let me start off by saying I know exactly how you’re feeling today.” Dr. Brown smiled as she closed the file and set it down. “I’ve had my fair share of time being on a couch, having to trust a complete stranger with information I’m too ashamed to admit. This is a safe place, Danielle.” She leaned forward, clasped her hands together, and rested them on her knees. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting we need help. You know that, I know that, and yet, as therapists, we seem to believe we’re Wonder Woman and can take on the world without needing someone to support us in the background.”

  “You’ve . . .”

  She nodded.

  That caught me off guard. Of course she would have her own therapist, which made sense. Didn’t it? Why wouldn’t she?

  That helped. A little. I could breathe easier now.

  “Does it ever get better?” I asked. “I mean, it does, it has to, but how do you get past the feeling of not being enough?”

  Dr. Brown looked me straight in the eye.

  It was a little uncomfortable.

  “Not being enough for your patients, you mean?” Dr. Brown clarified.

  I nodded.

  “Can I be honest with you, Danielle?” She crossed her legs and tapped her pen against my file sitting on her lap. “You’ll never be able to meet all their needs, and if that’s your goal, you’ll always feel like you’re failing.” She tented her fingers together. “That’s a hard lesson I had to learn, and there are still times I feel like a failure.”

  “Feeling like a failure and knowing you are one is a big difference,” I said as the response of wanting to hide, to curl in a ball and ignore the rest of the world, nudged me, demanding attention.

  “You haven’t failed.” She smiled with a confidence I didn’t feel, and I wanted to grasp hold of it and call it mine. But I couldn’t.

  “I don’t just feel like I’ve failed—I know I have.” Memories assailed me, taunted me, forced me to question every step I’d taken, every decision I’d made since all of this began.

  “Tell me why. Tell me how I can help.” Dr. Brown’s voice was like a mother’s caress over a child’s long and tangled hair.

  “Why?” Here was the crux of it all, why I was there. I looked up at her, my eyes smarting with tears I wasn’t ready to shed. “I’m the worst therapist ever.” The words scraped against my throat, rubbing it raw.

  Emotions I didn’t want to accept rose so quickly it shook me.

  “Why do you feel that way, Danielle?” Her words were a lifeline, granting me freedom and providing a sense of security to admit everything I’ve tried to ignore.

  My shame. My fear. My failure.

  “I think . . .” It was hard for me to admit this, even though I had practiced. But it was time to tell someone else. “I think one of my patients is a serial killer. I just don’t know which one.”

  Chapter Twenty

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 16

  The memory of my first session with Dr. Brown wouldn’t leave me.

  When I’d told her about the notes and my fear that one of my patients was the serial killer, I’d felt a mixture of both shame and freedom.

  It had hurt speaking those words out loud.

  I’d betrayed them. Betrayed their trust. Betrayed their secrets. But it was betray them or myself. If I didn’t help myself by getting the help I needed to talk things through, I wouldn’t be any good to them.

  I had the worst sleep last night. It felt like I’d barely slept a wink. By the time one in the morning rolled around, I’d tried everything to quiet my mind—a long walk, listening to an audiobook, drinking a full pot of the chamomile tea I’d picked up, and even a hot bath.

  Knowing Ella needed me alert, I’d done everything I could think of to keep myself awake this morning. I went for a run and drank several cups of coffee, hoping to induce a little bit of energy so I wouldn’t fall asleep on her when she arrived.

  I had a little more than an hour before Ella’s session, but I had something I needed to do first.

  I opened the door to the Mad Hatter’s Tea House and walked into a full café. The room bustled with noise: spoons clinking against teacups, laughter, and the dull slam of the swinging door from the kitchen to the dining area. Sabrina was probably too busy, and now wasn’t the time to interrupt.

  When I went to leave, my name was called out over the dull roar in the room.

  “Danielle, over here.”

  I found Sabrina over in her gift section.

  “I was just thinking about you,” she said as she gave me a hug. “You missed our date this morning.” She tsked, her finger wagging in mock anger.

  Wide-eyed, I pulled my phone from my purse. How had I forgotten?

  “Are you okay?” She pulled me to the side. “I hate to say it, but you look horrid. Those dark circles beneath your eyes tell me you’re not sleeping, are you?”

