Page 63 of Angel of Water & Shadow

“Oh, I can’t disclose that.” Dr. Finis dabbed the excess saliva pooling at the sides of her upturned lips with a tissue. She tossed it into a small trashcan already overflowing with the white paper squares stained with pale dots of black and red liquid. My nose wrinkled at the sight. “But what I can tell you is she won’t be coming back.”

I lifted my brows at the framed milestones on the bookcase, the cross-stitched artwork in hoops. The color-coded anthologies, the handloomed woven rug, the chic knickknacks that lined the shelves.

“The receptionist made it sound like this was temporary.” I considered pointing out how odd it was that someone would leave all their belongings if they had no intention of coming back. But that would give me false hope, which I was done with.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll be seeing to your problems now.” Her voice was sharper than a knife and pricked my hair follicles up. I leaned back in my chair and glanced towards the busy atrium, hoping to catch the eyes of someone walking through it.

A hollow thud snapped my attention to the fists that had slammed into the desk. Dr. Finis rose with unnatural quickness, flicked on a tabletop lamp, and headed for the windows.

“We don’t need any distractions,” she hissed. An aggressive pull on each curtain panel killed the natural light. Whirling back to the desk, she settled into command, draped in shadow and unspoken threats. “Much better.”

The darkness hollowed her eyes like clouds eclipsing the sun. Her craggy, bruised nails hit the mahogany surface in impatient thrums.

After a moment she relaxed, that same shady grin adorning her face again. “River.” There came another chant of my name, like I was a little glass doll on a shelf for display. “Daughter of Corbin Harlow and Mira Rae. Mother deceased. Isn’t that unfortunate.”

Despite her words, I found no trace of sympathy.

She cleared her throat, the sound guttural and ragged against the stillness of the room. “Remind me, how did she die?”

My eyes widening, I shot back against my chair as if the question had slapped me across the face. “Can’t you just look at my file?”

“I like to hear things from the source, not try to interpret a far less competent person’s scribble.” Her hand slithered to a folder lying atop the stack. She opened it and said, “We’re going to start out fresh.” Then she ripped my medical chart in half.

There was something seriously wrong with this woman. I shifted in my seat, the notes from my last visit drifting to my feet. Feeling like I might end up on the floor with it by the end of this, I cleared my throat and said, “My mom died in a drowning accident.”

“An accident you’re responsible for.” There was no question to her tone, but it had to be one. There’s no way anyone would just come out and say that.

I straightened, holding my chin high despite the grief pushing me towards the lowest of lows. “Dr. Fairmore says I’m not.”

“Well, Dr. Fairmore’s no longer here.” Her voice shifted to a higher pitch that scraped against my mind like nails on a chalkboard. “And, of course, you’re responsible. If it weren’t for you, your mother would still be alive!” Her cackle flittered through the room with such force, it rustled the hairs on my arms and shuffled loose papers, scattering any confidence I’d had.

When I didn’t respond, her laughter stilled, and a heaviness settled on the air, thick with sorrow that threatened to drown me and breathe life into Dr. Finis. She stared at me, leering and panting, eyes rimmed with black tears as if she’d laughed off her mascara—but she hadn’t been wearing any makeup.

“Don’t act so surprised,” she croaked. “Those little voices of yours would agree with me, wouldn’t they?”

The shock hit me like a dart dipped in poison, shutting off each motor function until I was nothing but a wide-eyed bag of muscle and bones. How did she know? The Voices wouldn’t have been mentioned in my file—unless she’d gone through ten years of records, back to the very beginning. Even then, though, at eight years old, I’d been too young, too traumatized, to explicitly state what was happening. If I’d said I heard voices, no one took it literally, and I’d suffered in shame and silence since then. Until my last session, when Dr. Fairmore alluded to their presence… Had she shared that info with Dr. Finis?

A bolt of anger electrified my veins and brought the feeling back to my fingers. I curled them in. That was my secret. “What are you talking about?”

Dr. Finis’s verbal venom was working; she knew it. “Tell me, what else do they say to you, River?”

A cautionary instinct temporarily constricted my throat, halting me from spewing every curse burning inside me. This is what she wanted. A reaction out of me. Because if her claims were untrue, then why would I get so worked up? I took a measured breath. I needed to deflect.

“This is entirely inappropriate.” Like, did we need to switch spots?

I figured I’d be met with a condescending laugh. It was the ghost-white palms slamming into the tabletop and the way she thrust herself forward that had me leaning so far back in my chair it lifted its two front legs. The wood creaked against her weight as she extended her neck, her hair slithering across the surface like thin black snakes.

Clearly her teeth hadn’t seen a toothbrush in ages, the enamel so rotten and her breath so sour it singed my nostrils when she whispered, “Says the murderer.”

In the face of such bluntness, my patience crumbled. It was already wavering, but now the walls came down and fury rose in its place. Cold and vindictive. I knew what I was. Unfortunately for her, I was ready to stop running from it.

“You’re right. It is my fault.” My words came out small in the large, dark room.

The doctor curled her lip. “What?” Her tone remained flat.

“I. Killed. My. Mother.” Each letter should have stabbed until the guilt flowed like blood, emptying me out. The confession should have ruined me, but it somehow released me.

If the doctor’s words were venom, my acceptance was the antidote.

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