Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Indeed,” Dr. Engel replies, shifting his position. “But in order to assess that, we need to have a clear understanding of your current state of mind and overall well-being.”
Fuck.
I should have known he wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily.
I sigh, lean back into the plush leather chair, and cross my arms. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
He pulls out a notebook and pen. “Let’s start with your mood. How would you describe it?”
“Good,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t contradict me. “And how about your sleep? Any disturbances or nightmares?”
“No,” I say quickly, averting my gaze. It’s not true, though…
Or maybe it is.
I haven’t had nearly as many sweaty nightmares since I began seeing Angie.
“Any loss of appetite or changes in weight?”
“No,” I reply, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. My patience is beginning to wear thin, but I’m careful not to let it show.
Dr. Engel nods, scribbling some notes. After a moment, he looks up again. “Have you been experiencing feelings of hopelessness or guilt recently?”
Hopelessness?
No.
Guilt?
Fuck…
I hesitate before answering. “Guilt, sometimes,” I admit, staring at his sleek glass desk.
“Hmm.” Dr. Engel taps his pen against the notebook. “And how often do you find yourself thinking about the accident?”
More than I’d like to admit.
“Often,” I mumble.
“Are these thoughts accompanied by a sense of panic or anxiety?” he asks.
“No.”
And it’s true. I’m not anxious. I feel guilt, of course, but not anxiety, other than my newfound desire to know whether my wife actually committed suicide.
“I see,” he says.
I clear my throat. “I think I need to postpone the surgery anyway.”
He widens his eyes. “And why is that?”
Should I tell him? If I’m wrong, he’ll definitely write me off forever as a man who can’t accept his wife’s death, can’t move forward, isn’t stable enough for this surgery.
But then I think… Fuck it. Caution to the wind.
“Because I’ve discovered something. Something about my wife’s death.”
Chapter Thirteen
Angie
My heart drops to my stomach.
Tabitha’s eyes are wide as she stares at me. “Your boyfriend? What is he talking about, Angie?”
“He must be delirious,” I say.
“Ralph, what are you talking about?” Tabitha asks.
“Ask her,” Ralph says before closing his eyes again.
His face is badly beaten. It looks like someone used him as a punching bag. I can’t bear to look at him, but I can’t look away either.
“Angie?” Tabitha’s voice is filled with confusion.
“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. But the truth is creeping up on me like the chill of a ghost.
I swallow hard, fighting the lump in my throat. I shift my gaze from Ralph’s battered face to Tabitha’s concerned one and then to the white walls of the hospital room. I inhale the stinging scent of antiseptic.
“I need to step out,” I murmur.
Tabitha reaches out and grabs my hand. “Angie, what’s going on?”
“I just need some air.” I pull away from her grip and exit the room.
Eli is returning from the restroom, but I whisk by him. The hallway seems to stretch on forever as I walk toward the nearest exit.
When I finally reach the hospital garden, I collapse onto a bench and put my head in my hands. The winter air is cool against my skin, and for a moment it brings a bit of relief that distracts me from the turmoil inside. But soon, the wind starts to pick up, bringing a biting chill that matches the ice forming in my veins.
No way did Jason do this. Sure, I told him Ralph was no doubt the one who emailed HR—and that he came on to me—but Jason is a doctor, a healer.
He would never deliberately hurt another human being.
Would he?
My mind spins with unending questions, each one more horrifying than the last. But amid the tumultuous thoughts, a singular notion forms that cuts me to the core.
I hardly know Jason at all.
How long has it been? A few days? Weeks? Not nearly enough time to fully understand the man behind his gorgeous exterior. What evidence do I have of his goodness, other than his title as a doctor?
In a flash, every sweet gesture he’s made feels like a potential mask, an intricate disguise to hide something dark. Every shared laugh and tender moment is now tinged with bitter doubt.
“No,” I whisper to myself. “He’s not like that. He can’t be.”
But doubt has a way of growing and festering.
I look up as a figure approaches me.
It’s Tabitha.
“Angie? You okay?”
I sniffle. “Fine.”
She crosses her arms. “You were talking to yourself.”
“Was I?” I feign surprise, quickly wiping moisture from my eyes.
Tabitha settles down beside me. “You’re not fine. You’re far from it.”
I rub at my eyes. “I’m just trying to make sense of things.”
She frowns. “I hope you know you can talk to me.”
Here she goes again, thinking we’re besties after two weeks. Or has it been longer? Sometimes I feel like I’ve been with Jason forever.