by K Larsen
“So, Nora, what’s your last name?” he asks.
I sigh and say, “Robertson.”
Detective Salve lifts an eyebrow at me. “Really.”
I lick my dry lips. “Really,” I mumble.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.” He eyes me then. Takes me in. “What’s your date of birth?”
“March 19th, 1996.” I know what he’s thinking—I look younger than I am. I always have. And I’m only just twenty-one.
“Do you want me to call your parents?” I shake my head.
“I don’t have any,” I answer. Like most people who grew up without parents, over the years I have collected little tidbits of life knowledge, scraps and bits from friends’ parents, teachers, and employers. Anyone who offered up a touch of wisdom and I kept them like bits of string, so that I could someday crochet them into a nonsensical afghan that might somehow make my life better—easier. But that is the problem with crocheting—it’s full of holes. Right now, I’d kill to have a parent. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know where Lotte is. I don’t know if I’m close to home or close to the farm.
“Is there other family I could call?” I stare at the ceiling again. A nurse comes in and explains that she’s taking my vitals, upping my fluids and asks if I need anything for my pain level. I want the detective to leave. He gives me an uneasy feeling. Men aren’t to be trusted. They have hidden dark needs they want filled. He wouldn’t want me talking to any men. Dara, the nurse, writes her name on a whiteboard and tells me to let her know if I need anything at all. She gives Detective Salve the side-eye as she leaves. I decide I like her.
“Angela Clark,” I croak.
“Sorry?” Detective Salve says.
“Call Angela Clark.” I give him the phone number and wait for him to leave. We’re not done yet. He told me that. But at least the unidentified girl in the car wreck has been identified. I buzz the nurse. She’s quick.
“My head is killing me.” Dara nods, while simultaneously darting around. She reminds me of a butterfly with their erratic flight patterns. She’s dainty and delicate looking. Before I can blink twice, she’s handing me pills and the cup of water from the table. I swallow them down quick.
“You should really try and sleep. The doctor will be around to fill you in soon.”
I bite my bottom lip and try to make myself comfortable before I close my eyes. I shouldn’t close my eyes. I feel guilty for not getting up. For not finding Lotte or asking about her but if I’m here-safe, she’s probably here-safe. Scared but safe.
When I sleep, my brain doesn’t hurt. The world is quiet. At least it used to be that way. Sleep was a heavenly escape. I didn’t dream. Sleep provided me sweet escape for eight hours. It’s dark out when I wake. Rather, when I’m roused from sleep.
“Ms. Robertson.” An unfamiliar voice. I blink a few times before rubbing away the sleep crusties. My mouth is dry again. My leg throbs. My chest aches. Is this a broken heart? I stuff the idea way deep down—for Lotte.
“Nora,” I scratch out. He tucks my chart under his armpit and hands my water to me. I drink the remaining liquid. It’s not enough. I’m somnolent and feel desiccated.
“Nora,” he says.
“Yes.”
“You’re aware of the car accident, yes?”
“Yes,” I answer. The road was uneven and icy. I remember screaming at Lotte to hang on as I yanked the wheel and slammed the brake pedal.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” he says and a part of me wants to laugh but I don’t. “You shattered your femur and part of your patella. You sustained a nasty contusion on your sternum and a serious concussion. It was estimated that you were pinned under your truck for at least three hours before help arrived, which is partly why you’re dehydrated and have moderate hypothermia.”
“Okay. Where’s Lotte?” I ask.
He stares at me a beat. “Who’s Lotte?”
“Charlotte,” I say. “She was in the truck with me.”
He pinches his lips closed. Swings his tongue around his teeth behind his bottom lip. “As far as I know, there was no one else recovered at the scene.” He looks everywhere but at me. Recovered. The word doesn’t sit right with me.
“That can’t be right. She was in the truck with me.” I close my eyes, recall what I can. I know she was with me.
He stares at me intently now. Then, “Tell you what? I will ask around for you. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“When can I leave?” I ask.
“We need to do a couple more CAT scans, get your fluids up and monitor your break. But outside of that—soon.”
Now I do laugh. “That doesn’t sound very soon.”
“It’s all relative,” he says with an easy grin. “Also, the EMTs didn’t recover any personal effects. Do you have health insurance or an emergency contact you’d like on file?”
I frown and shake my head. “I already spoke with a detective. He’s calling someone for me but I don’t have insurance,” I groan. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. Just another step to take. I’ll send someone up to get you officially admitted and work out payment options with you. I expect you’ll be moved upstairs out of emergency shortly.”
“How long have I been here?”
“You arrived,” he looks at his watch. A big fancy one. One that looks expensive. I can hear the ticking from my bed. It’s amazing how much more you use your other senses after months living in the woods. “Fourteen hours ago. Most of that was spent in surgery to set your femur and get the screws in place.”
