Page 15 of The Executioners Three
“I didn’t even see the dead body,” Divya repeated.
“And I only saw his shoes,” Freddie chimed.
“Tell me about that, Freddie.” Dr. Born lifted a fancy pen off the desk. The kind of pen that Freddie thought people only gave as gifts but never actually used. “I want to know what you saw, and more importantly, what you felt seeing it.”
“Well, here’s whatIwant to know, Dr. Born.” Freddie folded her hands on her lap. “Why is it that our parents hiredyouwhen there are counselors right here in Berm?”
“Freddie.” A hint of warning in the man’s voice now.
“And how much do you charge? Is it by the hour? Or is there some kind of two-for-one special?”
“Freddie.”No hinting now. He was annoyed. “I see what you’re trying to do, and you won’t succeed at it. The fact that you’re even trying to deflect this session suggests you do need counseling.”
“She does.” Divya nodded and stood. “ButIdo not. And thank you so much for understanding—”
“Sit back down, Divya. Please.” Now Dr. Born was really annoyed—although it was also clear he was trying to hide it. “Your dad is the onewho reached out to me, Divya, so please consider thatheis worried about you.”
Divya plunked back into her armchair. “Fine. Interrogate us.”
“Still not an interrogation.” He tipped down his chin so he could stare from the tops of his eyes. A classic adult look of condescension. “And what about you, Freddie? Will you cooperate?”
She hesitated, knowing she really had no choice. But knowing she also really didn’t want Dr. Born to win this easily, she countedOne Lance Bass. Two Lance Bass. Three Lance Bass.
“Alright,” she declared, pulling back her shoulders. “I will cooperate.”
Dr. Born’s posture relaxed. His kindly smile returned. “Thank you. Now, as I said before: I want you to walk me through what you saw, paying particular attention to how it made you feel.”
Two hours after counseling had ended, Freddie found herself slumping into her family’s living room where her stepdad, Steve, scanned theTV Guide.He’d lately taken to shaving his balding scalp, and Freddie thought it looked Much Better Indeed. His pale skin was very healthy beneath that disappearing hair! Freddie’s mom, meanwhile, sorted through a heap of muslin on the couch. Like Freddie, her dark brown curls were wild and no amount of product or scrunchies could control them.
“No TGIF tonight?” Mom asked distractedly.
“I’m not feeling it,” Freddie muttered. Having missed her special time with Kyle, she didn’t feel up to anything beyond moping, moaning, and occasionally wallowing.
“Inthatcase,” Mom declared, “you get to help me mend these gowns for the pageant.”
Freddie sighed. “I’d rather not.”
“I’d rather you did.”
“I’m a terrible seamstress.”
“And no one will notice a crooked hem from the stage.”
“I’mhelping,” Steve said.
Freddie stuck out her tongue. But then did end up plopping onto the carpet and holding out her hand. “Hand it over, Ma.”
Her mother did exactly that, passing off a 1600s-style gown in a deeplyunflattering brown. Every year, when the Historical Society put on the Fête du Bûcheron, they capped off the day with the Lumberjack Pageant.
(It had briefly been known as the Reconstitution Historique des Bûcherons when Mom had first joined the society in 1979 and tried to organize the chaotic group, but the original members had quickly revolted against that title. There washistorical accuracyand then there waswhat the locals could actually pronounce, Patty.)
Every year, Mr. Binder directed the play, Mom handled the costumes, and Freddie was forced to perform.Thisyear, though, Mom had sworn Freddie wouldn’t have to participate. Sure, Freddie would help assemble the sets, and yes, she’d help take tickets and donations at the entrance…
But! She would absolutely not have to go on the stage. No way, no how. Last year, Freddie had played a lumberjack, and the fake beard had stuck on a little too well. So rather than shame herself with a five-o’clock shadow at the post-pageant party, she’d fled for home.
She was pretty sure she still had little hairs stuck to her chin.
“Who’s playing our esteemed founder Allard Fortin this year in the pageant?” Freddie asked as she frowned at the gown now draped across her lap. It had a nice little tear at the bodice. Perfect for those old paintings in which a woman’s single boob always seemed to be falling out.
