”This’ll just take a minute,” he promised.

“Take your time,” I said. “I’m going to wander around outside.”

The lush oasis nestled between the Hirshhorn and the Art and Industries Building had caught my eye on my way to work that morning, and I headed over to check it out. The vibrant shrubbery, tumbling vines, and attention-seeking flowers were even more beautiful than they’d seemed that morning, and I began snapping photos of them on my phone.

Perfect, I thought as I paused to check my work. Later, I would increase the saturation to make the colors really pop, and then I’d choose the best image to upload to my Instagram grid. It would make an excellent advertisement for my collection of presets—assuming I ever got my act together to finish them. Every day, I got dozens of messages from followers asking when my presets, which would allow them to easily adjust their own photos in Lightroom to match my aesthetic, would be ready. Soon, I kept telling them. And they’re worth the wait!

My stomach growled as I circled the exquisite central fountain, an audible reminder that I had skipped lunch. I hope Lawrence takes me somewhere with food, I thought, digging the animal crackers out of my bag. I was lifting one to my mouth when I felt a crawling sensation on the back of my neck. I glanced uneasily around, but I was alone in the garden, save a pair of sparrows frolicking in the water.

I turned my attention back to my snack, but almost immediately had the same, unmistakable feeling of being watched. I froze in place, holding my breath and straining my ears.

And there it was: the sound of a footfall behind me.

I spun around just in time to see a dark sleeve disappearing behind a hedge.

I hurried to the hedge and peered around it. The National Mall sprawled before me, thousands of people strolling along, taking photos, chasing children, walking hand in hand. My eyes quickly jumped to the handful of dark shirts I saw: a tall woman rushing away, a man in a Washington Nationals baseball cap hunched over his phone, a man zooming by on an electric scooter. I blinked and realized there were dozens more dark shirts, moving quickly all over the Mall. It was impossible to tell who—if anyone—had been in the garden with me.

You’re just jumpy from seeing that weirdo in the Rosalind exhibit, I told myself. No one was watching you.

Still, I shivered despite the oppressive heat.

CHAPTER TEN HIM

I regularly fantasized about the demise of my immediate family. Sometimes I imagined a terrible accident, like a carbon monoxide leak or an electrical fire, and driving up to the sprawling suburban home to find it consumed by flames, every single member of that detestable group trapped inside. Other times I envisioned doing the deed myself, lacing a meal with rat poison and watching as they all choked to death.

More than a little unnerved and worried I might end up emulating Ronald DeFeo Jr., I sought the advice of a licensed therapist. Within the first five minutes, he told me everything I needed to know: having occasional inappropriate thoughts (or intrusive thoughts, as he called them) was normal and didn’t necessarily mean I would slaughter everyone in their sleep. He then told me I had unresolved feelings of resentment toward my family and wanted to schedule weekly sessions at nearly two hundred dollars an hour to work through them. I declined. I didn’t need a professional to tell me I resented them, and I certainly didn’t need to sit there and listen to a stranger’s advice on how to “resolve” that resentment. My family, particularly my parents, had the emotional capacity of cats. They knew how you felt; they simply didn’t care.