AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You think I’m not feeling what happened?” My words come out with a hint of defensiveness, a protective layer I’ve woven around my emotions.
“Did you cry?” she asks me.
“After the fact,” I reply, adding the morsels and pretzels to the mix, stirring slowly. If she’s implying what I think she is, then perhaps I’m not as broken as I thought.
Despite that, I still feel safe with Lyric. Is that feeling genuine?
“I want you to sit with your emotions later tonight,” Sara suggests, her voice gentle yet firm. “Feel them, let them rise to the surface, and allow them to exist.”
“You don’t want that now?” I ask, curious about her intentions.
“No, Charlotte. I’m not sure you want me to witness that just yet,” she responds with a hint of cheekiness. She’s reading me well. It’s not that I dislike her, it’s just that I’m not eager to lay my emotions bare, especially not in her presence.
“Now,” she says, leaning against the island, “the cookie scoop is next to the oven.” She points to the counter. “Charlotte, I need to ask you this question.” Her warning makes my internal alarms ring. “Did the killer do anything to you?”
My grip falters, and the metal cookie scoop slips from my fingers. Heart pounding, I quickly retrieve it, deliberately turning away from her as I straighten. I rush over to the sink on my right and rinse it off.
“He did,” she observes calmly. “Can you tell me about that?”
I shake my head, not ready to delve into that aspect yet.
Why not?my brain chimes in, reminding me that discussing this is her job.
Hanging my head, I close my eyes. “I didn’t fear him—not when I first saw him, nor when I found him in my house.” There, I said it out loud.
“What did you feel?” Sara inquires, devoid of judgment.
I shrug a shoulder and start scooping dough onto the cookie sheets. Sara waits with patient silence, her presence a supportive anchor.
“Safe,” I admit, my brow furrowed in confusion. “Which makes no sense at all. He killed a man I trusted, someone who gave me a job and a home, and yet I felt safe. Why did I feel that way, Sara?” The admission sparks a prickle of tears at the corners of my eyes.
I blink rapidly, looking away to regain my composure through a series of deep breaths.
“I’ll circle back to that question,” Sara says gently, “but, Charlotte, what you just did was suppress your true feelings. Let it out.”
Shaking my head slightly, I protest, “I can’t.”
“Why?” she counters.
“Because if I allow my emotions to surface, my true emotions, it means I’m no longer in control,” I admit, my gaze shifting over to her. The words spill out, raw and unfiltered. “Can we move on?”
“Of course,” she agrees, though I sense her curiosity lingering on the untouched topic. “Do you believe there was a reason you felt safe?”
“He wasn’t there for me. I don’t know. I just knew he wouldn’t hurt me. I can’t explain why,” I say as I slide the cookies into the oven. With nothing else to occupy my hands, I turn to face my therapist. “He’s a killer, a murderer, and I felt safe. What does that say about me?”
“That you needed to feel that way,” Sara responds gently.
I let out a snort. “Maybe.”
“One more question, and then we can shift to lighter subjects,” she promises, and a sense of relief washes over me. “Why didn’t you tell the police or the FBI agent about the killer?”
As Sara’s question hangs in the air, black spots seem to dance at the edges of my vision. I concentrate on her, determined not to let my anxiety overwhelm me. The events of that night play out in my mind like a stop-motion film.
I did tell them, didn’t I?
My fingertips press against my lips as I continue to stare, my mouth dry as a desert. “I did.”
Sara slowly shakes her head, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “No, Charlotte, you didn’t. You told the police that you found him.”
