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Part of me wants to tell the officer that the fake patient told me my mom is still alive, to ask him if a police report exists about the hit-and-run that killed her, since Frank admitted he never saw her body. But I remind myself of the woman’s warning to stay away from law enforcement—that it could put Mom in more danger if she’s still alive.
“I’m not allowed to reveal who my patients are or discuss what they tell me. Patient-therapist privilege,” I say.
“Thing is, the woman that entered this building at 6:44 this morning is the primary suspect in a murder,” he says.
Good thing I have years of practiced stoicism under my belt so as not to look shocked during patient revelations.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he continues. “If she told you about a felony crime that she committed, and is trying to work through a way to escape punishment, you could be charged as an accessory after the fact.”
I stand up straighter. “Without a court order, I’m only legally allowed to tell you if I believe a patient may hurtthemselves or somebody else. I’m not required to report past crimes. And in this case, I know nothing about any crimes committed in the past, present, or future.”
He nods, unconvinced.
“I’ll find out one way or another what she told you,” he says. “You’re just making things harder for yourself by not cooperating with an officer.”
“I have a patient waiting for me in my office,” I remind him. “I need to get back to work.”
When I return to my office, Tom continues talking about his mother for the rest of the session, but it’s hard to focus. What the detective said sounded like a threat.
I’ve only had the police visit me one other time in my life, and it wasn’t a good experience back then, either.
CHAPTER5
January 1998
AFEW MONTHS AFTERMom died, when I was deep into restricting my food, I came home after school and locked myself in the bathroom. It was the first thing my ED—eating disorder—made me do as soon as I stepped through the front door each day.
I methodically examined myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, beginning with my head, moving down to my toes, disgusted with every inch of my body.
All that existed was this.
Not the grief of losing my mother. Not that I had gone from being a straight-A student to failing all my classes. Not that earlier that same day, I’d felt like I might pass out during soccer practice when I ran twice the number of laps the coach had asked us to do.
ED had given me a way out. A way to focus all of my energy and attention away from the pain I was in.
I was bent over in front of the mirror, my head hanging between my legs, busy studying the space between my thighs, trying to figure out if it was bigger or smaller than the day before, when there was a loud knock at the front door.
After Mom died, Dad had started working from home a couple of days a week to be there for me. I listened as he opened the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.
I couldn’t hear the response, but I heard a couple of people walking inside our house, and then there was a knock on the bathroom door.
“This is Officer Sandra Cho. I need you to come out, Beatrice,” a woman told me.
I had never dealt with law enforcement before. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I told her through the door, my voice wobbly with sudden fear.
“Didn’t say you did, but you still need to come out,” she said.
I slowly opened the door. She was petite, with black bangs, and dressed in uniform.
“This is Officer Reynolds,” she told me, pointing to a large man standing next to her. “We need to speak with you and your father together.” Dad was standing next to both of them in the hall.
I walked out of the bathroom and followed everyone into the living room. Dad and I sat on the couch, and the officers took a seat on chairs across from us.
“We understand you made a child abuse complaint to a counselor at your high school today,” she said. “We’re here to investigate your claim.”
I had reported Dad because my starved, scrambled brain actually believed he was abusive for trying to make me eat, and that if I reported him for it, he’d be too scared to do so again for fear of getting in trouble.
Dad raised his eyebrows so high they nearly reached his hairline. He turned to me, deeply worried. “Is someone hurting you, Beans?” he asked me.
