And how it was that I could doubt her.

She tells me about her life, her pet iguana, her recent trip to Hungary and the Czech Republic. There is very little shop talk between bites of pasta and sips of cabernet. I tell her that I have the occasional bad dream and some generalities about the Wheaton case.

“You’re doing what you’re supposed to do, Rylee.”

“I think so,” I say.

“I know so,” she says.

I give her a warm smile.

If I had a pet iguana or a pet anything, I would have told her about that too.

Fifty

He wanted me.

As I drive home, those words from my taped session with Dr. Albright play in my mind. Actually, it plays at me. Like a cat, claws out, toying with a small bird. It wants blood. It wants to win. I know it’s the reason I felt the need to see Dr. Albright after all these years. I would like to tell the world that there is great help in psychotherapy. It’s what we tell everyone we see as they struggle through things, visible and invisible.

I remember everything about that moment when my aunt told me. She changed from rose dusting powder to a lilac scented one. It was strong, but pretty when she left the room. At least it wasn’t wintergreen. The clock over the mantel chimed. I could smell the cinnamon rolls she’d baked that morning.

Everything.

The drive is long. Each flashing headlight is the beat of a drum. It’s foiling my efforts to move my mind to another topic.

When I get home, I feel defeated somewhat. I try to shut the past away by getting something to drink. I stream Maren Morris’s first album. From the refrigerator, I pour some orange juice. And then I do what zillions of other people do when searching for a distraction, I stare down at my phone.

I’m unable to resist.

I check my email. Of the fourteen new ones, one has to be from my brother.

Shooting in Denver. Fire in downtown Portland. A protest for the homeless in LA.

I immediately start to delete.

I hesitate on one. It sends a chill down my spine.

Its subject line:

It’s You, Rylee.

It seems non-algorithm created, not spam. The spelling of my name is a challenge for just about everyone as they always assume RILEY. I don’t recognize the sender. It’s a guy named “Wallace”.

I open it anyway.

And I forget to breathe.

Saw you on the news. Good work. How’s the weather there in Port Townsend? Maybe I’ll come by and we can talk about what you did.

I snap my phone to the table so hard that it tumbles to the floor. The glass face shatters.

I’m shattered.

Someone knows.

God, help me. Someone knows.

* * *