No, I am not all good. Not in the slightest.
What did Zayn know? And how could he have kept this from me?
____________________
Sometime later, still spiraling, I arrive at my office. I click the fob over my shoulder, and stride into the building. Once in the lobby, my eyes catch on a copy of the local paper, which lays open on one of the coffee tables situated between the rows of chairs.
The headline reads:
“GONE WITHOUT A TRACE: GREENWOOD ON EDGE AS MISSING LOCAL PRESUMED DEAD.”
What the fuck.
Seizing the newspaper, I walk to my office and close the door behind me.
I speed-read, my eyes flying across the page. Joshua James Sullivan. Missing. Victim taken from his apartment. No signs of forced entry. Foul play suspected. No suspect identified at this time. Leads cold. Victim presumed dead.Holy shit.
I open my laptop and immediately cancel my remaining therapy sessions for the day. Then I pull out my cell to call Bea. But with my finger hovering over the green phone icon, I pause.
I couldn’t call her. Bound by confidentiality and HIPAA, I could not disclose that Josh had been my patient to anyone. Not even Bea, a fellow therapist. Not without a release from said patient. Whom, I had just learned, was presumed dead.Fuck.
I suck in a deep breath as I try to regain some composure. First the note in Dad’s closet, and now this? What was going on? I toss the phone down and pace around my desk, trying to make sense of it all. My eyes fall on my patient sofa, where both Josh and Zayn had sat at different times.
Suddenly, I stop. And just like it did that night at Bea’s apartment, the truth dawns on me. Slow and viscous. Like honey. Or tar.
All the signs point to one explanation: to one person.
Zayn.
21
RUIN
KAT
At six-thirty sharp, I storm through the foyer of Pearson House, not even bothering to take off my heels. I round the corner through the living room and spot Zayn in the kitchen exactly where he said he’d be. Savory aromas of roast beef, vegetables, and garlic meet my nose.
I slam the newspaper down on the dining room table, folded in half so the headline faces upward above the fold. Wine sloshes out of the glass that sits to my right from the force of my hand.
Zayn turns to greet me, wearing that ridiculous half chef’s apron, the sleeves of his black oxford rolled up just above the elbow.
“Hey Doc,” he starts, but trails off after catching sight of my expression. I make pointed eye contact with him. I already know this was him. I know it in my bones. He just has to confirm it.
Zayn strides over to me and peers down at the folded newspaper, taking in the bold headline.
After a moment, his eyes meet mine. He says nothing. On top of the newspaper, I toss down the strip of paper with Dr. Wagner’s name written on it.
“Those chains in your car…” I start, trailing off. “…f-for Josh?”
He says nothing, regarding both me and the damning evidence laying on the table between us.
“Kat…” he begins, taking a tentative step toward me. But I cut him off.
“You’ve been lying to me,” I spit out.
Zayn’s eyes narrow as he takes in my words. He steps toward me, his hands outstretched.
“Yes, but it’s not exactly what you think it is, baby…”
