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27
After saying good night to Mike, Logan just wanted to fall into bed. But he needed to shower first. After he grabbed sweats and a T-shirt from his bag, he gazed around his room. Alex’s comments about germs made him a little uncomfortable. Should he buy some disinfectant spray too? Maybe she was right. Maybe the hotel provided some for guests to use.
He went into the bathroom and looked under the sink. Sure enough, he found a can of disinfectant spray. He took off the cap and sprayed the faucet and the doorknob. Then he went out to the main room and sprayed anything he thought he might touch. As he lightly sprayed the bedclothes, he suddenly asked himself what in the world he was doing. This stuff didn’t smell like flowers. It smelled like ... disinfectant. It reminded him of a hospital. He carried the can to the kitchen and opened one of the windows in the small living area. As the cold November air drifted in, the odor began to dissipate.
Logan sat down on the chair as the stink lessened. In all the traveling he’d done for the BAU, he’d never worried about germs. Most people who feared germs were actually afraid of something else entirely, like losing control. Was that the case with Alex? After thinking about it for a minute, he realized lots of people probably worried about germs in hotel rooms. That didn’t mean anything was wrong with them.
He laughed to himself. “You’re getting suspicious in your old age, Logan,” he said quietly as he stood. Yet a small voice inside told him he was missing something.
He ignored the warning and got ready for his shower.
Alex knew Mike hadn’t meant to upset her with his comment about rodents and bugs, but she wished he’d kept it to himself. And she should have waited for Logan to leave before spraying down everything that worried her. But she couldn’t. Things were starting to spiral. She had to keep her PTSD under control. If she couldn’t, she might lose everything she’d worked for.
“God, Logan thinks you’re real,” she whispered. “I don’t. I prayed once when I was younger, but you didn’t answer, so I don’t think you’re really up there. But ... I don’t know what to do. If you are real, I could use some help. If you’re everything Logan says you are, I’d like to know you better.”
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sighed. What was she doing? Why in the world was she talking to some invisible being that didn’t exist? If God was real, He would have helped her years ago when she prayed.
Suddenly she heard You survived, Alex. And you’re where you wanted to be. Are you certain I didn’t answer you?
She looked around the room. Was someone in here? Was she hearing voices? She stared at the TV, but it was off. Was she in trouble? What should she do?
Then the words she thought she’d heard whispered in her mind. And as she thought about it, she realized she had made it through. She had survived. And she was living the dream she’d prayed for. She’d forgotten that part of her prayer.
She got to her feet and walked to the chair where she’d sat earlier. Was she hallucinating? God didn’t really talk to people. That was nuts. She wasn’t going to turn into Willow. The Master didn’t exist, and neither did God. She was alone. She had to trust in herself. No one else would rescue her. She’d been on assignments where she’d spotted a bug or had to talk to someone who wore red lipstick or red fingernail polish. She’d managed to fight the panic that tried to push her back into her nightmares. She’d made herself strong—without any help from a therapist.
So why was she unraveling now? It had to be returning to Wichita and seeing Willow. And now that awful house was hers? She’d hire someone to clean it out and sell it. She had no intention of stepping back inside its walls.
And Mike was here. Even though she was glad to see him, he reminded her of things she didn’t want to remember.
After a quick shower, she dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt before checking to make sure the door to her room was locked. Then, leaving on the kitchen and bathroom lights, she approached the bed. Although she fought the urge, she couldn’t stop herself from pulling the sheets and bedspread down just to make sure bugs weren’t hiding under them. She hadn’t done that in years. She’d taught herself not to. But tonight she couldn’t help it. How far would her fear push her? Could she keep her condition from Logan? From Jeff? If they realized the truth and revealed it, the FBI would probably force her into counseling ... or even dismiss her. She couldn’t let that happen.
Alex had talked to a therapist once when she worked in Kansas City. “Alex, PTSD isn’t anything to be ashamed of,” he’d said. “You went through an extremely traumatic experience.”
“That’s true,” Alex had shot back. “But a law enforcement officer who goes bonkers if she sees a bug won’t be looked upon as reliable.”
“To be fair, it isn’t just a bug,” the doctor had said. “You have a problem with roaches, germs, the dark—red lipstick and nail polish. These are all triggers. They take you back to when your mother died as well as to the first few days you lived with your aunt. You were still reeling from finding your mother. You spent several nights in a dark bedroom with roaches crawling everywhere. And your germ phobia comes from trying to clean your aunt’s filthy house. You became obsessed with cleaning.”
He had paused before adding, “But it wasn’t really about the germs. You were trying to control your environment. Your father’s abandonment, your mother’s suicide, and those first days at your aunt’s are where your emotions are bunched up. Tightly woven into your psyche. Basically, your mind is at war with itself.”
“So what am I supposed to do, Doc?” she’d asked. She was tired of hearing what was wrong with her. How about prescribing the pill that would fix it?
“It will take some time, Alex. But if you hang in there, we’ll face your hidden pain together.”
“How much time are we talking?”
“Don’t think about the time it will take. Just accept that there’s no other way.”
“But could it take ... years?”
“Yes. Some patients take that long to find coping mechanisms for their trauma.”
“I don’t have years,” she’d said, rising to her feet. “Thanks for your time. I know you’re trying to help, but I think I can handle this myself.”
She’d walked out and never returned. And as the therapist had suggested it would, it did take years to control her fears, to teach herself to ignore the triggers that took her back to those days. It was harder than anything she’d ever done, but she’d done it. And now this case had caused her PTSD to roar back into her life.
She got into bed and stared up at the ceiling. Did I look all the way down to the bottom of the bed? The thought kept running through her mind. “Stop it!” she said out loud. “I will not look under the sheets again. I will not!” But as she lay there, she felt her body tense. Finally, she gave up and pulled the sheets back again. Nothing. She felt ashamed of herself.
As she got into bed again, she glanced at the window. The night, the darkness, always made everything worse. Evil things loved to hide in the dark. She turned on the lamp next to the bed.
Somewhere in the night, a train whistle blew, and Alex covered her ears.
