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)
Nervousness. If the constant bounce of my leg isn’t confirmation enough, then the way I jumped when the hotel clerk said good morning to me today might seal the deal. Yes, I’m still staying at a hotel nearly a week later. One so far uptown I’m practically in the Bronx. The morning Uber ride in traffic takes me nearly forty-five minutes. But I won’t take the train because Gabriel might see me.
Loss of appetite. An easy check mark, considering I can’t remember the last time I put anything in my body other than copious amounts of coffee and wine.
Withdrawing from family and friends. I suppose I started this one the day after Connor died. I was too ashamed to face people then, even more so now. I mean, what would I tell people who ask what I’ve been up to? Oh, not much. Just following the husband of the woman my husband killed. Actually, I’m not sure if I’m the stalker or the stalkee, but whatever. We fuck now, too. My only real communication has been with my brother, Jake, and Sarah. But I haven’t returned Jake’s last three calls, and lately I’ve been holed up in my office, avoiding even my assistant.
Insomnia. Sleep? What’s that?
Addiction. Self-medicating and alcohol abuse. Addicts smoke crack and drink four-dollar bottles of vodka in plastic bottles. The bottle and a half of wine I consume each night in a fancy glass makes me above that, right?
Paranoia and delusions. Someone really has been following me. No. Really. I swear they have.
Change in routine. Mood swings. Feelings of hopelessness and despair.
Check.
Check.
And a big fat check.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Jesus, that fucking clock needs to shut up.
“Sarah!”
She opens the door in a rush. I point to the wall. “Did you change the battery in the clock?”
Sarah glances over at it. Her brows pull tight. “No. Does it need to be changed?”
I shake my head. “No, never mind.”
She steps into my office and closes the door behind her. “Is everything okay, Meredith?”
I force a smile. The way it fits awkwardly on my face, I’m certain I look like the Joker. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Her eyes sweep over me. “Because you called me in the middle of the night the other day, and you’ve been really quiet lately. And… you wore that shirt yesterday.”
I look down, and my eyes widen. That can’t be. I went to a boutique on my way to the hotel from the office two days ago. I picked up a few blouses, underwear, and a pair of pants. Yesterday after work, I hung up my shirt and then this morning…
I took the shirt off the hanger and put it back on.
Oh. My. God.
“It’s the same color,” I lie. I’m not even sure why. “But a different blouse.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She doesn’t believe me. I can tell.
Sarah’s face softens. “I thought maybe you were struggling because of what this week is.”
“What this week is?”
She smiles sadly. “Connor’s birthday is still listed on the office calendar.”
My heart skips a beat. I pick up my phone and check the date. Sure enough, tomorrow is his birthday. He would’ve been thirty-two. I feel sick. How could I forget my dead husband’s birthday?
I swallow the lump of guilt in my throat and nod. “Yeah, it’s a tough week.”
“Is there anything I can do? Why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night? Keep yourself occupied. I can get a sitter.”
I force a smile. She means well. “Thank you. But I already have plans with my brother, Jake.” A lie. What’s one more?
“Oh, good. Well, at least you only have one more appointment today.” She pauses before adding, “Since Mr. Wright is no longer on the calendar.”
She’s baiting me to talk about it. I know she’s been curious about what happened with him. How could she not be? I’ve had her fire him as a patient twice. Yesterday when she told me she’d reached Gabriel and canceled, she tried to pry for more information. But I shut her down.
The door opens in the outer office, allowing me an easy escape from her curiosity this time. Sarah looks over her shoulder, toward the sound of the door closing. “That must be Mrs. Epstein. I’ll talk to you later.”
Lucky for me, Mrs. Epstein is one of my oldest and easiest patients. She has OCD, and we’re working on some of her repetitive behaviors. I’m able to engage easily—for the first time in days. The hour goes by fast, but I’m so tired when she leaves. I think I might actually get some sleep tonight. In fact, I might doze off in the Uber back uptown. I take my purse out of my desk drawer, pull my phone from the charger, and slip on the cheap jacket I picked up to replace the expensive one I’ll probably never see again.