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“If it didn’t hurt you, why do you think you’re having a hard time connecting with Wes sexually?” Kathy asked. There was no judgment in her voice—she sounded very much the clinician, trying to understand the symptoms.
Hannah ran a hand through her hair. “The guard made me very paranoid while I was there. Even after Derek threatened him, he was always watching me. I wasn’t ever sure if he’d try to cross the line again, and it made it almost impossible for me to sleep. So even though I was already in a bad situation—kidnapped, knocked around, starving—it was that extra level of stress. I just couldn’t deal with it. I could deal with everything else, but I didn’t want to be raped. I was worried what that would do to me—I was worried that if that happened, I’d never be the same. I wanted to be ready to fight.”
“What did you do the night he was in your room? When you woke up?” Kathy asked.
“I would’ve bit him, but he was armed.” Hannah shrugged, her lip curling in disgust. “So instead, he finished, called me a dirty, cock-teasing cunt, and left.”
“Still killing him, even though he’s already dead,” I said. “And I wish you would’ve bit him.”
Hannah sighed. “I wish I’d bitten him, too.”
* * *
HANNAH
“You’re sure he’s dead?” Wes asked. After the appointment, he’d insisted we grab coffee and sit in a nearby park for a minute. He’d menaced Brian into standing out of earshot, and he wouldn’t listen when I complained I needed to get to work.
“I was in the car when Gabe shot him. All the guards who were in the car died.” I didn’t look at Wesley. I watched the squirrels instead.
“I’m glad,” Wes said, “but I’m also sort of not glad.”
I sighed because I knew what he was saying. Wes wanted to snap the guy’s neck.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “I hope I don’t sound mad—I’m not. I mean, I am, but not at you.”
“I didn’t want to think about it. It happened, and I just wanted to keep it in the past, where it belongs.”
“What do you think about what Dr. McGovern—Kathy—suggested?” he asked.
“The EMDR treatment? I don’t know.” I wrinkled my nose. “It sounds all weird and new-agey, not very scientific.”
“Babe. You drink green smoothies every day, eat tofu, and love yoga. Isn’t this sort of in your wheelhouse?” His tone was teasing as he reached over and put his big hand over mine.
“I’ll think about it, okay?”
The doctor had suggested a course of EMDR, which stood for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. I had a handout about it in my tote. The treatment supposedly worked miracles on single-trauma victims, which Kathy told me I was. Instead of prolonged talk therapy, EMDR focused on eye movements.
“Eye movements?” I’d asked Kathy. The treatment sounded suspiciously easy.
“Read the handout,” she’d said, “and trust me. I’m licensed to administer EMDR, and it’s the most promising thing I’ve come across in thirty years of practice. And you don’t have to talk about your feelings, at least not for a whole hour. You would need to come in for several visits, but we’d be able to deal with your issues quickly.”
That sounded encouraging—enough so I’d agreed to read the handout.
“Babe?” Wes asked, breaking my reverie.
“It could be worth a shot.” I finally looked at him. “What about your homework? How do you feel about it?”
Wes frowned. “Not great.”
Kathy had suggested that Wes see her separately because she felt he was holding back.
“But you’re going to do what she asked, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I am. She seemed to know what she was talking about.”
I squeezed his hand. “I’ll read more about the eye therapy, okay?”
He smiled, always a good sport for me. “Okay.”
