Page 151 of Letters From A Stalker

“No. Never.” I rub a hand over my jaw and feel how badly it is shaking. “I never took something she disclosed in therapy and turned it into a way to get her into bed. I never sat here listening to her trauma because I was building some fucking blueprint for Ghost.”

“But she has every reason to wonder whether you did.”

“Yes.” That is the part that fucking kills me.

Intent means nothing when the person you harmed has no reason left to trust your version of it.

Mara stands and walks toward me, stopping close enough that I finally look up. “I came in here ready to tear you a new asshole.”

“I assumed.” I nod.

“Then I saw your face.” Her voice softens.

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

Under any other circumstances, I might manage something resembling a smile. Nothing comes. Mara studies me for several seconds before her expression softens, though not enough to become absolution.

“What you did was fucked up, Kai.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not going to tell you it’s okay because you feel terrible now.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“But I also know you.” She folds her arms loosely across her chest. “I know the man who turned Henry’s house into somewhere women could sleep without wondering whether somebody was going to break the door down. I know the man who drives to Pine Ridge every month because he refuses to forget where he came from. I know how seriously you take the people who sit in these chairs, which is probably why I still can’t quite believe you managed to fuck this up this badly.”

I look away.

“You’re a good man who did something terrible,” she says more quietly. “Those things can exist at the same time. I’m still here, and whatever happens next, I’m not abandoning you. But I’m also not helping you hide from what you did.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“I know.” Her hand settles briefly against my shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

For the first time since Julia walked out, the answer comes without hesitation.

“The right thing.”

Mara squeezes once, then lets go. “About fucking time.”

The door closes softly behind her. I remain in the chair for another minute, listening to the muffled sounds of her moving around reception while the office settles back into the ordinary rhythm of a Thursday afternoon that has no fucking idea my life just split open.

Then I stand. There is no point sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Regret is useless if the only person it serves is me. I pick the notebook off the floor, place it on the desk and wake my computer.

The Minnesota Board of Medical Practice website takes less than ten seconds to find because I have sent patients and colleagues there before for entirely different reasons. I know the statute. I know what constitutes grounds for disciplinary action. I know enough about the complaint process to understand exactly what happens after the Board receives a report involving sexual conduct with a current patient — investigation, records, Attorney General’s Office, complaint Review Committee, possible restrictions, suspension, reprimand or revocation. My cursor hovers over the complaint and reporting information for less than a second. Then I open it. The absurdity of filling my own name into the section asking for the physician being reported would almost be funny if there were anything remotely funny left in the room.

Kai Blackwood.

Physician.

License number.

Practice address.

My fingers remain steady as I type because this part is easy. Facts usually are. The statement takes longer, mostly because there is no version of professional language that makes what happened sound better, and I refuse to try.