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She motions between the two of us. “Then why have you agreed to this?”
“What else have I got to do?”
The truth was, seeing Dr. Jones was better than sitting in a shared cell staring at the same four walls. I hadn’t yet been brave enough to leave my cell, even when inmates were allowed out in the common area. Clearly, this would have to change, particularly the longer this situation dragged on. Just not yet.
“Do you understand what’s at stake here?”
“Aside from my freedom? My life?”
“You’ve been accused of murder.”
“Keyword being accused. This does not make me guilty.”
She threw her hands up. “Well—if that’s the case, Dr. Hastings…I suggest you might want to start explaining.” She looks down at the table and then up at me. There’s a long and heavy sigh, followed by a substantial pause. I think she’s waiting on me to say something, but I’m not sure what. Finally, she clears her throat and fixes her gaze on me. “As it stands, there’s not much I have to go on. I can only help you as much as you let me…”
“Ah, but you’re not really here to help me, are you?”
Her eyes widen. She seems surprised. Or offended. Maybe both. “I’m here to find out the truth.”
“You mean whether or not I’m fit to stand trial?”
“That’s part of it, yes.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Your attorney hired me to provide support in your case. It’s my job to assess your mental state. He can’t do his job if I don’t do mine.”
“Yeah, well…I don’t know what’s worse—prison or a mental institution. What do you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Ah, you see, it obviously does.”
I didn’t answer Dr. Jones’s questions that morning, but I did spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about them. It was accurate to say I was aware that Laurel was unraveling due to her father’s illness. I wish I could say this is a rare thing, but it isn’t. Caring for a family member with a terminal illness is no walk in the park. Laurel, though, seemed particularly affected by the ups and downs of it. Not that there are ever really very many upsides to watching someone you love cut out on you. And dementia is about as bad as it gets.
Over the course of that winter, things took their toll on her. She appeared to be growing more despondent and angrier—more attached to me by the day. For the most part, I ignored the changes in her, by pretending not to notice. As a physician, the more you point things out to patients, the more you discuss symptoms, the more those things tend to exacerbate themselves. I thought that by turning the other cheek, it would help.
And for a while, it appeared I was right.
By April, things had shifted for the better. Laurel seemed different, more engaged, more back toward her center, more upbeat, almost hopeful.
She’d brought up the notion of assisted suicide once before, early on, as an afterthought. But it wasn’t until April that she first mentioned having a plan.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Laurel Dunaway
Journal Entry
The food industry has a term: the bliss point. The bliss point is the optimal level of salty and sweet in a food that keeps you wanting more of that food. They’re trying to achieve this all the time. Think kettle corn. Peanut butter. Nutella. What the bliss point achieves is that even though you’re getting full, you’re never fully satiated. You keep wanting more.
There is a bliss point in relationships. It’s possible to make a person addicted in the same way. I know; my entire career is built around this.
The same way there’s a bliss point in food and in relationships, there’s a bliss point in working someone over.
It’s not that I wanted that, per se. I only wanted him. I wanted more.
To get more, I had to have a plan. Attraction follows a formula:
