Chapter 41 Now

Three more days pass, and I've still heard nothing from Detective Green. He won't answer my calls, won't return my messages. So I'm going to see him, and nothing's going to stop me, not even the damn rain.

I hug my rain jacket tighter, pull the hood down to cover my face, but fat drops collect and drip to my nose, my cheeks. I wrestle with my umbrella, but for the third time it ends up inverted, utterly useless.

"Goddamn it." The words escape before I can stifle them, and I smack the umbrella against a building in frustration. A man in a business suit stops, peers at me briefly, and hurries away like I'm one of my own patients, on the verge of losing it.

But I'm way past losing it. My sanity is long gone. I look over my shoulder when I'm locked inside my own apartment, and I stare out at the street while hiding behind my living room curtains. I check the peephole four times before I open the door, carry a kitchen knife in my pocket, and never take the same route more than once.

I can feel eyes on me. Their heavy presence makes every breath a little harder to take. Every step is like I'm carrying a backpack full of bricks.

I haven't caught sight of either of them, but knowing—just knowing Rebecca is a murderer—rocks me to my core. That little grin after she'd admitted it, that reminder about patient confidentiality, it sends a fresh chill down my spine every time I think about it. Not only am I sure they're following me, but the knowledge of what Rebecca's done is too much. No person should have to bear a secret like this.

Finally, I reach the police department. I stumble in, yanking off my soaked jacket and realizing it must need to be replaced, because it kept me anything but dry. I catch my reflection in a pane of glass separating the front area from the back, and I look like I've just walked out of an institution. A patient who escaped, rather than their doctor.

"Detective Green, please," I say to the man at the desk. He looks familiar, and from the way he looks at me, he clearly knows who I am. I'm pretty sure that's not a good thing.

"Have a seat. I'll see if he's available."

I hesitate. "I'm not leaving until I see him. I'm in danger."

The man nods, a faint smile on his lips. "I understand, ma'am."

I hold back a sigh. I don't just look like someone who's institutionalized, I'm being treated like that, too. Fake smiles, neutral responses. It's textbook—don't upset the patients.

Shockingly, Detective Green takes only two minutes to come out from the back—I know, because I'm watching the clock as it tick-tick-ticks.

"Dr. McCall? Right this way." He holds the door open, beckoning for me to go ahead of him. I already know where his cubicle is, so I head straight there. And for a moment, I'm relieved. It's safe here, within these walls. Even if it's just a few minutes of respite, that's more than I've had in days.

"How can I help you?" He takes his seat and swivels it to face me. "I actually planned on calling you later today."

Hope blooms in my chest, and for a moment, I forget I look like a drowned rat. Like a desperate mental patient.

"About the restraining order?" I prompt.

He sits there, twiddling a pen between his fingers. There's something in his gaze, something that makes me tense.

"They said no, didn't they?" I ask.

He sighs. "I'm sorry. I just heard back from the DA about an hour ago. A restraining order is a serious ask. It impinges on someone's rights. So there has to be sufficient evidence. The DA said there wasn't enough proof of a threat, and you said yourself that you're not certain who was following you most of the time." He sets the pen down and splays his hands. "I'm sorry. I tried. I wish I had better news for you."

"But…" I worry my hands, bite my lip, look down at the fake wood grain of the cheap desk. "But I'm in danger. They are dangerous. Dangerous to me. Rebecca especially."

The scene in my office plays on repeat in my mind. That smile. The gleam in her eyes, knowing she murdered Gabriel's wife and got away with it. Knowing I couldn't tell a soul.

"You have no proof, I'm afraid. Coincidences are not proof. The fact that she witnessed the accident doesn't sit right with me, either. But there's no evidence that she's a threat to you." He shrugs. "I'm sorry. Unless you have something more, there's nothing I can do."

I feel as though the floor has dropped out from beneath me.

I can't keep living like this.

Day in and day out, looking over my shoulder. Feeling eyes on me, then turning quickly. And of course I can't see them, because I live in New York, and there's a whole city walking the sidewalks. It's the easiest city in the world to stalk someone in.

"But she's dangerous," I repeat. Though even I hear the defeat in my voice.

Detective Green leans forward, hands clasped together. He looks right at me. "How are you so sure, Dr. McCall? Is there something you're not telling me? I imagine you deal with all sorts of patients. What makes you sure this one's a danger?"

I swallow. "I wish I could tell you. But I can't." Tears form in my eyes, helplessness washing over me.

The detective leans closer, lowers his voice, and touches a single finger to my hands, which are ice cold. "I won't lie to you. I am suspicious of Rebecca. It doesn't add up. She doesn't add up. I did a little investigating after you came in, went over to the school Gabriel Wright works. It's on record that something was going on between the two of them. Why wouldn't Rebecca have mentioned on the night of the accident that she was having an affair with the man whose family she'd just watched get killed? I was the one who took her statement. She never even indicated she knew the guy." He shakes his head and pulls back. "But there's no evidence. Of anything. So…" His voice trails off, and silence settles between us.

He's asking me to give him something. I can feel it.

And I could. I could tell him what Rebecca said. If I did, though… I squeeze my eyes shut. If I did, I could lose everything. My license, my job, my practice. I'd never work as a psychiatrist again.

I heave a sigh and get to my feet. "I guess I'll be going." I gather my sopping-wet jacket, clutch it in a single hand, and start to walk away.

"Dr. McCall, I'm sorry."

I don't reply. I just keep walking. I make it down the hall, through the door, and out to the entryway.

But I come to a dead stop when I see a woman. A mother. Maybe thirty years old. She holds the door open, reaching her hand to her daughter, a tiny version of herself. Both of them have blond hair, worn straight down. The mother's face looks weary, tear-streaked. But the daughter, she's maybe six years old, has a grin, wide eyes. She's looking everywhere, clearly entranced to be at a police station.

I picture Gabriel's daughter. She'll never smile again. Never hold her mother's hand again. Never get to experience the thrill of something new.

Rose was her name.

And Rose deserves better than this. She deserves justice more than I deserve my license, my ability to help people, which is of questionable value these days.

I turn on my heel. Go back to the man at the desk.

"Actually, I need to talk to Detective Green again. I forgot to tell him something."

"Seriously?" he asks.

"Seriously." Suddenly, I'm no longer a drowned rat, a crazy woman. I'm a woman who knows exactly what she needs to do, finally. And it feels good.

He beckons to the door, pushes a button, and it buzzes. "I'm sure he's still in his office. Go on back."

I stride down the hall to find Detective Green staring at a case file. Rebecca's name is there, handwritten in black ink. It's that case file.

"I'm going to tell you something," I say without preamble. I drop back into the chair and look at him straight-on. "Rebecca Jordan confessed to me that she killed the Wright family."