Page 19 of Imprisoned

I reach for my bag. The weight of the cassette pulls at me, a physical reminder of my failure to maintain boundaries. Of how much I want to replay his words in the safety of my bedroom, alone with my shameful urges. I climb out of the car and head toward the front door, which opens before I reach it. Mom stands in her flour-dusted apron, wisps of hair escaping her usually perfect bun.

“There’s my girl!” Her smile brightens my mood. “How was work today?”

I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile. “Great, actually. Really productive sessions.” The lie tastes bitter.

“You look tired, honey.” She brushes a strand of hair from my face, and I fight the urge to flinch. If she only knew the thoughts running through my head, the chaos Axel has stirred within me.

“Just a long day.” I clutch my bag closer. “I’ll freshen up before dinner.”

“Of course, sweetie. Take your time.”

I hurry past her, my heart thundering. The tape feels like it’s burning a hole through my bag, branding me with shame. Yet, I can’t bring myself to let it go.

I stumble into my bedroom, dropping my bag by the desk. The tape and recorder lands with a heavy thud that makes me jump. My heartbeat is erratic as I walk into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.

The bathroom mirror shows a stranger—pink-stained cheeks, dilated pupils, and hair slightly mussed. I barely recognize myself. Cold water splashes against my face but does nothing to calm the fire burning beneath my skin.

“Get it together,” I whisper to my reflection. “He’s a patient. A dangerous one.”

But Axel’s voice keeps replaying in my mind, each word precise and calculated. He looked at me like he could see the unhinged thoughts lurking in the deep recesses of my mind.

I grip the edge of the sink, trying to steady myself. Water drips from my chin as I take deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. The techniques I teach my patients seem useless now.

“Dr. Matthews,” I practice saying firmly to my reflection. “You will maintain professional boundaries.”

But even as I say the words, my eyes drift to the closed door, knowing the tape recorder sits just beyond it. The temptation to listen to our session again claws at me. I tell myself to analyze him and better understand his manipulation tactics.

I know it’s a lie.

The cool water hasn’t helped at all. If anything, I feel more wound up than before. My skin feels too tight and too sensitive, and every nerve ending seems overstimulated.

“Willow?” Mom’s voice calls from downstairs. “Dinner’s almost ready!”

I press my forehead against the cool mirror. “Coming!” I call back, hoping my voice sounds normal.

How am I supposed to sit through dinner like this? How can I face my mother’s loving concern when I’m coming undone over a psychopath’s words?

I splash my face again and pat it dry. The mirror shows someone almost put together now—almost normal. It’ll have to do.

Downstairs, Mom has set the table with her usual care. Steam rises from a golden-roasted chicken surrounded by creamy mashed potatoes. The familiar sight and smell should be comforting, but my stomach twists.

“Here, let me help.” I grab the serving spoons, needing something to do with my hands.

“You’re quiet tonight.” Mom passes me the potatoes, searching my face with that knowing look that drove me crazy as a teenager.

I focus on scooping food onto my plate. “Just processing everything from today.”

The chicken tastes like cardboard in my mouth. I push it around, keeping up appearances while my mind drifts to the tape upstairs.

“This is delicious,” I state, forcing down another bite.

Mom frowns slightly. “Are you feeling alright? You’ve barely touched your food.”

“Actually...” I set down my fork. “I think I need an early night. This job can be tough mentally.”

“Of course it is, sweetie.” Her hand reaches across the table to squeeze mine. “It’s a big adjustment. Why don’t you head up? I’ll take care of the dishes.”

“Are you sure?”

---