Page 71 of The Last Session

I’d forgotten about the one-on-ones. That might be a good chance to dig further.

“Thea, do you have any reactions to Ramit’s session?” Moon clutched my hand; hers was warm and moist.

“Um… just glad I could be a part of it.”

“You’re a therapist.” Sol steepled his fingers. “You must havesomethoughts about our methods.”

Everyone stared at me.

“They’re…” I shrugged. “Effective.”And possibly unsafe.

Moon chuckled. “You don’t believe it, do you.”

“Believe…”

“You’ve heard of the collective unconscious, yes?” She glanced at Ramit. “Well, first let me start with the individual unconscious. It’s the part of our brain that operates below our conscious awareness. We can only interact with it indirectly—dream analysis, freewriting, trance work. Jung thought there was also acollectiveunconscious, a great pool of information we all have indirect access to. We think this work dips into that well. Because we’re much more interconnected than we think. You wouldn’t believe how many attendees have a session where they channel a parent who then reaches out to them, sometimes for the first time inyears. They can feel it, what we do here.”

“That’s really trippy.” Ramit shook his head.

“That makes sense.” I tried not to sound skeptical. Maybe they could make a case for this work, but it still didn’t excuse their lack of training.

Moon smiled. “Our patterns are powerful. They’re dynamics that go much deeper than we realize. Ramit’s pattern was particularly strong.” She tapped the top of my hand. “I have a feeling yours is too.”

Back in my yurt, I continued to puzzle over Moon and Sol’s knowledge of the suicide attempt. Or at least Moon’s knowledge—she was the one who’d named it. I thought of old-timey mind readers who could quickly suss someone out by reading their body language. Even todaythere were famous “mentalists” who claimed to read people’s thoughts. Could Moon be one of them, using a combination of techniques and intuition to pull out people’s family secrets?

If they were using tactics of psychics and mediums, then another possibility came to mind. I even knew the term—“rigging”—though I couldn’t remember where I’d learned it. It meant planting actors in the audience to “prove” your skills.

Was it possible that Ramit was a plant? That his session had all been planned beforehand? I’d briefly considered Jonah in that role, after all. Uneasiness clawed my gut.

A new Facebook message popped up on my phone. Wait—John Holloway? I clicked open the messenger app to see Pastor John’s tiny avatar.

I’m sorry you feel that way.

My breath caught in my throat. I scrolled up to see what I’d sent him.

You fucked up my life.

He’d decided to write back to me… and this was his response? The most infuriatingly gaslight-y phrase a man could say?

“Oh hell no,” I muttered and grabbed my backpack. I had evidence of our inappropriate relationship. I had fuckingproof. I was going to take pictures of my diary and send them to this motherfucker and threaten to post them publicly. Would he sound so calm then?

Rage crackled as I dug around my backpack. I was an adult, not a middle schooler. He wasn’t going to mess with me, not anymore.

The diary wasn’t there.

I checked again, then opened the zippered pockets. I stood, looking around the small space. But even as I searched frantically underneath the bed, behind the desk, I knew:

Someone had taken it.

30

After searching my yurt for the third time, I took a deep breath and decided on a calming shower. Hopefully, no one would be in there at this weird, pre-dinnertime.

But Moon was in the shower room, surrounded by a cloud of steam.

“Hi!” she cried as I came in. She stood with her chest out, rubbing shampoo into her hair.

“Oh, hi.”Shit.I could still use the protected shower, but it’d be embarrassing to scurry in there, especially after what had happened at the hot tub last night.

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