“London, we’ve never fully addressed your survivor’s guilt,” she says, digging deep. “Are you taking any steps to finally confront it?”
“I’m considering the surgery, aren’t I?” I glance away, steal a steadying breath. “Sorry. I’m snappy today.”
“No, you’re right,” she says gently, unfazed. “It’s a significant step to accept you’re not responsible for your father’s death.”
Her words slice deep, provoking a reflex response just as sharp. “I have never said that I blame myself?—”
“You’ve refused surgery that will correct your L-five and L-three injuries since the accident,” she says, pressing the matter. “You live with the pain daily because you were driving the car that night, punishing yourself by holding onto guilt that isn’tyours. And now, faced with a patient you truly believe you can help, who might be sentenced to death, you’re projecting your shame onto him. If you fail to save Grayson, you’ll shoulder guilt for yet another life you couldn’t save. Have you ever asked yourself why you feel this need to seek mercy for murderers in the first place?”
Brutal honesty—what I asked for when I allowed Sadie into my mind. With a shaky hand, I wipe the perspiration from my forehead. When I look down, I glimpse the inked key beneath the layer of makeup. My temples pound in sync to my increasing heartbeat.
“I need a break,” I say, standing. I cross toward the mini-fridge and grab a bottled water, taking a long pull before I bring a bottle back for Sadie.
She accepts the water and sets it on the floor. “Too deep for a reentry session?”
I huff a laugh. Then serious, I look into her supportive gaze. “I killed my father.”
I’ve never said those words out loud.
Sadie doesn’t recoil. “The car wreck killed your father.”
I nod, even though I know better. “I identify with him,” I say quietly. That I’m referring to Grayson is understood. “My patient is the Angel of Maine. He kills ruthlessly, without mercy, despite what his moniker suggests. And yet, I can’t find a fault there. I feel no remorse for his victims.”
Silence falls between us, the quiet stretching until I can no longer stare at the floorboards. When I look up, Sadie’s expression still holds no hint of judgment, and somehow, that makes it worse.
“I know.” I remove my glasses and clear my bangs from my vision. “I need to stop the sessions with him.”
“No,” she says, surprising me. “You need to go deeper, trusting yourself to explore both transference and countertransference for both you and your patient.”
My brow furrows. “Psychoanalysis? I thought we agreed long ago that Freudian methods were outdated.”
“Or maybe I just thought you were shit with them,” she says with a smile, making me laugh. “But it would be a shame if you let the fear of a challenge prevent you from discovering something meaningful.”
“Challenge myself,” I say, steadying my voice. “Is that doctor’s orders?”
“In fact, it is,” she says, her expression brightening. “The real danger isn’t in developing personal feelings for your patient. We can handle that. A few sessions together, and we’ll resolve it. You’ll move forward with your career.”
I hang on to her last words, my breath stalled as I wait for the second half to drop. There’s always a downside.
Sadie leans in closer. “The danger lies in facing hard truths. There are doors our minds close to protect us, whether it’s blacked-out memories or denial—” her gaze doesn’t waver “—we’ve chained those doors shut for a reason. Once you break the locks, there’s no going back. You’ll be forced to accept a new reality, London, and that can be frightening.”
I knew in asking Sadie here I wouldn’t be able to continue to hide the truth. She’s mastered her abilities. “I’m already scared that I’ve began the process.”
She reaches across to take my hand, and I let her. It’s the kind of comfort you offer someone when they’ve lost too much—the pure desolation of one’s soul. Although Sadie is here with me, I’m embarking on this journey alone.
I’m not afraid of what lies beyond the blackness. I know what’s there lurking, waiting. Threatening. I’m afraid that once I set it free, I’ll lose the last threads of my humanity.
“Tell me what happened before the wreck,” she says, her voice soft, encouraging. “Let me be your anchor.” Sadie’s hand closes over mine, holding on tighter.
Her question lashes out like a whip, cracking the seams oftime, and the past bleeds into the room. First, a hazy red at the corners, then the dark blood of my memories.
So much blood.
If Sadie knew the truth—the whole story—then her advice to pursue a deeper connection with my disturbed patient might be different. Beneath my professional obligations to him, a voice whispers from the dark recesses of my mind.
A warning.
To protect myself, I have to escape Grayson.
