“What brings you here today, Allison?”
An appointment. She bit back the snarky response.
Dr. King peered at her over his glasses from the armchair opposite her. His wrinkled forehead merged with his bald head.
Allison glanced around his office. A painting of a field and barn hung over his desk, a set of bookshelves filled one wall, and a sofa and chairs took up the rest of the room. She’d sat in one of the chairs when he waved her into his office. No way was she doing the clichéd couch thing.
She shrugged and crossed her legs. “Trouble sleeping, I guess.” Hadn’t Dr. Thompson filled him in? “I have nightmares.”
“Tell me about them.”
Drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair, she stared out the window. Cars drove by in an endless stream. His office was in an old brownstone building next to one of the hospitals in the city. Was it for the convenience of submitting patients he thought were insane? Why did a therapist need an office next to a hospital?
This was a mistake. She should have canceled instead of making the almost hour-long drive into Hartford this morning.
“Allison?”
She huffed out a breath. “Didn’t Dr. Thompson fill you in?”
“He gave me some background, but I prefer to hear it in your own words. Everyone has their own perspective and their own story to tell. I want to hear yours from your point of view with no one else’s opinion or judgments clouding the telling.”
Judgments, huh? She was sure Dr. Thompson had plenty of those.
“My parents died in a fire. The nightmares are always about that night.”
He nodded and continued to stare at her.
Allison looked away. “The fire was my fault.”
Silence filled the room. She glanced out the window and back to the painting on the wall and finally to Dr. King. His gaze remained on her expectantly.
So he knew—no surprise there. He held a pad of paper in his lap and a pen. Both had yet to be used.
“I’ve had the nightmares for years, since the fire, but they’ve gotten worse since my husband died.”
“Did you have counseling after the fire?”
“No.”
“Any counseling after your husband’s death?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Exactly what did he see?
“Grief manifests in many ways. If we don’t identify and acknowledge that grief and let ourselves feel the emotions, our brains will seek other outlets.”
His voice was low and patient. He most likely spoke that way deliberately—probably thought it was soothing. It made her want to scream.
He’d have a ton of things to say if she gave in to the impulse.
She pressed her lips together until they hurt.
“So you’re saying I’m having nightmares because I haven’t grieved properly?”
“I’m saying that grief may be one reason.”
Who's to say what the proper way to grieve was? Just because she hadn’t sought therapy before now to hash out all her feelings didn’t mean she hadn’t grieved.
She shifted in her chair and wrapped her hands around her knee, lacing her fingers together.
“Allison, when you have these nightmares, how do they make you feel?”
“They’re nightmares. By definition, doesn’t that tell how they make me feel?” She glanced at the door. “Scared. They make me scared.”
“Understandable. What else?”
Her leg swung up and down. She closed her eyes and opened them. “Guilty. They make me feel guilty and ashamed.”
He nodded and jotted something down on his pad. Great, now he’s taking notes.
Of course, she felt guilty and ashamed. She was responsible for their deaths.
“Dr. Thompson mentioned he prescribed you medicine to help you sleep. Have they helped you rest, or are you still waking up every night?”
Allison frowned. “I haven’t taken them. I don’t like pills.”
He folded his hands on top of the pad. “The pills are a tool. If your body cannot get the rest it needs, then stress is added. More stress plus less sleep equals more nightmares. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I’ll think about it.”
“Do that.”
Dr. King spent the rest of the appointment quizzing her on her relationships. What friends and family she had and whether she confided in them. No family. No friends. Well, there was now Karen. And Jim.
By the time she left, she was exhausted and felt worse than when she had arrived. Not a ringing endorsement for therapy.
During the drive home, she seesawed between never going back and giving it one more chance. He could hardly be expected to cure her in one visit. Some of her father’s patients had been in therapy for years.
God help her!
There was a package in front of her front door. Allison frowned as she drove into the driveway. Please don’t let it be more black candles. She’d thrown the others away, but maybe she should have made a display of them on her front lawn to thumb her nose at whoever sent them. Too bad it wasn’t closer to Halloween. If she set up something like that now, it would only draw more questions she didn’t want to answer.
Sighing, she pulled into the garage and grabbed her purse before walking up the walkway to her porch. The box sat in the middle of her welcome mat.
There was no point in delaying. She would only wonder and worry over what was inside.
She smirked. It was probably one of the household items she had on automatic delivery.
