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It’s Monday. I have a session with Dr. Waylon first thing on Mondays and, now that she’s gone, I get to spend the hour with Dr. Gillespie instead. My routine at Black Pine is simple enough: three sessions a week with my psychologist, and daily check-ins with any of the available psychotherapists. As annoying as it was, yesterday’s meeting with Dr. Gillespie counted as a check-in.
This is my first real session. He wasted no time at all before asking about Madelaine. That’s better than talking about my diagnosis, I guess. Considering my dreamless sleep and my sinking suspicion that my auditory hallucinations might have started up again, it’s safer to keep the discussion centered on Madelaine.
Of course, I’m not about to offer up any information myself. Everything he needs to know about my sister or me is in my file. If he wants more, he’s going to have to drag it out of me.
Something’s different about the doctor today. Despite how heavy my head feels, how the whole world seems fuzzy and hazy to me, I immediately picked up on the change. Maybe it’s because of his office. It’s in a much better state today. The desk is orderly, clean and organized, and the few boxes that aren’t unpacked yet are stacked neatly in one corner.
Dr. Gillespie’s definitely more prepared today. Glancing at something written in his portfolio, he peers at me through his glasses while wearing a determined expression. “Let’s start at the beginning. How long did you know her? She was the Everetts’ first adopted daughter. Isn’t that right?”
“Yup.”
“And you were there for three years?”
“Two.”
“So you knew Madeline—Madelaine, sorry… you knew her for two years?”
I nod. No harm in admitting that. “Sounds about right.”
“And you got along well with her?”
“Best of friends.”
Dr. Gillespie raises his eyebrows, obviously intrigued by—or concerned with—my flippant attitude. I’m too tired to give a shit. I’ve got too much running through my mind to worry about pissing off the new guy. Jutting my chin at him, I dare him to keep asking me questions that I have no intention of really answering.
He purses his lips. “It’s been six years since the accident. Do you miss her?”
Every single day. “Yes.”
“Mmm. Are you sad that she’s gone?”
“Of course I am.”
He nods, picks up his pen. “Do you wish it was you instead? The one who died in the accident… do you wish it was you?”
Wow. He really went there, didn’t he? With a snort, I turn my head. I’m not even gonna try to give him a half-assed answer to that one. It’s a trick question. I say no and I have no remorse. I say yes and they put me on a watch. No, thanks.
But then he tosses out a question that has my head jerking so quickly, I nearly give myself whiplash—
“Why did you let her die?”
It’s the let that cuts me to the bone.
It’s one thing to accuse me of doing any of it. Setting the fire, making her fall—because that’s how they explain away her broken neck. She was found in the basement of the empty house so, obviously, she fell and snapped her own neck. The accusations are nothing but background noise to me by now because I know I didn’t do it.
That doesn’t mean I’m not responsible. I am. If I hadn’t let the fae male touch my hand, Madelaine would still be alive and there’s nothing I can do to change that now.
And somehow this doctor I’ve known for like five minutes has picked up on it.
I’m on my feet before I realize how much his pointed question affected me. I thought I could do this. Meeting with another psychologist fresh to Black Pine… I thought I could do this like I’ve done a dozen times before. Nope. And maybe he’s better than I thought. Maybe he did it on purpose, a shot in the dark that managed to hit home. I don’t know.
But this is why I refuse to talk about my sister if I can get away with it.
My fingers flex. I need to feel leather wrapping my fingers, my palms, my wrists… I need the reassurance it gives me as my hands start to tremble and shake. I slap my palms against my sides, my gloves muffling the sound of the hit as I try to hide my reaction.
Yeah. That’s easier said than done.
Dr. Gillespie’s lips curve just enough to show how pleased he is at my reaction. Torn between anger, regret, and shame, I glare over at him. His eyes shine behind his glasses.