  She turned her back and opened one of her loose-tea containers. “Here, I want you to drink this an hour before bed.
It’ll help calm your mind so you can fall asleep.” She filled a bag and handed it to me. “First bag is on the house.”

  How did she know that was what I was there for?

  “I’m sorry about this morning. I totally forgot and didn’t set a reminder on my phone.”

  She waved away my apology. “Don’t think twice about it. I had a call-in reservation for a book club, so I spent the time preparing pastries, as you can see.” She waved her hand toward the full dining area. “Besides, I figured you probably slept in.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” I mumbled behind my hand as I covered a yawn. “I had one of those nights where it feels like I didn’t sleep a bit, and yet I know I did.”

  “Those are the worst. That happens to me when I have too much on the go. Your brain must be going a mile a minute. What has you so stressed?”

  I placed my hand on her arm and squeezed. “I’m not sure stressed is the word for it. There just seems to be a lot going on, you know?” I looked around the dining area. “I’ve never been part of a book club. Have you?”

  “Once, a few years ago. But I hated all the selections, and they never liked mine. I planned to find another one that would be a good fit but never got around to it.”

  “You should start your own.” I was actually surprised she hadn’t. Sabrina seemed to have her hand in everything when it came to Cheshire.

  Her eyes lit up. “You know, that might be a good idea. Want to join?”

  “Unless you’re willing to just read the classics or psychology books, I’ll have to pass,” I said. “But I can help spread the word for you, if you’d like. Make up a flyer and post it in the library and such.”

  Sabrina laughed. “Like I have time to start a book club right now. I’m up to my eyeballs in reservations and parties and starting that fund-raiser for the children we discussed.”

  With that, we stood there in a somewhat awkward silence, both twiddling our thumbs as we struggled to bring the conversation back to something lighter.

  “How about we do coffee tomorrow morning instead? Come by as I open shop. That way we know it’ll be quiet. Oh, and I haven’t forgotten about getting reservations for dinner so I can meet that friend of yours. Why don’t you bring her to coffee tomorrow instead?”

  One of her servers came up and pulled her aside. I waved goodbye and headed back toward the house. I grabbed a latte, stopped to talk to a few women about a cute tea display in a home decor shop, and then made it in time for Ella’s appointment.

  I sent Tami a text, telling her about the coffee date for tomorrow.

  Fifteen minutes past Ella’s scheduled time, I began to suspect she wasn’t going to show.

  We still hadn’t discussed the confession she’d made last week. I’d meant to bring it up on Tuesday, but she’d missed that appointment, and when I’d found her on the street, it had been clear that discussing the murders was the last thing on her mind.

  I worried about her. What I’d seen on Tuesday wasn’t normal for Ella. I’d never seen her like that, so lost, so unlike herself.

  My fear was that the recent murders were too much for her.

  Regardless of what she’d said last week, I refused to believe she was responsible. Yes, she had killed, but that was her past. Not her present.

  Thirty minutes passed before I went to sit on my front steps.

  Forty-five minutes had gone by when I accepted that she wasn’t coming.

  I dialed her number, and after three rings, the call went right to voice mail.

  “Ella, this is Dr. Rycroft. Please call me back to reschedule your missed session today. I think with everything that is going on, it’s important that we meet.”

  All I could think of was her fear of the repercussions when people found out about her past. Was she upset? Scared? She had to be.

  It was time she stopped running, and I could help her with that if she’d just let me.

  Why was I left with the feeling I was already too late for that?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 16

  KILLER

  There’s silence in this room full of old tomes and contemporary fiction. The silence is heavy as a thunderstorm yet lighter than a breath. It carries more peace than a single-word prayer.

  This is my resting place. My cornerstone. My haven.

  Of all the libraries I’ve been in, this one is my favorite. The children’s center is right in the middle of the massive room with majestic bookshelves and tall pillars that rise above two floors. The bookshelves on the floor above me are stained dark, the old covers blending in with the wood until they look like one solid piece.

  No children are allowed up there. The winding staircase is meant only for the more serious, for the researchers and students whose minds are filled with more information than most can handle.

  I like to go up there and lose myself, trail my fingers along the spines, dream of a different life.

