Mutual friends. Successful men. Like my father. Like Jack.
I stand up too quickly, the room tilting for a moment.
“Ellie,” Dr. Kessler says carefully, “we’re just starting to unpack a lot of deep-seated issues. I hope you’ll trust the process. Sometimes healing can feel like betrayal to the wounded mind.”
I nod like I’m agreeing. Like I’m grateful. But inside, something hardens. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust any of them. Jack didn’t send me to be helped. He sent me to be silenced.
And whatever they’re trying to bury—I’m going to dig it up.
Twenty-Six
Ellie
“Deeper. Cut deeper.”I moan as pain shoots through my arm.“Deeper, don’t stop.”More pain. More blood. Throbbing. Screaming. So much pain.“Deeper!”
My hand trembles as I hold a single shard of glass to my skin.
“Stop,” I moan, tears burning my eyes. “Stopppp.”
My eyes shoot open, my vision hazy as the room comes into focus. The scent of blood fills my nostrils. I nearly choke on the coppery odor. I stumble, bumping into the counter and holding a hand out to catch myself. It’s then that I see it. Rivers of red running down my arm and into the sink.
“Oh God,” I groan, grabbing the nearest hand towel and wrapping it around my arm. I can’t tell if the cuts are deep or superficial, but they’re throbbing. I drop the bloody shard of wine glass into the sink and then unwrap my arm to have a quick look. Fuck. If I need stitches, it will be impossible to hide them from Jack. He’ll never let me be again—he’ll handcuff me to him and drive me straight to the asylum.
I hold my wrapped arm to me and move to the bathroom.I find bandages in the drawer, and antibiotic ointment. I move quickly, trying my best to keep the dripping blood limited to the sink as I squirt the ointment over my arm and then begin wrapping the wound tightly. It takes me a few minutes, but finally the bandages are tight enough that the blood isn’t seeping through. I glance down at the bloody towel in the sink, thinking that it looks like a crime scene in here. I’ll have to wash everything up and clean the sink and discard the wine glass before Jack gets home.
And then it occurs to me what’s going on here. It’s the middle of the night. I was sleepwalking and just about ended my own life with a broken wine glass. Maybe Jack is right: maybe I can’t be trusted when left alone. Maybe if I knew what was good for me, I would take myself to the psychiatric facility. Bare minimum I could use some new medications to help me sleep peacefully.
I cringe as I gather the bloody towel and take it to the washing machine. I toss it in, add soap and hit start before heading to the kitchen to clean up the broken glass. My eyes ache with exhaustion by the time I’m finished. It’s after 4am by the time I go back to bed, my arm throbbing.
When I wake a few hours later, my head is foggy and the only thing I know for sure is that work would be all but impossible today. From bed, I shoot a quick email off to human resources and explain that I’m feeling under the weather. Then I open an internet search bar and begin researching severe sleepwalking disorders.
I’m deep down the rabbit hole reading an article about a woman who used a sleep disorder defense in a murder case when I hear the front door open. My heart lurches because no one should be coming into the house in the middle of the morning on a Friday. I move to the bedroom door and peek through the crack, my heart calming when I see my husband walking through the kitchen. I pull the sleeve of my sweatshirt down to cover my bandages and then open the door.
“Hey!” I call as I walk into the kitchen.
Jack jumps, spinning around with a look of shock on his features. “What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t feel good this morning—I had trouble sleeping last night,” I confess. He looks me up and down, as if he’s trying to find the lie in my words. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I tug at my sleeve unconsciously, sending him a reassuring but fake smile.
“Hey—don’t forget about that juicing retreat I bought you for your birthday.” He sets his laptop bag down on the counter.
“Oh, right. When is it again?”
“This weekend.” He pulls something out of his pocket, opening the trash can to dispose of it. “What’s this?”
“Hm?” I settle at the kitchen island, my mind hazy with the lack of sleep.
“A broken wine glass... covered in blood?” His eyes narrow on mine.
“Oh—yeah, happened last night.” I try to make light of the situation.
“Is that so?” Jack closes the trash can and then moves closer to me, eyes lingering on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Did you cut yourself?”
I glance down at my sleeve to find fresh blood staining the hem.
“Yeah—it’s nothing.” I force a smile.
