Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Delete.
And just like that, the smile is gone from my face and I’m dragged back to thoughts of you and whether I’m ready to date yet.
A knock at my door quiets my ruminations. Sarah pokes her head in with a smile.
“Your first patient is here. You have a few more minutes. She’s still updating some forms.”
I take a nervous breath. “Great. Thank you.”
She steps inside. “And this package came for you. I’m sorry I opened it. I thought it was paper I ordered from Amazon yesterday.”
I haven’t ordered anything for the office. Not that I remember, anyway. But lately, my memory hasn’t been so sharp. I take the open box. There’s a book inside.
You, by Caroline Kepnes. I’ve heard of it, but haven’t read it. “I didn’t order this, Sarah.”
“Really? I did notice that the address has the wrong suite number. But it has your name on it.” She shrugs. “Amazon must’ve made a mistake. But did you see the show? The book was made into a series.”
“No.”
She smiled. “It’s so good. Creepy as hell, but addicting. It’s about a guy who stalks women.”
I blink a few times, looking down at the label. My name is definitely there, even if the suite number is wrong. “It’s about a stalker?”
“Yeah. You should read it. Just don’t do it at night alone. It’ll scare the crap out of you. There’s gory murders and stuff.”
I drop it back in the box abruptly. “Send it back. I don’t want to read it.”
“Oh. Sure.” Sarah forces a smile. “No problem. I’ll send Mrs. Amsterdam in as soon as she’s done.”
“Thanks.”
My assistant shuts my office door, and I feel more than a little unsettled. A book about a stalker shows up addressed to me? It’s a very strange coincidence. Though a guilty conscience will do that to you, connect dots to form a line that isn’t really there. How many times have I told that to patients? It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that I’m playing a dangerous game.
A few minutes later, there’s another knock at the door. This time, Sarah shows my first patient in. I feel panicky, but when Mrs. Amsterdam smiles, I welcome her, telling her I missed her, too, and yes, I’m back for good. Something turns on in my brain after that. Words come from my mouth, and my hand sketches notes across a pad. She tells me about her husband and her dog and her daughter-in-law. It’s like riding a bicycle, and I’ve hopped right on, started pedaling along like nothing ever changed.
Even though everything has changed.
Soon enough, the soft buzzer that keeps time on the table next to me goes off. I check my watch, certain an hour hasn’t really passed. Surprisingly, it has. Mrs. Amsterdam and I finish up our conversation and discuss meds—she needs something different for anxiety—then I’m walking her to the door.
“How’d it go?” Sarah greets me with a fresh cup of coffee and a supportive smile. I smile back, wondering if we could be friends. Would that ruin our professional relationship? We are friendly…
“Good,” I say. “I’m relieved the first patient was one I’m familiar with. I think it helped me ease into things.”
“I’m glad.” She takes something from her back pocket and holds it up, though not offering it to me. “I’m sorry to tell you that this person dropped by.”
I peer over at the business card in her hand and notice the logo immediately. Two fists. I frown. “Someone from Mothers Against Abusive Doctors came here? Inside the office?”
Sarah nods. “Her name was Mary Ellis. She was kind of scary-looking. Manic with a nervous facial tic and nails bitten down so far she barely had any nail beds. Her hand shook when she held out the business card for me to take.”
“What did she want?”
“She asked to talk to you while you were in session with Mrs. Amsterdam. When I said you were busy, she told me about her group and what they stand for. Then she asked if she could make an appointment to speak to you. I told her she could leave a message with me, and if you were interested in speaking to her, we’d call her.”
I feel sick. First the book arrives to set me on edge, and now this. “Did she leave a message?”
Sarah nods. “She said to tell you that more than sixteen thousand people died from prescription opioid drug overdoses last year, eleven hundred of them children. I showed her the door and told her this was a private office and she wasn’t welcome to stop by ever again. If she did, she’d be trespassing.”
While I know Sarah meant well, I’m not sure it was wise to threaten a group that likes to hang my picture around town like a mug shot. It might be smarter to lock up, go back home, and reconsider my career, perhaps something where I’m not expected to be the stable one. Yet I swallow back my fears and nod. “Thank you. I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Sarah.”