“I went somewhere else in my mind. I went to a memory,” I finally say, taking my time so she hears each word.
“A good memory? A good place?”
“It was a better one, a place I kind of made up. My mind changed it, I guess, into something… something I could handle.”
She writes something down. “Something that made it easier to deal with.”
“Yeah.” I shift on the couch.
I don’t like the silence that’s dragging between us. It’s like she knows I’m not telling her something important. I dig my nails into the pillow for a second, then let it drop onto my lap. I stare at it. “Knox was supposed to protect me. Why didn’t he?”
“How was he supposed to protect you?”
“He… he wasn’t supposed to let my dad get me. He… he was supposed to find me. He promised I’d be safe. They promised they wouldn’t let me go. It was a promise, not a threat. And then he didn’t… he didn’t get there in time. He didn’t… didn’t and then he didn’t…”
I can’t tell her that Knox didn’t kill my dad.
I can’t tell her that none of them know what to do with me now.
There’s so much I can’t admit to without plunging us all into trouble.
My stomach twists and for a second, I’m sure I’m going to be sick, but then I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“That’s okay. We’ll stop,” she says. “No more questions about it today. You’ve done really well, Hope. It’s not easy to open up and to share the worst things in your life, but you’re doing it. You’re putting in the work and that matters. It’s something only you can do.”
She grabs some folders from her desk. “Let’s try some breathing exercises.”
I carefully nod and shift in my seat.
“In through your nose for four counts, hold for four, out through your mouth for four, creating a box with your breathing,” she instructs, her voice steady as I struggle to follow along. When my shoulders finally drop, she hands me a manila folder. “I want you to read these, Hope. I think it might help to start EMDR.”
“What’s that?” My voice comes out smaller than I expected.
“Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing,” she explains, tapping the folder. “It helps people process traumatic memories. Think of it like this—when trauma happens, it gets stuck in your brain like a splinter. EMDR helps your brain finally push it out so it can heal properly.”
I stare at the folder, suddenly aware of how many splinters I have buried inside me. “Will it hurt?” I ask, not entirely talking about the therapy.
“I can’t promise it won’t bring up bad feelings, Hope. But if it hurts, it means your brain is finally getting a chance to heal. That’s how you move on.” Jo’s voice is soft but she doesn’t let it turn floaty or gentle. She wants me to know this is serious, that I can’t just sleep it off or coat it over with foundation.
“You’re in control the entire time. You can stop whenever you want. No more losing time, no more gaps.” She leans back. “I won’t press you. But I do want you to think about it. Trauma has a way of sticking around forever unless you dig it out.”
I know what she’s really saying: I can’t make my own story if the old one is still replaying behind every second of my life.
“Okay,” I say, but I know it’s not true.
“Okay,” she repeats and walks to the office door, only when she opens the door, something switches in her eyes.
“Hope.”
“Yes?” I ask softly, my voice scratchy and weak.
“I can’t truly grasp yet what these… men are to you now. But keep them out of my office. One, it’s a very controlling thing for a man to do. Stealing files and trespassing are serious charges. I’ll let it go because he only accessed your files, but if one of them comes in here again, I’ll have to involve police,” she says evenly.
I nod once, my jaw clenching tight. Heat floods my face as my hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms. Something shifts inside me, temporarily drowning out the fear that’s been echoing through me.
Anger.
DIMITRI
