I left the church before the closing prayer, brimming with white-hot fury and another, more complex emotion I didn’t recognize, one that left a pit gnawing the base of my stomach. Goose bumps prickled my skin despite the warm weather, and I drove back to Amity in a stupor. Once I reached home, I sat on the front stoop and waited for Garrett’s and Hopie’s school buses to arrive. I only felt like myself again when my children rushed up the walkway and into my arms.
Chapter Forty-Four
Skye
NOVEMBER 2019
Dr. Salam’s thin fingers tremble slightly as she places the navy Moleskine down on the coffee table between us. After twenty-four hours of agonizing over Burke’s journal alone, I FedExed it to Dr. Salam and asked her to read it in advance of today’s session. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my eighteen years of therapy, it’s the importance of asking for help when you need it.
I haven’t spent a second working on Jan’s edits, though I finally texted her saying that I needed just a few more days and apologized that I wouldn’t be able to make it to the launch party Friday. I didn’t give a reason, and she didn’t reply. But I don’t have room in my brain to think about that right now. All I can think about is Burke’s Moleskine and Heather Price and Max’s emails and what it all means, and what the hell I’m supposed to do.
The expression in Dr. Salam’s wide brown eyes is indiscernible. She says nothing for several long moments, then asks, “You received this journal from Burke in the mail a few days ago? And the letter came with it?”
I nod. “I should’ve called you right after I read it. I should’ve called my dad—I still haven’t. I just—I don’t know what to do.”
Dr. Salam folds her hands over her lap. “I read it.” She sits up straighter. “Let me ask you this: What do you make of it?” She blinks and points her chin forward, shifting back into shrink mode.
“I believed it, at first,” I answer honestly. “But now I can’t stop going back and forth in my head. Sometimes I’m almost certain he’s telling the truth. It’s his handwriting, it sounds like his voice. And the digital diary never sounded right to me, it sounded too cool and sinister and conniving. But then I think, that’s absurd, that’s obviously the real Burke, and the one in the Moleskine is the fake version that he gave me for our entire relationship. I—I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
Dr. Salam crosses her legs.
“My dad has this theory that Burke’s wife is involved. God, I haven’t even told you this part yet.” I tell Dr. Salam about the conversation I had with my father several days ago, after our meeting with Davis. I explain Heather Price’s close friendship with my mother, and their intense falling-out after Heather’s brother’s death.
“Oh, Skye,” Dr. Salam says when I’ve finished. “I’m so sorry. This—this is a lot to take in. And all the missing pages and holes in the journal, it’s all very … confusing. Has your father presented his theory to the lawyer?”
I shake my head. “No. That’s why he brought it up with me, I guess. He thinks if we mention it to Davis, Davis is going to want to go after Heather, too, and it’s going to prolong the whole legal process. And my dad doesn’t think that will be good for me. He thinks the sooner this is all over, the better. And as things stand now, Davis thinks it’s going to be at least a few more months until the plea hearing is even scheduled. And then we’re also planning a civil suit, which is separate.”
Dr. Salam nods, taking all of this in. “And in terms of investigating Heather’s involvement, you don’t know what you want?” Her tone makes it more of a statement than a question.
“I—I don’t know. Clearly there’s something Burke isn’t telling me—something he can’t tell me. But maybe my dad is right, that prolonging all this is a bad idea. And when I last spoke with Davis he said”—my voice cracks—“he said Burke will likely go to prison for five years.” There’s a fullness behind my eyes and in my throat. “Five years, Dr. Salam. And then I read the Moleskine, and this letter, and—it’s a love letter. And if I’m being honest with myself, I still love Burke. I do. I mean, we got married not that long ago. I can’t just turn that off.”
“Of course you can’t.” Dr. Salam’s voice is warm but pained.
“But he’s a sociopath. I know that, rationally. He’s a sociopath who plotted to ruin my life. And God knows what’s missing from those pages of the Moleskine and why. This is probably all just some ploy to make me soft, to fuck with me, to manipulate me into asking Davis to lessen his jail time or something. And I should want to put him in jail. But then … he’s also the man that I love, and imagining him sitting behind bars is just—it’s agony, it makes me sick.” The tears are falling now, dripping down my cheeks. “Maybe I have been brainwashed, Dr. Salam. I’m just so confused.”
Dr. Salam’s brow creases and she hands me the box of Kleenex from her desk, as she’s done countless time before.
“And then”—I exhale—“then there’s something else I haven’t told you about. It involves Max.”
“Max LaPointe?”
“Yes.” I sniffle, rubbing my nose with a tissue. “He’s been … contacting me. I should’ve told you about it a while ago but I didn’t because I—well, you know I hate rehashing that part of my life.” I tell Dr. Salam how Max started emailing me right after Burke and I got engaged. I show her his most recent message from a few days earlier, the day Burke’s Moleskine arrived in the mail.
“I don’t understand.” Dr. Salam shakes her head, her voice thick. “I can’t believe Max has been contacting you … so aggressively like this.”
“It’s weird.” I nod, hesitating. “It’s a little too weird. Maybe I’m crazy, but I have this feeling that Max might be … involved in this situation somehow. With Burke.”
Dr. Salam presses her lips together. “Why would that be?”
“I’m not sure.” I let my shoulders drop.
“Well, we know Max has sadistic tendencies, Skye. You don’t think his timing is merely a coincidence?”
“I really don’t know.” I feel helpless, anxiety worming its way into my hands. I stab at the cuticle of my thumbnail with my pointer finger.
“Have you told Davis?” Dr. Salam asks. “About Max?”
“No, but I’ve been wondering if I should. I mean, the last thing I want to do is tell Davis about Max—about … what he did to me. My father and Nancy don’t know, I never told them. But there’s this feeling I can’t shake. If Max is somehow behind any of this, if he’s the one who’s gotten Burke in trouble…” I sigh. “I won’t let him ruin my life again.”
“Oh, Skye.” Dr. Salam stares past my shoulder, her gaze glassy and distracted. “I suppose—I suppose maybe you’re right to let Davis in on all the facts.”
I tear at the cuticle until a strip of skin peels back. The layer underneath is red and raw, pulsing blood. I cringe and look up at Dr. Salam, waiting for a piece of thoughtful advice or guidance, something to hold on to, some port in the storm that’s unfurling around me.