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“Wendy would never hurt a child!” Marie gasped.
“Wendy has never hurt another human being,” Warren said. “She went a little far with your friend, it’s true. But he wasn’t harmed.”
“Not physically,” I said.
“That’s my point,” Warren said.
“Physical harm isn’t the only kind of harm. I want to keep my wife from all harm. Let me be frank. Wendy is jealous. Jealous of Daphne because I chose her.”
“What makes you think she still pines for you?” Warren said.
“I know her,” I said.
“Better than we do?”
Yes. I didn’t say it, though. There was so much Warren and Marie didn’t know about their daughter. She was a millionaire, for one. She was a stalker, for another. She apparently knew how to pick locks. And she liked to be tied up and beaten during sex. At least by me.
I shoved my hand into the pocket of my jeans and touched the gold ring I’d had sawn off my finger and then soldered back together. I no longer wore it, but I kept it on my person always. For one reason and one reason only.
To never forget what Wendy was capable of.
If I started to go soft… If I started to feel sorry for her… If I started to remember happier times we’d shared… I stuffed my hand in my pocket and felt the ring.
And my heart turned to stone.
It worried me a bit.
I seemed to reach for the ring more and more, and not just to remember the truth about Wendy. Whenever emotion got to me—when I was talking to Dr. Pelletier and had second thoughts about offering him money in exchange for his ethic—I reached for the ring.
When I stood outside Jonathan’s office that day at lunch, ready to confront him about the journal, I reached for the ring.
I reached for it when I considered pulling out my gun and threatening him.
Luckily it didn’t have the desired effect that time.
But it would. Eventually.
I knew I should get rid of it. Toss it down the toilet. Or sell it for junk gold.
But something inside me made me keep it.
Something inside me knew I’d need it.
Soon.
I made it a point to hide it in my dresser drawer every night when I disrobed. Explaining it to Daphne would be a chore I didn’t need.
Another lie I’d have to tell.
Another lie I was already telling by omission.
God, this was a fucked-up life I’d made for myself.
If only my father hadn’t decided to bail out and go it alone. He could still be the bad guy. He could be the one who had to bury his emotions and integrity and do whatever was necessary to protect those he loved.
But it was up to me now.
And I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
But each day I disliked it a little less.
And that was truly frightening.
I stood. “I hope Wendy is mentally well now.”
“But you don’t believe she is,” Warren said. “What do you think you know that her doctors don’t?”
I nodded to them. “Goodbye, Warren. Marie. I’ll let myself out.”
I pondered his question as I got into my truck and headed home.
What do you think you know that her doctors don’t?
I know her, Warren. I know her.
Chapter Eighteen
Daphne
“Nothing, Daphne.” Dr. Pelletier smiled. “What makes you think I’m not telling you something?”
I sighed. “Because I’m not an idiot, Doctor. I’ve learned how to observe. How to read people.”
“Reading people is part of my job,” he said. “I’m not keeping anything from you.”
I didn’t believe him. Not for a minute.
And maybe that was my problem. Was my radar off? Maybe it was. Maybe I hadn’t lost time as I suspected. Maybe I truly had just zoned out during the dinner conversation between my father and Brad.
I was projecting—a term I’d learned during my therapy with Dr. Payne. I wasn’t doubting Dr. Pelletier.
For the first time in a while, I was doubting myself.
I didn’t like the feeling.
I tried too hard to be observant, to recall everything, even the mundane. Maybe, by concentrating too much on each tiny detail, I was missing part of the big picture.
“Tell me what to do,” I said.
“About what?”
“About this lost time. About trying so hard to recall everything. About…”
“Listen,” he said. “Just be yourself. Be a human being. Human beings don’t have infallible memories, no matter how hard they may try. I’ve read case study after case study about the human memory. People misrecall all the time. It’s completely normal.”
“It may be, but can you honestly tell me it’s normal that I lost nearly an entire year of my life?”
“No, Daphne, that’s not what I’m saying. You know that. Those were different circumstances. You were mentally ill. You’re no longer mentally ill, and your memory is functioning just like everyone else’s. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
He made a lot of sense, but I was hard on myself for a good reason. Never again would I lose so much of my life.
