“But what?” Her pen is poised, ready.
“It’s not just that,” I say slowly. “Things move around in my apartment. Furniture. Objects. Little things. And I—” I falter, ashamed of the words even as they fall out of me. “I think someone might be doing it on purpose.”
She tilts her head slightly, a movement so deliberate it feels staged. “You think someone’s breaking into your apartment?”
“Maybe.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “Or... maybe not breaking in. Maybe someone with access.”
“Your husband?” she asks gently.
A warning prickles under my skin. The way she said it—not curious.
Leading.
I shift in my seat. “I don’t know. I don’t want to believe that.”
“But you suspect it.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question.
I press my lips together. “I just... sometimes I feel like I’m being watched.”
Dr. Kessler’s gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly.
“Ellie, you’ve mentioned the core trauma of your mother’s passing.” Her voice remains carefully neutral. “Sometimes trauma can create... false memories. Paranoia. Our minds try to shield us from painful truths by rewriting them.”
False memories.Paranoia.
There it is.
The words hit me harder than a slap.
I stare at her, my mouth dry.
Jack said almost the same thing. After I started digging into the inconsistencies about my mother’s death.
You’re remembering wrong, El. It’s the grief. It twists things.
I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, trying to keep my voice steady. “I remember seeing her being taken away. Men in white coats. She screamed at me not to believe him.”
Dr. Kessler leans forward slightly, pen tapping once against her notebook. “Memories from childhood, especially traumatic ones, can be notoriously unreliable. It’s possible you misinterpreted what you saw. Or that your father tried to shield you from the full truth for your own protection.”
I feel myself slipping, the ground tilting under me.
Is she right? Am I losing it?
“I know what I saw,” I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
She offers a sympathetic smile. “Of course you believe you do. But Ellie, let’s consider: if your father truly wanted to hurt you—or your mother—why would he have cared for you all these years? Why would he have kept you safe, made sure you had the best education, the best life?”
Because it made him look good. Because it kept up appearances. Because control is easier when the prisoner thinks the warden loves them.
I bite down on the words.
“Have you considered,” Dr. Kessler continues smoothly, “that your grief, combined with recent stressors, might be distorting your perception of those around you?”
A chill slips down my spine.
“Who recommended you to Jack?” I ask suddenly.
Her smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes flicker—just for a second. “We have mutual friends in the city. A lot of successful men and women come through my practice.”
