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I take a stab at the truth. “I suspected she was into the same things in her home life that we were into outside of it.”
“But you still continued to partake in deviant sex, considering?”
“Deviant sex?”
Dr. Jones pulled out her phone. She punched at the screen several times before eventually reading the definition aloud.
“One. A condition, such as exhibitionism or masochism, in which sexual gratification is derived from activities or fantasies that are generally regarded as atypical or deviant. Two. Such a condition when it causes distress or impaired functioning in the individual or actual or potential harm to others.”
When she finishes, she glances up at me and waits. “Well?”
“Look—” I said, admittedly a little defensive. That’s no definition. It tells you nothing. “To me, sex is sex. I didn’t ask—and she didn’t tell. That was our agreement.”
“Did you discuss this…arrangement? Or is this just something else that you made up, Dr. Hastings? Another one of your fantasies?”
I detect a bit of a personal vendetta in her words. I assume she hasn’t gotten laid in some time. “Agreement,” I say, correcting her. “And we never discussed it explicitly, no. We didn’t have to.”
Dr. Jones sighs, as though she is doing me an enormous favor and making a huge personal sacrifice by being here. “You see, Max. I beg to differ.”
There was something in the way she said my name. Maybe it was the exasperation in her voice. Maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever the case, an invisible line was breached. I began to feel the familiar pang in my chest that I felt when I was anxious. I thought of it as a butterfly fluttering its wings. She was accusing me of something far worse than murder. Did I care?
The sad truth was yes, I did. I pressed my heels into the concrete to make the feeling go away, and after it subsided, I admitted to myself that perhaps I had to do this. I needed to go there. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to give Dr. Jones what she’d come for. The thought filled me with something that felt like dread. I imagined this was what grief felt like. “Maybe if we had—”
Chapter Fourteen
Laurel Dunaway
Journal Entry
Something about him makes me nervous. Me, nervous. I know. I can hardly believe it myself.
I suppose it makes sense. The nerves…the uneasiness I feel toward him. It’s not like our last conversation at Caring Hands had gone that well. Considering that he’d been inside me, I expected at least a little friendliness on his part during his evening rounds. But no.
There was none of that.
Not that this was completely Max’s fault. I was tired.
And I hate doctors, and I hate that nursing home.
But there isn’t time to write about that now.
James is due home any moment, and I have to properly hide this. I have to make sure I have time to reapply my makeup and break out of these sweats. Just as soon as I finish this, I’m going to put on something upbeat. James likes to come home to music playing and dinner simmering.
While I’m making a list, it seems…I also hate cooking.
It’s just…I don’t want him to worry. He’s been doing so well for the past week or so. If he only knew what a toll this was taking on me…well, I can’t fathom what it would do to him—to us. I only know it wouldn’t be good.
That pamphlet from the care home was right. Sorting out my thoughts on paper is a bit of a relief. The therapist only seconded that opinion. I think it was sort of a blessing having the appointment following what happened at the Belmond. Like kismet or something.
Like it was meant to be.
Not that I talked about what I’d done—of course not.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
At least not yet.
Soon.
