“Where are you?”
His insistence unsettles me, making me believe he knows exactly where I am. That is impossible. Stop being paranoid, Zara.
“Meeting with a client.”
“So, business?”
“Business.” It’s not a lie per se. Life is business; you can lead a successful one or one that will bankrupt you.
No one could have informed him, I remind myself. I don’t know what increases my unease more: that I am lying or that I get the impression he knows it.
“Love you,” I confess, offering the ultimate truth while heading to therapy, not knowing what I will face.
“Love you, wife. All I do is for you, you know that?” he asks, his voice shifting to the familiar gentle tone.
“I know. Baby, I am here. I’ll call you afterward.”
“Do that,” he says, disconnecting the call.
I stare at the impressive building, where people with mental illnesses call it home behind a thick fence.
Perfectly manicured, the landscape appears peaceful, maybe to counteract the demons lurking around. There’s not a single cloud in the sky, the clear blue and warm day a glaring contrast to the storm gathering inside my head.
I wrap my arms around myself, a chill sweeping over me and making me feel cold, reverting me to a terrified part of myself. I don’t know exactly what scares me, since my memories are almost nonexistent, but my feelings are clearer.
Was I in a place like this before?
I can’t remember, but with every step, my confidence drains, leaving me vulnerable to my bones. I dislike it, but how else will I unravel the mystery if I am not open to reaching the part of me my brain sealed away?
Doctor Susannah Wellsburg waits for me at the top of the stairs, her presence offering some much-needed comfort. Tall and slender, she wears a white coat over a silk shirt and cigarette trousers. Her blonde hair, streaked with gray, lies in a tight bun at the back of her head, making her look like the epitome of put-together. Everything I am not at the moment.
She welcomes me, the corners of her mouth arching slightly, setting a professional boundary from the beginning. Her eyes fix on me with such scrutiny that I am fairly sure she has me figured out without uttering a word.
“They will remain here,” she says, and my guards stand straighter.
A woman of authority, I like it.
I jerk my chin at my men. “Wait for me at the car.”
“Ma’am––”
I narrow my eyes at them, and they step back, sweeping their gazes over the place, trying to detect potential threats.
I follow her inside the white building, and she points to her right. “My office is over there.”
My heels click-clack on the polished floor, each step ringing with my rising anxiety. At the end of a long corridor, she opens the door to her office and gestures for me to enter.
It’s spacious, with natural light streaming through the French windows. A palette of creams and warm wood tones creates an inviting mood. Everything is neatly organized, from her shelves filled with books to her desk, where only a laptop, a pair of thick-framed glasses, and a stack of yellow folders occupy the surface. Behind it are pictures of human facial expressions, captured so realistically that it’s impossible not to be drawn in.
She points at the sofa across from her desk. “Please take a seat.”
“I prefer to stand,” I say, squaring my shoulders to assert myself and appease my need to be in control.
Leaning against her desk, she tilts her head. “It surprises me that you came.”
“Why would you say that?”
She taps the edge of her desk, studying me. “I am used to receiving threats from my patients, but not from their relatives.”
