Page 18 of Letters From A Stalker

The laugh that slips out of her is quiet but unguarded enough that it deepens the dimple beside her mouth. Something warm shifts low in my chest.

Fuck.

I’ve been attracted to patients before. Pretending otherwise would be dishonest and professionally naive. Attraction is a physiological response, not an ethical violation. It becomes dangerous when it affects treatment or behavior, and I’ve never had difficulty recognizing the boundary.

But Julia has been in my office for little over ten minutes, and I already resent the idea of those minutes ending. That isn’t normal, and it sure as hell isn’t something I intend to indulge.

“What came after the memory of being in the car?” I go back to the conversation at hand thinking it might just bring back my focus to where it should be.

Her smile fades again. “Everything else.”

“Tell me what that includes.”

She takes a slow breath, the kind people use when they’re preparing to recite a story they’ve repeated enough times to remove themselves from it.

“He’d been missing for fifteen days before they found him.”

“And you were listed as the primary family contact.”

Her gaze sharpens slightly, again surprised that I know something she has already provided in writing.

“Eventually, yes.”

“You wrote that you continued working during the search because staying home made the waiting worse.”

“It did.”

“Did work make it better?”

“No, but it gave me something else to think about.”

“Did it?”

Her gaze narrows. “Occasionally.”

“What happened every time the phone rang?”

“I assumed someone had found him.”

The composure in her voice begins to thin as she rolls the bottle between her palms, staring at the label as if it deserves more attention than the memory she’s describing. “Then, when it wasn’t the police, I’d get angry at whoever called, even though they didn’t know what was happening. I was awful to a telemarketer who asked whether I had considered changing my internet provider.”

“I’m sure they recovered.”

“I hope not. He was very persistent.”

Her attempt at humor doesn’t reach her eyes this time, and I don’t allow it to carry us away from the question. “Were you sleeping?”

“Not much.”

“Eating?”

“Tessa brought food.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” That came out harsher than I intended for it to be.

She exhales slowly. “Sometimes.”

“How often is sometimes?” I persist.