She doesn’t have the energy to apologize just yet, because she’s seeing Jason Briffel all over again. His ruddy-cheeked baby face and his mess of dirty-blond curls. The way he used to linger too long next to the signing table after the events she did with her dad; his hungry, probing looks as he fingered the latest copy of her dad’s book, which he’d just purchased yet again so he could secure a place in line and have an excuse to get close to her.
How many times had she told her dad she thought the guy was stranger than the rest? When he’d reach the table, he’d fall to a crouch so they could be at eye level with each other, and he’d start asking her all kinds of concerned questions about how she was holding up, as if her rescue had been only months before and not years. And then there was the time he’d tried to reach for her hand. She’d withdrawn it quickly, and something dark had flashed in his eyes.
Her father had dismissed her concerns, of course. He hadn’t taken them half as seriously as he did the computer hacks they were subjected to by crime scene junkies searching for proof she was lying about what she’d had to do on that farm. When it came to Jason Briffel, her father had just given her some lecture about how they couldn’t control who their work touched. To this day, she isn’t sure if her dad really believed, or still believes, his old pabulum—that those leering horror movie fans were truly concerned with the psychology of serial killers. That they came to their events so they could learn how to protect themselves and their loved ones from psychopaths, not just to savor the gory details of the Bannings’ crimes, to worship the dark mystique in which those awful movies had shrouded her.
Then Briffel had found their address.
That’s when the letters started.
It was her dad’s fault, something with how he’d registered to vote in his district that had made his address available to the public. And as she’d read the first letter, she’d realized where all Briffel’s concerned questions came from. He wasn’t worried she’d been traumatized by her time with the Bannings. In his twisted mind, the trauma was that she had been “removed from the Bannings’ care,” as he put it, her destiny thwarted.
The letters contained crime scene photos, some real, some fake, all designed to stir memories of her time on the farm, even though she’d never personally laid eyes on any of the victims. He included passages from letters Abigail had exchanged with him, letters in which she’d praised the work he was trying to do to “reawaken Trina to her destiny.”
If she hadn’t alerted her father’s publisher herself, nothing would have changed. When Stonecutter Books found out about their young star’s stalker, they’d insisted her father relocate them and they’d contributed to the expense of extra security at their events. They’d also provided legal assistance so Charlotte could go about filing a restraining order.
Now, thanks to the work she’s done in this tiny office with this exceedingly handsome man, she can see that it was her father’s refusal to treat Briffel as a threat that had caused her to go so far off script that fateful day at Burnham College. Because that’s when she’d realized as long as they kept doing those events, there would be more Jasons. That’s when she’d decided she could never set foot onstage with her father again.
Three years had passed between the evening security escorted Jason out of the event and the sunny afternoon he appeared on Grandma Luanne’s front porch in Altamira. Now it’s been twice that. Maybe Jason’s moved on to a new obsession. If changing her name and moving to the middle of nowhere doesn’t make her feel safe, then nothing will.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to snap like that.”
“It’s fine,” Dylan says. “How are you sleeping?”
“Badly. Ever since I saw the . . .” She gestures to the window behind her, to the marquee across the street. “You know.”
“Is it affecting your work?”
“I work from home in my pajamas, so not really.”
“I’m aware your clients can’t see the bags under your eyes, but is it having an impact on your ability to keep up with your call load?”
“I have bags under my eyes?” she asks.
“Charley, is it affecting your work?”
She sucks in her best attempt at a deep breath. It turns into a shallow grunt. “The other day I got a client’s origin city mixed up with the one from the previous call.”
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“It means I booked him a ticket from Singapore to Boston instead of Paris to Boston.”
“I understand those cities are very far apart.”
“Yeah, well, on a computer screen, they’re just a bunch of letters and airport codes, you know.”
“Especially if you haven’t had any sleep.”
“I caught it before he left for the airport. Got him on a flight that left the next day. Put in a comp request for an extra night at the hotel.”
“Has he complained?”
“Survey review’s at the end of each month. We’ll see.”
Dylan nods.
“I don’t want to take anything, Doc,” she says once the silence between them becomes uncomfortable.
“All right, well, let’s talk about that.”
“I don’t want to swallow a bunch of pills just to feel normal.”
“That’s not exactly an accurate description of the treatment options we’ve discussed.”
“Please, I just . . . I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s exactly why we should talk about it. It’s not about the medication. It’s about your belief that accepting that kind of help is admitting unacceptable weakness.”
“There’s no pill out there that’s gonna change my past.”
“True. But we’re not talking about changing your past.”
“Then what are we talking about?”
“We’re talking about a bridge, Charley. A temporary solution that will allow you to get some sleep. That will reduce your anxiety just enough you can leave the house for longer than it takes to come here or run to the grocery store. Maybe for as long as it takes to start forming some meaningful social relationships. Once you get in the habit of those things, they’ll be easier to do in the long term. Any medications we explore would be about helping you take the leap.”
A bridge. A leap. Which one is it, Doc?
“How sad is it that making conversation with the checker at the grocery store is taking a leap?” she asks.
“Charlotte, you were kidnapped as a baby. Your mother was murdered. You were held hostage for seven years by two psychopaths who isolated you from the world, who lied to you about who you were. Who tried to turn you into someone like them. And when you were returned to your father, he exploited you at every turn and without your consent. And, ironically, none of these traumas in your past are the source of your current anxiety.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not. These events I just listed, they’ve made you incredibly strong. Resourceful, even.” Her expression must betray her doubt, because he sits forward, planting his elbows on his knees. “Charley, you emancipated yourself from your father as a teenager after you rejected his agenda for you in front of an audience of hundreds. As an adult, you went on to sue him—successfully, I might add—for money that was rightfully yours, money that allowed you to change your name and relocate.
“These are not the actions of a broken bird, Charley. You’re tired, for sure. You’re tired, and you’re still grieving your grandmother. Those two conditions have tricked you into believing you’re weak. And the longer you stay barricaded in that house, the bigger this lie becomes in your head.”
How long has he been waiting to say this to her? It’s the first time she’s seen him look nervous. On edge, even. Maybe he’s afraid she’ll walk out.
“You can admit that what happened to you made you stronger without celebrating the people who did those things to you. But to do that you’re going to need a bigger push than I can give you in here.”
Maybe this is why she keeps coming back to Dr. Thorpe. Because he’s the first person she’s met in years who can make her cry just by stating the truth.
And if I can cry, she thinks, if I can cry, then I’m not the sick and damaged killer those movies made everyone believe I was.
His expression is fixed as he reaches across his desk and hands her a box of tissues.