They keep posing questions to each other, reading and re-reading the statement from the police department. All the while, I sit perfectly still, unable to move and I don’t know if it’s the previous learned condition from being in that hellish place, or if it’s simply shock.

A serial killer.

My chest is tight and cold, and so are my fingers.

By then, the news anchors have decided that there’s definitely a serial killer on the loose. They’re predicting that the police will confirm that within the next few days.

“It’s only a matter of time,” the anchor says. She’s settled into the story now and doesn’t seem to be affected. Her professional mask is on. “With similarities of this kind, it seems unlikely that this would be the work of many different individuals, or individuals from different groups. Now, the police haven’t said as much, but it’s possible the bodies were discovered with evidence that would reveal the motive.”

“We’ll have more on that at ten,” her co-host says into the camera, his smile wide, and the broadcast goes to commercial.

A car dealership commercial blares from the screen, and I grab for the remote to turn down the TV.

Panic races through me and I have to close my eyes and focus on my breathing.

If one glass of wine didn’t work, I should have another one. I get up automatically and refill my glass, then stop at my front windows. I peek out the gap between the curtains.

As if he’ll be there. As if he knows I’m thinking of him.

There’s nobody in front of my house. I didn’t think there would be, but my empty yard is a relief. I tug the curtains shut tight so that there’s no gap at all. Nobody can look in on me now.

Then—although I know I locked it earlier—I double-check all the locks. They’re all exactly how I left them. My house is safe and sound.

I sip my wine, making a point to savor it as I go back to the living room. The commercial break is still going. A movie trailer plays on the screen, the explosions almost too quiet to hear.

I’ve just sat back down on the couch and pulled a blanket over my lap when my phone rings.

It’s a blocked number.

I hesitate, hovering my thumb over the button to decline the call. It’s a fifty-fifty chance with calls like these. Sometimes, patients call me from blocked numbers, and I want to be available to them whenever I can.

Other times…

I hit the button to accept the call.

“Hello?”

“I saw the news.”

My mother’s voice doesn’t make adrenaline spike in my body anymore. It did for a long time. Now it’s the opposite. When I hear her speak, I get extremely calm and still.