“Your distaste of psychotherapy.”
I concentrated on the scallops. “Trust me. You’re not missing much by not meeting with me. I’m kind of boring.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” He poured more wine. “In particular, I’m interested in why you don’t want to talk.”
“Therapy’s not my thing.”
“Ah.” He laced his fingers. “You’ve had a negative experience.”
“Not necessarily. It’s . . .” My eye fell on a toaster on the counter. The doctor and I looked like a Picasso painting on its gleaming surface.
And that was exactly what I wanted to say to the doctor. That the past was like the surface of a crazy mirror. When you spoke certain things aloud, when they left your mouth, they changed. The words became either oddly magnified—blown out of proportion—or squeezed down to nothing. Right could appear wrong, good could look like evil, depending on the spin. No one talked about their past without things getting distorted—and without consequences. There were always consequences.
“It’s complicated,” I finally said.
Cerny’s lips curled. “Ah, complicated. That magical word that has the power to end a conversation.”
“Sorry.”
“No apology necessary. It’s none of my business. But I couldn’t help but notice the . . .” He nodded at the hair band around my wrist. I realized it must stand out, especially to someone in his field. A tip-off to who I was.
I cleared my throat. “I read about it somewhere, a few years ago. I use it to bring me back to reality when I get . . . off track.” Maybe a smidge of self-revelation would satisfy his curiosity, prevent him from prodding any deeper. “I was a foster kid. Raised on a girls’ ranch in south Georgia from age eleven to eighteen. Not a great place, but not as bad as it could’ve been. There was a man—one of the housefathers—that I was close to. Long story short, he was a good guy, but he ended up going to jail. Felony drug possession and child endangerment.”
I felt short of breath, disoriented. Like some foreign entity had just taken over my body and unleashed a torrent of words in an unknown language.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “It must’ve been very difficult for you.”
“It was.” I pushed the four scallops remaining on my plate into an orderly row. Counted them absently with the tines of my fork.
He leaned back. “Thank you for sharing with me, Daphne. I appreciate your trust and don’t take it lightly. Go ahead, finish your dinner, and I’ll let you get back to your room.”
But I couldn’t eat any more. Cerny refused to let me help with the dishes and, instead, escorted me up the rear stairs—his private stairs—past his room and the steps to the attic. We stopped at the far end of the hallway, where I could see the door to our room cracked open just the slightest bit.
“Goodnight, my circumspect friend.” Cerny bowed slightly, his eyes twinkling in the dark.
“One thing,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I wondered if I could get our keys. I left something in the car.”
“I’m sorry. We collect and keep everyone’s keys for the duration of the retreat. I hope you’ll understand.” Then he took my hand and turned it up, depositing the two packages of peanut-butter crackers, an apple, and the bag of M&M’s. Four, just how I liked it. “Sleep well.”
He left me there, standing alone in the dark hall, my hands cupped protectively around the snacks.
Friday, October 19
Evening
The open forest gives way to a tangled mass of branches that seems to exist solely to slow my progress. I do slow, then stop altogether. The woven tunnel is made of mountain laurels, their curvy, leggy jumble blocking my view. Layers of long dark-green leaves form an impenetrable canopy over my head.
I’ve been going in the right direction, I think. But now it’s impossible to know for sure. The fretwork of boughs blocks my view of anything more than a few feet in front of me. The only thing I can see is bits of the darkening sky above.
I can feel myself dipping into panic, counting the number of leaves on a branch near me. Counting roots at my feet, then the metal eyes on my boots. My brain is bubbling with half-formed thoughts, ill-conceived solutions. The reality is, I may be more afraid of the panic than I am of the man. I can’t lose control. He’ll catch me if I do.
So I won’t. It’s just that simple. I’ll claw through the branches, keep heading down, and hit a creek or a road, either of which I could follow to town.
I have to get to town.
Chapter Six
Monday, October 15
Four Days Before
Rain lashed at the windows, rattling the panes so hard I woke. I slung an arm around Heath’s body, and he twisted around, sleepy-eyed and warm. He rolled on top of me, then lowered his lips to mine.
“Wait, what time is it?” I mumbled into his mouth.
“Do we care?” His lips traveled down to my shoulder.
I thought of the monitors in the cramped attic room. The yellow legal pad.
“Yes, we care. I don’t remember. What did Reggie say? The cameras go off at five until . . .”
“Eight.” He propped on his elbows, and looked at the clock on the mantel. “And it’s five after eight. Dammit.” He flopped off me. “I hate this place.”
I smiled. “Ironic, since it was you who insisted we come here. But it’s going to help us figure everything out, so buck up, soldier. Also”—I bit his earlobe and whispered—“if you meet me back here at one thirty, the cameras’ll be off.”
He rolled over and looked into my eyes. “I can’t wait.”
“Anticipation’s half the fun.”
“If you think that, I’m not doing it right.”
I traced the line of his jaw. “Oh, trust me. You do it right.”
He sat up with a groan. “You’re killing me, woman.”
I stroked his bare back. His skin goosepimpled under my fingertips. “Any nightmares?”
“Nope. Not a one.”
I fluttered my fingers up his spine, smiling at how I raised a whole new crop of goose bumps with each move. I leaned close, my lips at his ear. “I found something interesting last night. In the attic. A room with a bunch of old-school surveillance equipment. I’m pretty sure it’s where they watch us.”
He whipped around to look at me. “You left the room last night?”
“Shh.” I grinned. “I woke up and we’d missed dinner. I was starving.”
“You shouldn’t have gone snooping around,” he whispered sternly.
“Why not?”
He turned back and made a little shrugging move so I’d keep on scratching. “It’s just that we don’t know the other people here. We don’t know Dr. Teague or Dr. Cerny.”
“Are you mad?”
“No. I just think you should be careful. And you heard the rules about places being off limits.”
“I was careful. You know, Jerry McAdam has a cell phone.”
He glanced around the room, like he was worried the camera could pick up on our body language. “You watched the other couples?”
“For just a minute or two, yeah.”
“Daphne, Jesus,” he said. “You’re not supposed to be spying on people. They’re here because they have problems, which makes them vulnerable. Besides that, maybe you’re somehow compromising the doctor’s methods.” He turned away.
I sighed. “I know. Okay? I know that.” I laid my head against his back. Let my hand travel around to his chest, then abdomen. “The door was open, and I was curious.”
He made a reproving sound. “What if they stumbled upon that room and decided to watch us? Watch you?”
“You mean to tell me, if you saw an open door with a wall of surveillance monitors, you wouldn’t feel the slightest bit intrigued? You’re telling me you would walk on past without even a peek?”
“I wouldn’t watch,” he said, so fiercely I pressed my lips together.