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)
I end the call before she can respond and toss my phone onto the passenger seat of my car.
Ralph’s image flashes in my mind, but now I see him for what he is—an obsessive manipulator who would stop at nothing to possess the one thing he holds most dear.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. The dashboard clock reads six forty-five. I have just over an hour until dinner with Angie and her brother, who is hopefully going to help me put Ralph behind bars, where he belongs.
In my pocket, my phone buzzes again. I ignore it, my thoughts too consumed by Ralph. His face, his lies, his chilling composure. I’m uncomfortably aware that he’s still out there, a free man, while I’m the one facing charges.
The urge to drive back to the hospital, to confront Ralph again, is powerful. But I know better. He’s expecting me to snap, to lose control and give him another chance to play the innocent victim.
He won’t get that satisfaction.
Instead, I take a deep breath and will myself to think rationally. Angie’s brother may hold the key, so I need to go to that dinner and be presentable, not a raging bull ready to charge. And beyond that, I need to be patient.
Ralph will slip up. He has to.
His entire existence is one big con, one careful lie after another. But no matter how careful he may be, he’s still human, and humans make mistakes.
Damn. I need some clarity.
Need to get my head on straight.
And that means…
Fuck.
I know who I should call. If he’ll even take my call this late in the day.
But I have to try.
I get home, walk through my door, and call Dr. Engel.
“Dr. Lansing,” he says into the phone. “How can I help you?”
“I’m sorry I missed our last appointment. Do you have time to talk now? I’ll pay extra.”
“That’s not necessary. But I appreciate the call. It tells me something.”
“Yeah?” I scoff. “And what’s that?”
“That despite what you think about psychiatry, a part of you believes I might be able to help you.”
“I don’t need help. I need the truth. I need to prove that the bastard who framed me for assault is the same one who took my wife away.”
“And in the meantime?” he asks. “What do you do with all of that anger? That grief?”
“I don’t have time for grief,” I mutter. “I need to focus.”
“Suppressing it won’t make you stronger. It won’t bring your wife back, and it won’t clear your name.”
My jaw tightens. “I didn’t call you to be analyzed.”
“Then why did you call?” he presses.
I hesitate. The words sit heavy on my tongue, but they slip out before I can stop them. “Because my life took a hard turn. Because I wake up feeling like I can’t breathe.”
“All right. You want justice. You want the truth,” he says. “But your mind is a battlefield right now, and if you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be strong enough to fight.”
I let out a dry laugh. “So what, you want me to talk about my feelings? Journal? Meditate?”
He doesn’t react to my sarcasm. “No. I want you to understand how trauma works. How the mind warps under stress and grief. I want you to see that what you’re feeling is valid, but it doesn’t have to control you.”
“I don’t buy into all this therapy talk.”
“You don’t have to,” he says simply. “You just have to admit that what you’ve been doing isn’t working.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. I hate that he’s right. I hate that for all my anger, all my need for justice, I still feel like I’m drowning.
“I’m not here to tell you to let go of what happened. I’m here to help you carry it without it breaking you.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “If I let go of the anger, what’s left?”
“The truth,” he says. “And when you find it, I want you to be strong enough to face it.”
I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. For so long, I’ve convinced myself that psychiatry is nothing but empty words and useless theories. But sitting here, listening to him, I realize something.
I began this path with him so I could get the surgery I want.
I called him today to get clarity about the man who’s trying to ruin my life.
Instead, I’m starting to find answers about myself.
“All right, Doc,” I say. “Let’s talk.”
For the next hour, I talk to Dr. Engel.
I don’t question his methods. I just talk.
About the surgery.
About the accident.
Julia.
Lindsay.
The guilt. God, the guilt.
About the charges against me.
And about my suspicions about what Ralph did to Lindsay.
About Angie. My love for her that is more than I ever felt for my wife.
God…more guilt.
I spill it all, and he listens.
He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t analyze, even though that’s his job.