“Seven is fine. I’ll see you then, Dr. Burton.”
I gather my things, toss them inside my bag, and head down to the lobby to check out, even though I rented the room for two nights. After handing the valet guy my ticket, and he brings the Bentley around, I climb in and drive home.
With my heart racing in anticipation, my hand trembles as I insert the key and turn the doorknob. I push the front door open and slip inside, my senses on high alert as I scan the foyer and every corner of the house for any signs of an intruder. It doesn’t look like anyone has been here since I left yesterday. I’m hungry. So I go to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. There isn’t much because I haven’t shopped in a while. I notice cheese slices, so I open the cabinet and see the loaf of bread is still good. I make a grilled cheese sandwich. As I carefully slide the sandwich out of the pan and onto a plate, my hand reaches over to the block of sharp knives. I pull out the biggest knife, noticing my reflection in the shiny blade. My fingers give way when I see a distorted version of myself, and the knife falls onto the Caesarstone island, making a loud sound. I jump back and place my hand over my racing heart. I’m no longer hungry, so I push the sandwich away.
I feel like I’m in a daze. I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how to stop it. I walk up the stairs, grab a blanket from the corner of the bedroom, crawl onto the bed, and cover myself. If I sleep for a while, maybe I’ll feel better when I wake up.
I slept most of the day, which was fine by me. The less I’m awake, the better. Dr. Burton will be here soon, so I brewed two cups of coffee. The knock at the door startles me—everything these days startles me. I walk over and invite Dr. Burton in. He removes his black coat and matching Fedora and hangs them on the coat rack.
“Let’s sit in the living room. I made us some coffee. How do you take yours?” I ask.
“Just black.” He sits in Oliver’s wingback chair facing the couch.
I rush to the kitchen, grab the coffee, and hand Dr. Burton his cup. Then, I take a seat on the couch.
“I’m losing my mind, Dr. Burton. I think I need to be institutionalized,” I say, my hands wrapped around the piping-hot mug. I reach into my pocket and pull out the storage unit key and the crumpled paper that The Widowmaker left for me yesterday.
“What is this?” he asks as I reach over and hand them to him.
“When I came home yesterday from running some errands, I found that on the kitchen island. They were sealed in a white envelope.”
“Is this a storage unit key?” He holds it up and studies it.
“Yes. So, I went there last night. Inside was a large black safe. When I opened it,” I covered my mouth with my trembling hand as tears swelled in my eyes, “All my missing jewelry and the knife that was used to kill my husbands and those other men were in there. Dr. Burton, The Widowmaker, was in my home again. Why is he doing this to me? Torturing me the way he is.” I cup my face in my hands as tears begin to fall.
“Katherine, I need to ask you something.”
I sniffle and wipe my eyes. “What?”
“Who is Dahlia?”
“What?” My brows furrow.
“Have you ever known anyone named Dahlia?” he asks.
“When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary friend. Her name was Dahlia. She showed up when I was five.”
“How long did she stay with you?”
I brought my hand up to the back of my head and smoothed down the hair.
“I don’t know. I think at least a couple of years. One day, she was gone. Why?”
He shifts in his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose before pulling out his small black recorder.
“Dahlia visited me today.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s more real than you think.” He presses the button on the recorder, leans over, and sets it on the coffee table.
I listen. Her voice is familiar but also different—like a distorted version of mine. My heart pounds against my chest, threatening to choke me as I struggle to hold back the tears. It's overwhelming—this flood of emotion and memories brought on by her words as she describes what she’s done. Dr. Burton can see I’m highly upset, so he reaches over and turns off the recording.
“The trauma you experienced when you were five is what formed Dahlia,” he says. “During trauma, the brain can compartmentalize the traumatic experiences. You couldn’t cope with watching what your mother was doing to your father, so Dahlia took your place and sent you far away to protect you—to a place that made you happy. She is what is called an alter. And what you’re experiencing is dissociative identity disorder. The times when you felt someone was watching and following you were real because Dahlia is inside you, watching your everyday life unfold.”
“This is too much,” I say, getting up from the couch. I pace around the room, holding my head. “So you’re saying thatIwas the one who killed Jack, my parents, my husbands, and all those other men?” Tears streamed from my eyes.
“It wasn’t you, Katherine. ItwasDahlia. She is a completely separate person from you. After I leave, research D.I.D. so you can better understand.”
