“You can talk about Natalie. It’s understandable you’d be experiencing a range of emotions after discovering the body.”

Is it appropriate to ask my therapist if her detachment is healthy?

While I debate whether or not to answer, my eyes crawl the room, travel up the bookcases, trying to grab a title or two. As if the DSM-5 would psychically confer answers. A glimmer catches the corner of my eye. Upper-left-hand corner of the room, tucked at the top of a bookcase. A camera.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Like I’m being watched,” I blurt, the first thing that pops into my head.

Dr. Shelby nods sagely. “It’s natural for people to have interest in anyone connected to a death like this. To have questions.”

I ignore her, wondering instead if it’s common to have a camera in a therapist’s office. Does she play back the video of sessions to review her advice? Does she make notes for our next meeting? Is…is someone else watching? My mind swirls with the million things I cannot say, so I deflect to something safe.

“I miss my mom.”

And Dr. Shelby lets out a rush of air like a punctured balloon, as though relieved I don’t want to talk about her dead daughter. I barely half listen as we navigate the passage of acceptable grief. My mom’s death is still an abstract, waxen thing. Fuzzy around the edges. I can’t connect to it in any real way. But the camera. The camera is here now.

After fifteen minutes push by, Dr. Shelby tells me to sit in my feelings, but all I can think about is that Luke lied about his alibi. I’ll fucking kill you, he texted Natalie. Her father screamed at her before the game about a too-expensive dress. The dress she died in. Morgan smeared fuck you on it in red lipstick. Amber, sure Natalie was the intended victim. This house, this family, is too good to be true. Who was Natalie really?

My eyes flick back up to the corner of that bookshelf, to the eagle eye peering down. It can’t be legal to record sessions without client consent. I know it’s not. So why is it there?

Where does the footage go?

There’s a knock on the door, sharp and insistent. Dr. Shelby furrows her brow.

“Please excuse me.” She crosses to the door, opens it a crack.

“The police are here.” Her husband’s voice carries. “They have more questions.”

Dr. Shelby turns back to me. It must take considerable effort to force calm into her words. “I’ll just be a minute.”

I hope it’s more like ten. I rocket off the lounger to her desk, where I pray she doesn’t password-protect her desktop.

A dull ping tells me she does. Shit.