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)
The way Gabriel looks at me?
The way I look at Gabriel?
I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths. If only Sarah knew exactly how by-the-book I am.
Luckily, I don’t have time to dwell on her observation. I have patients starting soon and need to clear my mind, distract myself from all things Gabriel Wright. So I reach into my drawer for the letter opener and use it to slice open the packing tape in the middle of the box Sarah’s left behind. What I find inside is definitely not what I expected. There are no notebooks. Instead, there is… a Hello Kitty figurine. At first I assume it’s a mistake, a simple shipping error once again. But then my brain connects a bunch of dots I wasn’t even aware were there. In psychiatry terms, I suffer a somatic flashback.
The photo in the newspaper the day after the accident.
The pool of red blood on the white concrete sidewalk.
Connor’s mangled car off to the side.
The tarp covering a small body.
So, so small.
The Hello Kitty stuffed animal, no more than a foot from the dead little girl.
I clutch my throat. I can’t breathe. I really can’t breathe.
My hands are shaking, yet I somehow reach into the package and pull out the figurine.
The small covered body.
So, so small.
Abruptly, I drop the toy back into the box and pull over the flap in search of a label.
My name is there. And it’s my address. But the wrong suite number.
Just like last time.
Sarah knocks and opens the door. “Your appointment is—” Her brows furrow. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“This isn’t my package.”
“What do you mean?”
“I ordered notebooks. I didn’t order this.”
She walks to my desk and peeks inside the box. “Oh, I love Hello Kitty. It’s made such a resurgence lately.”
“It has?”
She nods. “My niece has a big collection. It’s kind of cool how long they’ve been around. I had them as a kid, too. Didn’t you?”
I shake my head.
“Do you want me to email Amazon and send it back?”
I blink a few times. “You think it was a mistake?”
“Of course. What else could it be?”
A reminder? A threat? A warning? My mind immediately goes to that group that put up flyers. Mothers Against Abusive Doctors. Those people want me to never forget. I once had a patient whose abusive husband beat her to within inches of death. He’d been physically abusing her for years, but that time she finally had him locked up. Somehow he sent her gifts from prison—the same model pot he’d fractured her skull with, the wine bottle he’d smashed and used to slice open her face. It’s called an anchoring tool—planting an item intended to paralyze someone with fear.
“Meredith?” Sarah puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and nod. “Yeah. Just tired. That’s all.”
She doesn’t look like she believes me, but at least she takes the box from my office so I don’t have to look at it anymore. “I’ll give you a few minutes before I bring Mr. Halloran in.”
“Thanks.”
Though a few minutes won’t help. The damage is done. I’m on edge yet again. A Hello Kitty figurine. Not too long ago a book about a stalker. Coincidence? How many is one too many of those? Three? Six? Or do you not figure out the magic number until something really bad happens…
I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything when Sarah shows my first patient in. I’m not ready, yet I’m grateful for the interruption. Work has become my fortress, acting as a barrier from my negative thoughts and worries. Session one feels like driving over rough terrain. Session two, a few speed bumps. By the time my last patient arrives, I’m back to smooth sailing.
Henry Milton. He’s been with me for years. Depression. And a pathological liar. The latter is a term people throw around to describe someone with a penchant for telling tall tales, but a true pathological liar is very different from a guy who describes his fish as twice its size or weaves stories about conquests that never happened. The average, common liar lies for a reason—to get out of trouble, to avoid embarrassment, to make themselves seem more important than they are. But a pathological liar makes up stories that have no clear benefit to them. It’s a compulsion. And it’s often difficult to tell if anything they’re saying is the truth. They perfect their craft. But with Henry, I can usually recognize his lies by the level of detail and the outlandishness of the story.
“My friend got hit by a car,” he begins today. “Prius. They’re so quiet. He was crossing on East Sixty-Fourth against the light. He made it halfway and—” He smacks his hands together. “Splat.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. Is he okay?”