Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Our minds take time to heal, Sara, just like our bodies. Sometimes you have a relapse, and sometimes the illness takes a different course. You know that as well as I do.” He makes another note in his notepad, then looks up. “Have you considered speaking to the FBI again?”
“No, they will think I’ve gone crazy.”
I talked to Agent Ryson after the first paranoid episode a month ago, and he told me that at that very moment, Interpol was tracking my husband’s killer somewhere in South Africa. Just in case, though, he put a protective detail on me. After following me around for several days, they determined there was no threat of any kind, and Agent Ryson pulled them off with mumbled apologies about limited funds and manpower. He didn’t accuse me of being paranoid, but I know he secretly thought it.
“Because the man you fear is far away,” Dr. Evans says, and I nod.
“Yes. He’s gone, and he has no reason to return.”
“Good. Rationally, you know that. We’ll work on convincing your subconscious of that, too. First, though, you need to figure out what triggers your paranoia, so you can learn to spot the triggers and manage your response to them. The next time it happens, pay attention to what you were doing and how you were feeling when you first got that sensation. Are you in a public place or by yourself? Is it noisy or quiet? Are you indoors or outdoors?”
“Okay, I’ll make sure to note all that as I’m freaking out and clutching my pepper spray.”
Dr. Evans smiles. “I have faith in you, Sara. You’ve already made tremendous progress. You can go near your kitchen sink again, right?”
“Yes, but I still can’t touch the faucet,” I say, my hands tightening on my lap. “It’s kind of useless without that.”
The sink in my kitchen is one of the many reasons I’m selling the house. At first, I couldn’t even go into the kitchen, but after months of intensive therapy, I’m at the point where I can approach the sink without a panic attack—though not yet turn on the water.
“Baby steps,” Dr. Evans says. “You’ll turn on the water someday too. Unless you sell the house first, of course. Are you still planning to do that?”
“Yes, my realtor is having an Open House in a few days, in fact.”
“Okay, good.” He smiles again and puts his notepad away. “Our session is over for today, and I’m away on vacation for the next week and a half, but I’ll see you later this month. In the meantime, please keep doing what you’re doing and take detailed notes if you have any more paranoid episodes. We’ll discuss that and tackle your feelings about the house sale in the next session, okay?”
“Sounds good.” I get up and shake the doctor’s hand. “I’ll see you then. Enjoy your vacation.”
And walking out of his office, I head to my car, forcing my hand to be at my side and not inside my bag, curled around the pepper spray.
* * *
I sleep well that night, and the night after. It’s because I work so much that I literally pass out. When I’m that tired, I can sleep anywhere, even in my big, oak-shielded house. The Feds couldn’t figure out how the fugitive got in without setting off the alarm or breaking any locks, so even though I’ve upgraded my security system, I feel about as safe in my home as I would sleeping out on the street.
It’s on the third night that the nightmares find me. I don’t know if it’s because I had another paranoid episode earlier that day—this time, on a busy street next to a coffeeshop—or because I only worked twelve hours, but that night, I dream of him.
As usual, his face is vague in my mind; I can only make out his gray eyes and the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Those eyes pin me in place as he holds a knife against my throat, his gaze as sharp and cruel as his blade. Then George is there too, his brown eyes vacant as he comes toward me.
“Don’t,” I whisper, but George keeps coming, and I see the blood trickling from his forehead. It’s a small, neat wound, nothing like the gaping hole the real bullet left in his head, and some part of me knows I’m dreaming, but I still sob and shake as the gray-eyed man picks me up and carries me to the sink.
“Don’t, please,” I beg the man, but he’s relentless, holding my head over the sink as George continues shuffling toward me, his dead face twisted with hatred.
“For what you did to me,” my husband says, turning on the water. “For everything you did.”
I wake up screaming and wheezing, my sheets soaked with sweat. When I calm down a little, I go downstairs and make myself a cup of decaffeinated tea, using the water from the refrigerator filter. As I drink my tea, the microwave clock stares at me, the blinking green numbers informing me that it’s not even three in the morning—far too early for me to get up if I’m to have any hope of making it through the upcoming day’s extra-long shift. I have a surgery in the afternoon, and I need to be sharp for that; anything less would endanger my patient.