“It’s definitely a murder investigation.” His head was bent low, so only I could hear what he was saying. “The questions they were asking were obvious. Like if I knew anyone who wanted to do her harm. They even asked about you—if you had any enemies.”
Knowing that someone was asking those sorts of questions made me feel overexposed, as if I’d been slit open and laid bare for all to see.
“They talked to me last night,” I admitted, clenching my pen.
“I got that feeling. They asked about the trip we made to Cassie’s house and the cliff.”
“Sorry.” Unable to look at him, I focused on my textbook. “I didn’t want to get you involved.”
“It’s okay.” Under the table, his hand found my empty one. Threading his fingers through mine, he squeezed. “I’m not upset that you told them that we went there. It’s not like we were doing anything wrong.”
Aware of his hand around mine and the pleasant tingle that shot up my arm, I wondered if he’d still hold my hand if he knew the truth. Or would he call me Insanity Sam like everyone else? My eyes burned.
As the teacher started the lecture, Carson shifted his hand, tracing his thumb over my palm in a silent alphabet. As if I weren’t distracted enough. I jumped a few times, scraping the legs of my chair on the floor, especially when his fingers reached the center of my hand. Carson would chuckle softly, and the two kids in front of our table kept turning around, glancing at us.
By the end of class, my cheeks were rosy and my nerves were stretched tight for several reasons—one of them being the fact that Carson was still holding my hand.
Out in the hallway, he pulled me against the wall and lowered his head so that we were eye level. “I want to see you after practice.”
My heart did a little happy dance, but I shook my head. “I don’t know … if we should.”
His lips curved up on one side. “I’m asking to hang out. That’s all, Sam.”
I flushed. “I know, but …”
“But what?” His lopsided grin spread. “Or do you want to play the field now that you’re single? Keep your options open?”
Rolling my eyes, I laughed. “That’s not it.”
“Good.” He stepped forward. Our shoes touched. People were watching, and I couldn’t care less when my eyes locked with his. “I’d be sort of disappointed. So, meet me at eight. The tree house clandestine enough for you?”
I knew I should tell him no. “Okay.”
My therapist was an old man who smelled of pipe tobacco and wore thick, square glasses that I think were supposed to be hipster. He had a head full of silvery hair and a beard I couldn’t stop staring at. Awards and certificates lined the walls. Photos of him hunting, holding a deer by its antlers, and deep-sea fishing off a yacht were mixed among them.
He asked very few questions, all designed to get me to talk about how I felt, what I worried about, and more important, what I’d felt before I “remembered” things or “found a note” left to me.
He’d write in his little notebook, and I seriously doubted they were notes from the way his pen moved. I think he was doodling.
The session lasted exactly thirty-three minutes.
I left his office and climbed into my father’s car, clutching slips of paper to my chest. My dad didn’t speed off, throwing distance between the car and the shrink’s office, as I knew Mom would have. He watched me closely instead. “What did Dr. O’Connell have to say?”
“I don’t have schizophrenia. Good news.”
He arched a brow.
I sighed, handing him my prescription for Buspar. “He said I have severe anxiety disorder plus post-traumatic stress or something. The pills should take effect in about two weeks. This one”—I waved another prescription around—”is called Ativan. I’m supposed to use it in case I have a panic attack or whatever, which he thinks is what is happening when I … see the shadow guy.”
“Shadow guy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve nicknamed the guy I see but isn’t really there.” I paused, recalling what the therapist said about him. “He thinks the shadow guy could be stress-induced hallucinations or memories of that night, that I’m shielding myself from seeing his face.”
And see, that was the kicker. If the shadow guy was a product of my lost memories, taking these pills could hinder what I’d remember from that night. I was caught between wanting to take them so I’d feel normal and not wanting to because they’d cut off my only avenue to remembering what happened that night.
“Okay.” He took that piece of paper from me. “And how long will that take to work once you …”
“Once I start seeing or hearing things?” I felt bad when he flinched and looked away. “About thirty minutes and I’ll be high as kite and happily sedated.”
“Samantha …”
“It’s okay.” But it really wasn’t. I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, hating the idea of having to take pills. “The doc didn’t say how long I’d need to be on them.”
“What did he say about the notes?”
A fine drizzle covered the windshield before I answered. “He said it was probably my subconscious trying to make contact with me.” My laugh was dry. The therapist had asked how I’d felt before I found a note, if didn’t remember what I was doing before then. And I realized that each time I’d found a note, I’d had a dizzy spell or a brief flash of memory. During those times was when I’d supposedly written the notes to myself. He’d said that I could’ve actually remembered everything during those moments but was still blocking them out.
I sighed. “It’s like I have an alien living in my body. He said that may or may not stop with the medication.”
He gripped the steering wheel. “And the memories?”
I shrugged. “They could keep coming back or stop completely, but the pills might affect them.”
Dad nodded, stuffing the papers into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ll drop you off at home and get them filled for you.”
“Thank you.” I buckled myself in. “Dad—”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, honey. Okay? I don’t want you to feel like there’s something wrong with you.”
“There is something wrong with me,” I said drily. “Remember—hallucinations, panic attacks, blah, blah?”
“You know what I mean.” He started the car, carefully angling it out of the parking spot. “I just want you to get better.”
“Me too.”
He glanced at me, and my heart ached at the sadness dulling his eyes. Stopped at the edge of the parking lot, he reached out and palmed my cheek. “I just wish …”
“Wish what, Dad?”
A weak smile flitted across his lips as he removed his hand and pulled out onto the road. “I just wish you didn’t have to go through any of this.”
Tipping my head back against the seat, I closed my eyes, listening to the rain smack off the roof. “I know.”
chapter twenty-one
Ten minutes till eight, I placed the prescription bottles unopened in my medicine cabinet and grabbed my hoodie. I was supposed to take the Buspar with dinner, but I had no idea what it would do to me, and I wanted to talk to Carson without being doped up. Before whatever it was we had going on could go any further, I had to tell him the truth.
I slipped out through the basement, letting Scott know that I was going to meet up with Carson. He’d cover for me in case our parents came looking.
I shoved my hands into the center pocket of my hoodie and followed the thin slice of moonlight that seemed to lead right up to the edge of the lawn. From there, I stayed on the trail, busying myself with how I was going to tell Carson I was crazy.