“Oh.”
“Do you have any questions for me, Nora?”
My gut clenches. “No. I’m fine.”
The better I begin to feel, the more rested I am, the worse my panic becomes. He’s still out there and Lotte is missing. I am in deep trouble.
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The Therapist
Part I
I stare at the wall gathering my thoughts because what I want to say is specific and I want her to understand that. I want to be concise and clear in my intentions. I need each statement to make an impact and although I used to be paid to write, I’m struggling to conjure up meaningful words to convey my emotions.
Robin,
It started out innocent. I swear. I just wanted to watch you, live, in the flesh. I had no intention of anything more or less. I certainly didn’t intend to ruin your life.
I know you already know our story, but there are two things you aren’t aware of, and that’s why I’m writing to you. Guilt is a terrible emotion to carry with you. I need to get this off my chest. And really, I have nothing left to lose.
Smart women love intelligent men more so than intelligent men love smart women. And that’s where I had something over you from the start. I’m smart and that drew you in. How could someone as intelligent as me, have such provocative desires? I was a puzzle you needed to figure out. That’s how it started anyway. But even that--my intelligence, my puzzle, was a carefully planted piece in our game.
My love was your disease. But diseases are known to kill. You never saw me closing in. I became the heavy burden that you carry, I made you suffer and for that I’m sorry. You made me feel an electric fever deep in my soul. That fever keeps me hostage and that’s my penance to pay for the next five years. There was a poison hidden in my kiss that you couldn’t taste, a wickedness you couldn’t outrun. Maybe you won’t read this letter. I can’t know if the curiosity of this will win out. I can almost picture you tucking a curl behind an ear, debating whether or not to tear open the envelope. I can see the expression on your face. The uncertainty of the choice before you. Is it worth it?
I need to confess. I think you need me to confess as well. If I don’t, I’m afraid you’ll overanalyze what we had until it consumes you. I watched you long before I sat acr
oss from you in that room, wallpapered with books and framed degrees. I was contracted to cover the American Psychiatric Association conference the year you were presented with an award. It was the last freelance journalist job I took.
You glided up the steps of the stage with such grace I was captivated. The stage spotlight highlighted your cheekbones. Your curls were tucked and pinned away from your face. And I was overcome by a singular, obsessive thought.
I want more.
But you see, what I wanted, I knew I could have. It was just a matter of gaining the right credentials or needs, to access you. I know you’ll cringe at my next thought but you’ll also realize I’m right-- which will probably piss you off even more.
The masses, in general, are painfully predictable. People are creatures of habit and routine. Wake up at the same time every day. Leave home at the same time. Stop to grab coffee or food, see the same employees every day. Get to work by fill-in-the-blank time. Go for lunch, or eat lunch at the same time. See or interact with the same people. Leave work at set time and arrive home give or take within five minutes. Some people only grocery shop on a certain day every week. My point isn’t to ramble, it’s to spell out how easy it is to learn someone’s daily activities simply by watching them. Add in social media and you can almost live their life right alongside them in the shadows. I can see you posted you’re at the movies, thus I know which theater, which movie and what time you’re seeing it. Alternatively this also lets me know you aren’t at home. And since I’ve watched you for months, I know you don’t bother to lock your doors because you have a dog and live in a safe neighborhood.
You never felt my shadow, heard my footsteps. But I was there taking you in.
I’m rambling, I know. But there’s a point. A simple point. It was easy to watch you. Easy to experience your life right alongside you before we ever spoke.
I already knew you when we met.
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Acknowledgments
I have to give a great big shout out to my beta gals. They are amazing. Without them my books wouldn’t be as entertaining, I swear! I am eternally grateful to them for all they do.
To all the bloggers (there are too many to name here) who without fail, always take a chance on my books, thank you. You are the best and I appreciate you so much!
To my family for your continued support in this crazy publishing journey!
But most importantly to you, the reader. What is a book without readers? Thank you so much for taking the time to read this story.
About the Author
I am an avid reader, coffee drinker, and chocolate eater who loves writing. I received my B.A. from Simmons College-a while ago. I currently live in Maine, The Way Life Should Be!
I'm working on my sixth novel currently. I've published Saving Caroline, 30 Days, Committed, Tug of War and Dating Delaney.
I have a weird addiction to goat cheese and chocolate martinis, not together though.
I adore my dog. He is the most awesome snuggledoo in the history of dogs. Seriously.
I hate dirty dishes.
I like sarcasm and funny people.
I should probably be running right now... because of the goat cheese....and stuff.
I love hearing from you so please feel free to contact me!
www.klarsenauthor.com
@klarsen_author
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