Adrienne scribbled something on her printer paper, then tapped the pen’s cap. “You’ve done a lot of great work in just a few weeks,” she said. “Deciding to stand up for yourself is huge. It takes an enormous amount of bravery, especially since it sounds like Kristen won’t let go without a fight.”
Stop. Stop. Stop. I was an idiot. I knew what Kristen was capable of—I’d seen it firsthand.
Her gaze vaulted to the clock on the wall. “That’s all our time for today.”
I gathered my things and said goodbye. Alarm was sweeping through me, growing in speed and intensity. Maybe I was being paranoid—maybe this was all a huge misunderstanding, and I was misinterpreting Kristen’s innocent gestures as some scary Single White Female shit. But if my terrifying hunches were correct, sweet Lord, I needed to avoid her—and keep Aaron far away from her too. This wasn’t the kind of thing we could talk out: So, Kristen, you killed another man and moved halfway around the world to make me yours alone, huh? Does that mean I should fear for my new boyfriend’s life?
I trudged down the hall to the waiting room. Someone was hunched over their phone on the sofa there, and I gave a bland smile without making eye contact. My hand had just grasped the doorknob when the stranger spoke.
“Emily?”
My heart dropped. I froze and turned slowly, first my head, then my whole body.
Kristen raised her eyebrows and smirked. “Well, hello.”
CHAPTER 28
She is stalking you. It’s what my brain spit out first, a warning, the same low voice that pipes up when you pass a group of leering dudes or walk too close to the edge of a cliff. Back off. Run away. Fight or flight, cortisol and adrenaline conspiring to keep you safe.
She frowned and gave a little laugh. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” It came out as defensive, and I swallowed hard.
“I’m seeing a therapist. For an intake.” She glanced down the hall, then at me. “Priya recommended her. I didn’t realize you were going here?”
I dropped onto a seat. “Priya told me about this place too.” I tucked my purse onto my lap. “Are you seeing Adrienne?”
“Um…” She glanced at her phone for a moment, then nodded. “Adrienne Oderdonk? It’s going to be hard for me to not accidentally say ‘Badonkadonk.’？” She cracked a smile. “I finally took your advice. You’ve been telling me to see someone and I figured as long as I’m, you know. Careful with my words, it’s okay.”
I thought, You lie. I thought, You’re so tidy at explaining things away. But instead I said, “So we’re both seeing a therapist in secret! So Midwestern of us.”
“I know! Hashtag-stigma.” I heard Adrienne’s door open down the hallway and stood to leave. “Well, good luck.”
“Text me later,” she called.
I was almost to my car by the time the other details fell into place: Adrienne’s missing notebook; that faint thunk outside the door. And how, just a few days ago, I’d confessed to Kristen that I wished I could come clean, unburden myself of the truth about Sebastian and Paolo. Had Kristen figured out I’d be here and somehow confiscated notes from my session to check what I’d told Adrienne? To scan for anything incriminating, make sure I wasn’t skating too close to the truth? Or had she followed me to the therapy practice, skulking in the shadows and then pressing her ear to the office door? Calm down, Emily, you’re being ridiculous.
But what if I was right?
* * *
—
But I had to be wrong. Paranoid, ridiculous Emily. As I spooned pasta into a bowl and carried it into the living room, I replayed the conversation in my head. Kristen kept popping up where she didn’t belong—my yoga studio, my therapist’s office, my front door. It was ironic: I’d felt gutted when she’d moved to Australia, but then I’d built a life for myself here. And now she was ramming herself into every part of it.
Kristen texted a hello as I cued up a show. Commercials at the beginning, employee pricing on SUVs and laundry detergent tough enough for toddlers’ stains. Mundane stuff for women with families, women with ordinary lives. Women without a browser history checking if their best friend was just a bit murdery.
“How’d it go tonight?” I hit Send, saw that she was typing back.
“Pretty good. She said she’ll refer me to someone else in the practice. Conflict of interest.”
I sent back a question mark, and she added, “She figured out I was the Kristen you talk about.”
A scattershot spray of fear. Shit—if Kristen wasn’t already worried about my blabbing, she would be now.
I spent a while rewording my text, trying to get it right. Finally: “Got it. I hope that doesn’t make you feel weird—I’m extremely careful about your/our privacy. But of course you come up, you are my best friend! ”
“I figured.”
A silence, no little typing dots, and I couldn’t think of anything to say either. After a moment I jumped up from the couch, shook out my hands, and lifted my phone once more: “Will you go again? With a different therapist?”
“Not sure yet. It was an intense session.”
Intense. I swallowed. “Adrienne’s a pro.”
“She seems smart.”
I stared at it. It probably just meant Adrienne is intelligent, she’s good at her job. But it could also mean: I don’t like her. She’s smart enough to read you—to read between the lines.
“I’m glad you gave it a shot. Super brave and awesome of you.” I added a few clapping emojis to underscore my point.
She was typing on and off for a while, and then a longish text came through: “We’ll see if I go again. I had to make up an excuse bc Nana and Bill would be so judgy about it. But thanks, and you too. Hey, remember what I said in my birthday card. Read it, remember it, believe it. We’re in this together.” She finished with a heart.
I thought it over, then decided she was talking about that PS: If you ever forget how amazing you are, you know who to call. Because I never, ever forget, and I’d be honored to count the ways. I responded with a kissy emoji and dropped my phone on the couch.
I turned off the TV show halfway through, unable to concentrate. Thoughts were churning, swirling like vultures. Who could I trust when I couldn’t trust my best friend? Could I count on her to keep us both safe? What would she do if I didn’t remain attached to her like a barnacle? Would she hurt those I loved?
Or would she…the thought made me ill, it was so repugnant, so verboten, more repulsive than incest or pedophilia or any gut-level taboo: Would Kristen kill me if things didn’t go her way? I thought of her pointed stare when I asked about Jamie—I don’t ever want to go through that again. I let out a whimper. For so many years, I’d seen Kristen as a constant, her love as undeniable as gravity. Now it was clear that she was more of a loose cannon than I’d realized. And that that cannon just might be zeroed in on me.
Focus, Emily. I had to review the evidence, come up with a plan. I dropped my bowl on the coffee table and marched into my room. The email from Westmoor was still open on my computer. I loaded the pictures I’d taken of Kristen’s yearbook and photos, the ones with poor Jamie’s face scribbled out. I pulled up the scant articles I’d found about the fire, about Jerry and Anne Czarnecki’s untimely end.