Page 48 of The Therapist

And then you called.

Tears prick my eyes. It was me.

My fault.

He’s in prison because of me. Yet still, he loved me.

Loves me.

The weight of their stares presses against me, heavy with expectation. My fingers tighten around the wine glass in my hand, the rim cold against my lips as I take a slow sip, buying myself another second. Another breath. Another chance to rethink this.

But I don’t.

I set the glass down. “He was caught because of me.”

Aubry, who had been reaching for another dumpling, freezes. “What?”

I nod, staring at the deep red of my wine. “I called him. That’s how they found him. He answered my call.”

I look up, and their reactions are exactly what I expected—shock, confusion, and a glimmer of something else. Maybe concern. Maybe judgment.

Nora tilts her head. “You called him?”

I nod. “I had to. I—I needed to.” My breath shudders as I exhale. “The truth is, I just wanted to hear his voice.”

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

Aubry’s expression shifts—softer, sadder. “Robin…”

I shake my head. “I know. I know it’s wrong. I know who he is. What he is.” My voice drops to something raw and unguarded. “He’s a sexual deviant. A manipulator. A man who watches and obsesses and—” My breath hitches. “And I still love him.”

Eve flinches, just slightly, but I catch it. “You still love him?”

I nod once. “Even now. Even knowing everything. Even knowing I should be repulsed.” My fingers press into my palm. “I can’t turn it off.”

Aubry lets out a long, slow breath. “Jesus.”

Nora studies me, unreadable. “Have you told him?”

I bark out a laugh. “What, that I still love him after I caused his capture? No. And I won’t.”

Aubry leans forward, her voice softer now. “Why don’t you?”

I look down at my hands, the weight of my confession sinking deep into my bones.

“Because when he looked at me, I felt seen. Because in the courtroom he pleaded with his eyes to absolve myself from any culpability, he never gave me up. Because when he touched me, I felt wanted. Because for all his sins, for all his darkness…” I let out a shaky breath. “He never outright lied to me.”

The letter sits between us like a living thing, heavy with unspoken words. The edges are worn now, passed between hands, read and re-read, as if the meaning could shift under their gazes. My fingers twitch against the stem of my wine glass, my heart a restless thing in my chest.

I wait for them to tell me I’m insane. That I’m weak. That I need to forget him.

But they don’t.

Aubry is the first to speak. “You need to write him back.”

I blink. “What?”

“You need to write him back,” she repeats, firmer this time. She lifts the letter between two fingers, tapping it against her palm. “You love him. That much is obvious. And if you don’t tell him what you need, what you expect if there’s ever going to be anything between you again, you’re just going to torture yourself for the next four years and six months.”

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