Guilt was a physical thing.
It clawed at the inside of your ribs. It gutted you. It hollowed your soul and consumed you, forbidding you to sleep and find rest.Truerest, without nightmares plaguing you until you shot upright, gasping and clutching at your chest and reminding you of the horrors.
The images of that final night with Lily, of the burial site at the cemetery even now, ten years later, plagued me without mercy.
If only I stayed home. If only I hadn’t left her alone. If only I could turn back time.
Tap… tap…
The office door creaked open and I jerked slightly, my pen stopping midair.
Dr. Franklin, the head of the department, peered through the doorway. The fluorescent lights of the hallway haloed histhinning gray hair as he leaned in, scanning my office. His eyes passed over the empty chairs, the untouched coffee cooling beside my elbow, and finally landed on the open folder on my desk.
“Is that the serial killer’s case?” His voice was calm as always. Nothing ever frazzled Dr. Franklin, and I envied him for it. It had to be the result of a happy life—at least it seemed that way from the outside looking in. I’d met his wife last year at the spring fundraiser, and from the little she shared, I knew they had two adult children and three grandchildren who they adored and saw every week. Their family was thriving, the complete opposite of mine.
My own father vowed that if I was ever to have children, he’d make me feel the loss he had to endure. His narcissism and mental abuse knew no bounds, even through the limited—or nonexistent—relationship we currently held.
“It is,” I answered.
He pushed the door open a little wider and leaned against the metal frame. “Have you made much progress?”
A tired breath slipped from me before I could stop it. “No.”
“Good.” My eyebrows met my hairline in surprise.
Dr. Franklin stepped inside at last, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor as he crossed my office with unhurried strides. He lowered himself into the chair opposite my desk, the leather sighing under his weight.
“Why is that good?” I asked once he settled and crossed an ankle over his knee. His eyes wandered before lingering on the diplomas tacked to the walls.
“Because I have a better job for you.”
My fingers slid off the pen, letting it roll across the folder. “You do?”
“Yes.” He clasped his hands over his stomach, bespectacled eyes glimmering with mirth. “And it’s right up your alley, considering your habit of traveling for your clients.”
I snorted my amusement. He was right; while most psychiatrists preferred the safety of their offices and thrived in environments they could control, I was the opposite. My sessions took me around the world, and my clientele consisted mostly of criminals.
My area of focus stemmed from selfish desires, of course, but Dr. Franklin didnotneed to know that. Because it was somewhere in those conversations with society’s “outcasts,” buried beneath lies and pathology, that I hoped I might hear something—anything—that would lead me back to the truth about my sister. It was only due to numerous sessions with mobsters that I was finally able to get some information, if not closure, on my sister’s mysterious disappearance. In one of my sessions with Christian “Priest” DiLustro, I’d learned that the charm symbol had something to do with the Marabella Mobster arrangements, and during our last session together, Christian DiLustro gave me one last piece of information: The Obsidian Society.
None of it made any sense, most of all what could possibly be my father’s connection to it all. Why he would ever have such a pendant handy was beyond me.
Regardless, it was the only clue I had, so I went digging. I let out a heavy sigh, my chest squeezing. I found a video recording that proved beyond any doubt that my sister was dead. However, the culprits were still out there, and I couldn’t locate their names or learn anything about Marabella Mobster arrangements and the Obsidian Society. I kept running into roadblocks, but I was hesitant to ask for help from any of the mobsters I’d treated over the years. I didn’t want to be indebted to them, because I knew that never led anywhere good.
Bottom line, my activity over the last decade hadn’t been exactly professional, and it definitely wasn’t without its risks. My last “mistake” ten years ago had just about killed me, and it was as if a part of me had been torn away. I hadn’t been the same since.
“Could you elaborate?” I suggested carefully.
Dr. Franklin uncrossed his legs and leaned back, resting his forearms on the sides of his chair.
“Well, truthfully, I don’t know much.” He tapped his chin in thought. “There’s a case in Greece that needs your expertise. An evaluation.”
Greece.
The word landed somewhere deep in my chest.
“You were requested specifically,” he added.
Every muscle along my spine tightened. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
