CHAPTER 69

“TELL ME YOU haven’t driven.”

That’s how he starts our session. I cross off any chance of an enjoyable chat and pop my gum loudly into the phone, a habit I know he abhors. “I haven’t driven. But I can drive. I’m fine. We’ll never know if I can handle things like this if I don’t try.”

Dr. Derek sighs, the sound heavy. “You’ve lost control, Dee. The car, the trips outside… your boyfriend. We haven’t changed your medication and you’ve had no reduction in your… desires. I’m starting to think that you are a danger to others.”

A danger to others. The four words that can get me put in a padded cell, my arms through a straitjacket. Medication dispensed via syringe if necessary. My jaw tightens, and I regret every time I have opened my mouth and told him the truth. He has never taken this path. Never threatened me before. “I’m not a danger.” I say the lie quietly, in the sanest voice I can manage. I cannot be locked up and medicated. I will behave. I will restrict myself more. I can do it. I can do anything to avoid that.

“What happened the other night? The night you called me. You still haven’t told me about it.”

“Nothing. I had a panic attack. I stayed in the apartment. Simon showed up.”

“To lock you in.”

“Yes.”

“Listen to yourself, Dee. You need help.” He pauses, and I tighten my fists as I wait for what is next, as I wait for what I already know is coming. “Maybe now is the time. When you get help. When you move somewhere where you can interact with others in a controlled environment.”

“I’m not being locked up.”

“You’re already locked up. Might as well be getting help through the process.”

“You don’t understand. All these calls, all these years, and you don’t understand.”

“Neither do you.”

I hang up the phone, stare at it. Stare at the blinking duration of our call, twenty-one minutes too short, and wonder what he will do.

He could commit me. If he thinks I’m a harm to myself or others, he could have me committed. I have impressed him, so far, with my dedication to seclusion. But he doesn’t know what happened in Georgia. If he finds out, I’m certain that he will fill out that form. First, turn me in for murder. Then, send me to the loony bin. Either way, seems like it’d be bad for our friendship.

But any action Derek eventually takes will be difficult. He doesn’t have my address. I filled out a client information sheet when I first hired him. Put on it a bogus address. Requested that billing be done via e-mail. He knows my real name: Deanna Madden. Nothing else. All he has is my phone number, a number that Mike has protected in some superhacker fashion that guarantees me anonymity. So if he does call the goons, they’ll knock on a few empty doors, waste a few hours wandering through Harrisville, Utah—then scratch my name off their list and move on. Committing potential criminals is pretty low on their priority list.

I could end it right now. Pay his bill and move on. Find a new psychiatrist, be less truthful about the depravity of my mind. But what little success I’ve had these last three years, I owe in part to him. He knows me. Will call me on my shit. Has the greatest chance of keeping me in line. I, in some way, shape, or form, need him.

CHAPTER 70

SOME TWENTY-ODD HOURS after the psychopath left, Mike’s chair pushed far enough out of reach to tease, his wrists handcuffed to the bed frame, a strip of duct tape firm and sticky against his mouth, someone rings the doorbell.

Three years ago, before Jamie, there was Tiffany. She was perky, one of those girls who had too many aspirations: fitness trainer, nutritionist, talk show host, celebrity—the least and most attainable of which was life coach. She was hired as an assistant, but viewed Mike as a life coach project, someone to practice her insanity on before she reached the point of charging for her inspirational pushiness. They didn’t last long together. Six months. Long enough for him to find Jamie. Six months of healthy food, no soda, no weed, cheery Post-its next to his sink reminding him to Brush Your Teeth! and Don’t Forget to Smile! Six months of misery. The sole reminder of the Tiffany servitude now exists in a white box that sits atop his fridge. It connects wirelessly to a cheap doorbell mount on the front door, and plays a cheery tune when the doorbell button is suppressed. There were twenty-two tunes to choose from, but it was December when Tiffany installed it, so “Jingle Bells” was chosen. The button, a cheap white piece, permanently affixed to the brick with liquid nails, sticks if pressed too aggressively, causing “Jingle Bells” to play on repeat until the button is gently worked free.