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Chapter 1
“You’ve been through a lot of traumas in only four months. How do you feel about that?”
I stared at the therapist on my laptop screen, trying hard not to roll my eyes. Not because I found it irritating that one side of his white button-up shirt collar was tucked under his navy-blue pullover sweater while the other was out and askew, like he’d thrown the sweater on at the last minute and hadn’t bothered to check his appearance in a mirror. Nor that his comb-over was so pathetic no one was buying that he had hair on top of his head, which meant he was hiding things, and poorly, which meant he was a shit therapist.
Physician, heal thyself.
No, it was his ridiculous question that was driving me insane.
Four months ago, I’d killed someone while working as a detective for the Little Rock Police Department. Consequently, I’d lost my job, my house, my money, and my reputation. My partner Keith—both personal and professional—had turned on me.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened the night of…” he said, checking his notes. His gaze popped back up. “October 17th?”
“I’m sure it’s all there in the paperwork,” I said dryly, gesturing toward the screen. I couldn’t stop the self-deprecating smile that spread across my face. “In case you missed it on the news.”
A hint of impatience flickered in his eyes. “I’d rather hear it from you.”
And I’d rather not repeat it. I’d told this story so many times, I practically had the verbiage memorized, which, I was sure, gave it an air of inauthenticity with each subsequent retelling. But if this was what it took to convince the department I wasn’t unstable and that we could amicably cut ties, then I’d do it to cut the marionette strings.
“I was investigating a murder case,” I said, sitting back in my chair. My gaze drifted involuntarily to the cabinet under my sink where I kept my bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “I was looking for a witness, and I was told he worked the night shift at Durango’s Liquor. When I walked up to the establishment, a teen was hanging outside. His name was Dylan Carpenter. I asked him how old he was, and he told me to fuck off. I told him not to enter the store and went inside myself.”
“Did you identify yourself as a detective?”
“No.”
“And then what happened?” he prodded.
I fought to keep from reminding him that therapists were supposed to let their patients tell their stories at their own pace. Did this guy have dinner reservations after this? I had my own plans, so I didn’t mind hurrying things along.
“I noticed the witness wasn’t at the counter and the clerk was checking someone out, so I walked around the store to see if I could locate the witness. While I was in the back, the teen came in and tried to buy a bottle of whiskey. I approached, asked him for ID, then he ran out the back with the bottle. I followed.”
I’d relived that night so many times. So many exhausting times. And I’d let myself wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t followed him. If I’d let him go. But the truth was I had followed him out into that back alley, and no amount of wishing or manifestation would change it.
I had to own up to what I’d done.
Then again, admitting to it wasn’t my problem. My problem was living with it.
“And then?” he asked, glancing down. I realized he was looking at his watch. Maybe I hadn’t been that far off in guessing he had plans.
“When I went out the back door, he had a gun trained on me. I drew my service weapon and told him to put the gun down. Instead, he took off running. I followed, telling him to stop. About twenty feet from the door, he turned and pointed his gun at me again and took a shot. I shot back. He missed. I didn’t.”
The therapist picked up a piece of paper and scanned it. “The report doesn’t mention recovering a bullet or casing from the boy’s gun.”
“They said there was no evidence he’d shot a weapon, let alone had one. That I fabricated seeing a gun and hearing the shot because my mind couldn’t cope with the guilt.”
“And do you believe that?” he asked earnestly.
Did I? I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. One minute, I wondered if they were right, but the next I was willing to bet money I no longer had that the Little Rock Police Department was gaslighting me, not only about the shooting, but about the three break-ins at my house that had occurred within two weeks of the shooting.
It had been suggested to me that those break-ins were imaginary too, but there was no denying someone had stolen a photo of me and my sister that had been taken shortly before her kidnapping and murder. Just like there was no denying I’d seen the back of the man who’d taken it and chased him through my backyard and down an alley before I lost him. I hadn’t imagined that.
“I don’t know,” I said, even though my gut churned at the thought of giving them what they wanted. Of admitting they’d made me start to doubt myself.
“There’s nothing wrong with that answer,” he said with a smile and a hint of triumph in his eyes. “No weapon was recovered, Harper. It’s good that you’re finally acknowledging that.”
Was it?
But I bit back the retort on the tip of my tongue because that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that everything was fine. Just fine, because that was what the Little Rock Police Department needed to hear from their once-exemplary detective. They needed to put this all to bed, and this session was the final nail in the coffin, my exit interview for my fourteen-year, formerly stellar law enforcement career.
