Three windows lined the wall behind the doctor’s chair, their shades pulled snug to the sills. Sunlight peeked in around the edges, and its white glow ricocheted off Dr. Robinson’s carefully arranged chestnut curls, giving her the ironic illusion of having a halo. A pair of floor lamps stood in opposite corners of the room, the light they offered far colder than that of the smothered sun, as unfeeling as the pavement-colored walls and the stiff, comfortless furniture.
“Your mom and I spoke on the phone yesterday about last week’s appointment,” Dr. Robinson began. “Did she tell you?”
“No,” Isobel said. “But I didn’t ask.”
“So I’m gathering that you and your mom don’t often talk. Would you say that’s pretty normal, or is this a recent development?”
“Recent,” Isobel said. “She and I know why we don’t. Talk, that is.”
“Because of what happened in Baltimore,” Dr. Robinson said.
Isobel glanced up, wishing she had a stopwatch. She’d love to start clocking the amount of time it took during each session for the doctor’s plaster smile to fade without her realizing. Today felt like some kind of record.
“Are we ready to discuss that?” Dr. Robinson asked. “You could start from whatever point feels most vivid.”
Isobel knotted her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together. Everything felt vivid. Knife sharp—as potent and cutting as if she’d only just awoken from those moments that had almost been her last.
“I told you,” Isobel said, dropping her gaze again. “I don’t remember anything.”
“On the phone, your mother mentioned that you were involved with the boy who went missing last Halloween. She said you two were paired up for a project and that you—”
“You already knew all of that,” Isobel said.
“I’m sorry?”
“My mom told you to start asking about him, didn’t she? I know she must have. So you can stop pretending that you didn’t know about all of that from the very beginning. Before you ever started seeing me.”
“Okay,” Dr. Robinson said. “So let’s assume for the moment that I did know from the onset of our sessions.”
“You did,” Isobel said, not sure why she wanted to do things this way today, why she wanted to challenge this person who was only trying to help her.
Maybe, she thought bleakly, the reason she wanted to push back was because she knew this woman couldn’t help her, no matter how many framed degrees she had nailed to her wall.
Dr. Robinson tapped her pen against her chin. “So should I take this unusually strong approach of yours as an indication that you are ready to discuss his involvement?”
Isobel stiffened, scolding herself for not sticking to her usual formula of keeping her mouth shut. She wanted to backtrack, but now, thanks to her apparent need to be combative, she couldn’t.
“He—doesn’t have anything to do with what happened,” Isobel said.
Dr. Robinson pinched her lips, a clear sign that she wasn’t buying it.
“As long as we’re airing things out, eliminating pretenses here,” the doctor said, speaking more softly now, “if you truly don’t remember anything that happened—like how you got that scar on your cheek, for instance—then how can you be so certain he wasn’t involved? Your surety seems to suggest that you do know something. And . . . well, that’s more than you’ve been letting on, wouldn’t you agree?”
Isobel resisted the urge to look toward the door—to rise and run. She gripped her knees instead, forcing herself to sit tight. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“I think you’re afraid.”
You don’t know afraid, Isobel thought, glaring straight at her.
“Listen,” Dr. Robinson said, “I know what happened had to have been bad. That’s why you’re here. I can help you cope. I understand that you might not feel ready to tell your parents what you’ve been through, and that’s—”
“You would never believe me,” Isobel said, shocking herself with her own words because she knew that, essentially, she’d just admitted to hiding the truth. That she had been hiding it the whole time.
Dr. Robinson blinked and raised her eyebrows, seeming equally surprised. Given that the doctor never reacted to anything Isobel said, she knew she’d crossed a line. From this point on, she could forget about trying to retrace her steps. Or covering her tracks.
But then, how long had she hoped to hold out? How long could she stand to keep everything hidden? Like with the letter she’d written that morning, the pain, confusion, and chaos that consumed her seemed determined to eat its way out regardless. If she kept it in, tried to drown it, what would stop it from rising again? From becoming something she could no longer control? Her very own Noc.