The package was the size of a toaster. There was no return label, only a label addressed to her. She glanced around before bending down and picking the box up. It was light.
A quick shake produced no clues. Should she bring it inside to open, or leave it on the porch and open it there?
What if someone was watching?
What if it wasn’t something she had ordered, and whoever sent it was watching to see her reaction?
Allison schooled her expression and stole a quick peek from her lowered head. There was no one in sight, but only an idiot would stand in plain view.
What if it was something really horrible?
Damn it! She wouldn’t know until she opened it.
Picking up the package, she carried it into the kitchen, grabbed a pair of scissors, and went out onto the back porch. Unless someone was hiding in the woods and had anticipated her going to the back, then…geez, she was losing it.
She opened the scissors and stabbed at the tape from as far away as she could. If whatever was in there got a few holes—so be it.
The tape gave way and the flap lifted. The smell of smoke assaulted her nose. She clapped the back of her hand to block her nostrils and used the scissors to open the top.
Transparent plastic was wrapped around singed fabric. As the top opened wider and pulled on the plastic, the stench of smoke grew stronger.
Allison kicked the box away from her and backed away. She gagged and took several labored breaths as tears wet her eyes.
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!
Who the hell was doing this to her?
She went inside and wet a dish towel to hold over her nose and mouth to clear away the smell of smoke. After a few minutes, the urge to gag disappeared. The scent, however, lingered.
And it would until she got rid of that box.
Holding the cloth over her nose and mouth, she went back outside. The box was on its side, and the contents hung out onto the floor.
The black and burned cloth had singed holes, and a button remained. Clothes? Someone had sent her burned clothes?
She grabbed the broom next to the door and used the handle to push the fabric back into the box and tip it right side up. After putting the broom back, she went inside and found some tape.
Allison took several deep, cleansing breaths before going back out to the porch. She held her breath as she taped the box shut and then carried it out to the garbage cans by the garage. Her chest burned for oxygen. She lifted the lid.
She slammed the lid down and dropped the box on top. Backing up several steps while dragging clean air into her lungs, she stared at the box. It’s evidence. What if she throws it away and then decides to go to the police? She would have no proof.
Her gaze drifted over the garage. She nibbled on her bottom lip and then huffed out a breath. It was better to be safe than sorry later.
Allison marched to the side door of the garage and jabbed in the code to unlock the door. A flick of the light switch and a quick search of the shelves lining the walls produced a frown. It was way past time for her to clean out the garage. Procrastination wasn’t one of her more attractive traits.
Plastic bins filled the metal rack closest to her, most of them probably filled with Alan’s belongings. The garage had been his domain. She only came in here when she needed the car or the lawnmower. At least he had been an organized soul. A clear bin in the middle of the shelf was half empty. She pulled it off the shelf and set it on the floor. The lid came off with a pop.
Old towels? Allison squatted and rummaged through the contents. A few towels and sheets, all worn with small tears or stains, occupied the bin. Alan probably intended to use them for work in the garage or something. Not that he had ever worked on the car or did much physical labor. He had hired other people for that.
She carried the bin outside to the garbage cans and dumped the contents in one of them. No time like the present to do some purging. She dropped the box of singed clothes into the bin and held the back of her arm against her nose and mouth for a moment. Dropping her arm, she grimaced. The box of black candles was at the bottom of the can. She should save those too.
Great. Making her dig through the trash—another crime she could blame on the person terrorizing her. At least it was all in garbage bags. She hauled the top bag out and turned her face away. It still stank though.
She dropped the bag on the ground and studied it for a second. Please don’t break open. Satisfied it remained intact, she gingerly removed the last bag and the box with the candles. Once the bags were back inside the can with the lid on tight, she carried the plastic bin with the gruesome deliveries into the garage, put the lid on, and slid it back onto the shelf. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be adding any more deliveries to the bin.
A shower was definitely required. She locked the garage door behind her and went back into the house through the back porch.
What was she going to do about this? If she ignored them, would they get bored and stop? What did they want from her?
It had to be someone connected to the fire and her parents, didn’t it? Why else send her these things? And why now?
Allison locked the kitchen door and trudged down the hallway and up the stairs. She turned on the shower before she stripped off her clothes and dropped them into the hamper.
She must have triggered someone by her research into the fire. If she stopped, would they? Or was this only the beginning? And why? Always back to the why.
Someone wanted to hurt her, and they were using her parents’ deaths to do it.