  Some days I sit up there and watch the children below me, listen to their hushed whispers and excited pleas for more story time. I rest my elbows on my knees and strain to hear the storyteller’s voice, which fills the cavern with her childish tale.

  Today I’m sitting on the main level.

  Today I’m watching a little boy who’s caught my attention.

  It’s the middle of summer, a hot, sweltering day, and he’s wearing pants and a long-sleeve top.

  I’ve been here for the past hour. I have a book on my lap, opened to a random page, but I’m not reading the words.

  Since my last visit to this library, Cheshire has learned how to be scared. As they should be.

  But not everyone has learned their lesson.

  Especially the father below.

  I first took notice outside when I saw the finger-size bruises on the little boy’s arm when he’d had his sleeves pushed up. The way he looks at his dad, wary, fearful, scared.

  That’s not right.

  I don’t like to see children mistreated.

  Child abuse comes in many forms, but if you know what to look for, you’ll see it.

  Bruises and broken bones can heal.

  Scars and shattered spirits can’t.

  That little boy is splintered into a million different pieces, and nothing will ever heal him. No amount of apologies or toys or treats will undo the damage.

  I wish parents would learn. And care.

  It’s clear the father wishes he could be anywhere but here. He keeps checking his phone every few minutes and shows his impatience with his son as they walk along the aisles.

  At one point, the father stands at the end of an aisle and motions to the doors. His son isn’t paying attention. He’s looking at a book, flipping the pages, staring at the drawings, and the father’s gruff voice rumbles through the library.

  A librarian looks up from her position at a computer and frowns his way.

  The man lifts his arms and drops them in a what’s-your-problem type of gesture. The little boy still isn’t paying attention, so his father marches down and picks him up by the collar of his shirt.

  I lean forward in my chair, sitting on the edge. I don’t like what I’m seeing.

  The boy scrambles to his feet, dropping the book in the process. He tries to bend down to pick it up, but his father’s hold is too strong. He pulls the boy down the aisle, his other hand fisting at his side the more the boy struggles to keep up.

  I shoot to my feet and fly down the stairs. My goal is to pick up the book, to hand it to the child, to shame the father for his impatience.

  The boy has a basket of books that he’s pulling behind him. A librarian stops in front of the father and bends to her knees to speak directly to the child.

  I pause. I’m close to the children’s section, where the boy was reading his book, but I want to see what happens. I hope the librarian has caught the repressed anger in the man, that she sees the signs of abuse on the boy.

  One minute they’re stopped, the next the man is pu
shing the woman away, almost knocking her down as he grabs his son’s arm and pushes him forward. I hear a small cry. I listen to the librarian tell the man to stop, but the man doesn’t pause, he doesn’t stop, he only stomps toward the front door, pushing his son forward with each step, his intent obvious.

  To leave the library.

  The basket the boy carries is yanked out of his hand as the doors to the library open. The father throws it to the side, the books cascading out onto the floor. His voice can now be heard throughout the whole library.

  “Don’t ever ignore me again!”

  The door closes behind him, and the librarian rushes to the front desk, where she picks up a phone.

  I hope she’s calling the police.

  If she doesn’t, if the police aren’t sent to investigate, to see to the child’s safety, then I will have to.

  I rush after them, opening the door and squinting against the midday sun. I search everywhere, but I can’t see them. Not the man or the child.

  Until I hear a sound that sends shivers of rage throughout my body.

  A sharp slap.

  Skin against skin.

  It’s off to my left. To the side of the steps, where they can’t be seen, the son of a bitch.

  I run to the edge and look down.

  I’m trembling with anger. I want to jump down and pummel the man to pieces. I want him to feel the pain he’s giving his son a hundredfold. No, a thousandfold.

  He slaps his son’s face. Then he does it again.

  The boy just stands there. Trembling but not uttering a sound.

  There’s something in his gaze, however. A look I understand. A look that shatters my heart.

  Sadness, confusion, and hatred.

  Children shouldn’t learn to hate their parents.

  When they do, it destroys their soul. It forces them to become someone they were never intended to be.

  The father smacks his son hard, with enough force to make him crumple to the ground. He’s yelling foul words, words that should never be said to a child.

  I run down the rest of the steps, and I’m about to turn the corner to confront the man when a police cruiser shows up, its sirens blaring, lights whirling.