YOU OKAY?” Dr. Shepard asked as I sat down across from her in the detention facility visiting room. “Sorry, that was a stupid question. I’m sure ‘okay’ isn’t the best word to describe how you are. How are you feeling?”
Dr. Shepard laid her hands on the tabletop. And I so desperately wanted to grab them. I just needed so badly to know that I was going to be okay. I wanted to feel some promise seeping through the surface of her skin. But touching wasn’t allowed, and I had never in my life touched Dr. Shepard. Besides, that wasn’t a promise she could make.
“I didn’t do this,” I said.
“Of course you didn’t,” she said.
And she was so genuinely sure of this fact—like without an ounce of doubt. It made me start to cry. Hard and out of nowhere. I’d been working so hard to keep it together, hadn’t cried once since they arrested me. But as soon as the tears started, I could not make them stop. Soon I was sobbing so loud that a guard came over to investigate. Luckily, he just kept walking.
“Sorry,” I said when my tears finally slowed and I was able to take a breath.
“You don’t need to apologize.” Dr. Shepard reached over to give my hand a quick, forbidden squeeze. “I’d cry if I was in here, too.”
“My anxiety is out of control,” I said. “I can’t remember what it’s like to take a deep breath.”
“That’s understandable,” Dr. Shepard said. “You’ve never had less control over your surroundings. How are you coping?”
“I’m not, I guess.” I shrugged. “I almost passed out once. A guard told me they’d put me in solitary if I did.”
Anger popped Dr. Shepard’s eyes wide open.
“No, no, no,” she said, with a shake of her head. And wow, was she pissed. She looked around the room, as if searching for someone to attack. “That definitely won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it. They’re legally obligated to make accommodations for your anxiety. Certainly they can’t punish you for it.” She took a breath, tried to calm herself. “But we should focus on what you can do in the meantime. I know that breathing exercises don’t always work for you. But your options in here are limited. How about visualization? We did that once, right? Where you picture a place that makes you happy?”
“My happy place?” I asked, trying to smile.
Dr. Shepard smiled, too. “Yes, your happy place. Believe it or not, it does work.”
“I’m just not sure where that is anymore,” I said, and Dr. Shepard just nodded. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” she said, grateful for the chance to maybe have an answer for something.
“I know you can’t tell me details of why you saw her or whatever because of confidentiality, but how did you meet Teresa?”
Dr. Shepard’s eyebrows bunched up. “Teresa?”
“I don’t know her last name. I was in the hospital with her. She told me she was your patient. She was the girl who died in the fire.” Dr. Shepard looked skeptical. “She lived with her grandmother? Small with big glasses. She even talked about your red chair.”
“I’m sorry, Wylie. But I’ve never had a patient named Teresa. And I would remember. That’s my mother’s name.”
“So you never sent your patients to take my dad’s tests?” That’s what I’d been assuming.
“My patients?” She looked shocked by the suggestion. “That would be unethical, at least potentially. Not to mention that using a sample of only people already in therapy for a psychological experiment would certainly affect your dad’s results.”
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how much I had made up. So many false connections, so many blanks filled in based on one wrong assumption. No, not assumption. Teresa had brought up Dr. Shepard. I wasn’t inventing that.
“Oh,” I said, trying not to let my mind spin out into even more troubling explanations.
“I’m sorry, Wylie,” Dr. Shepard went on. “I feel as though I’ve let you down.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I was pretty let down already.”
WHEN THE DOORBELL rings a second time, Gideon and I both flinch. Rachel coming back so soon doesn’t feel like a good thing, not at all.
“It could be Jasper,” Gideon offers hopefully.
“I don’t think so,” I say as I head over to look out the window alongside the door.
I blink once, hard. But unfortunately, when I open my eyes, it is still definitely Jasper’s mom standing there on our front porch. Still looking pissed. I take a breath, my hand on the knob. When I finally yank open the door, it’s like I’m pulling off a Band-Aid.
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