The Ann Dawson Case

PART 10 - Carla

There was a bus near here that stopped by my house; I had passed by the stop numerous times driving to work. I waited at the bus stop, tapping my thighs with my fingertips anxiously. Tilting my head towards the road, I looked for an oncoming bus to no avail. A woman made her way towards me, but I wasn't paying much attention to her until she tapped my shoulder. I turned around to meet the boring brown eyes of Carla Templeton. Crap. This was the worst possible thing that could have happened.

"Hi, Carla!" I greeted, trying to act warmly by faking a very large smile, very aware of how urgent it was for me to get home. I needed to deal with Andrew, and I had no clue about how to do it.

"I was just about to go to your office, for our appointment. What are you doing here?" she asked me.

Crap, she was right; we did have an appointment scheduled. I mentally groaned, scolding myself for being disorganized. It was my fault that Andrew figured everything out, and I was so caught up with his antics that I forgot about my job. Carla shifted the contents around in her purse, pulling out her planner.

"Yes, it says right here that we have an appointment now," she told me, motioning at her fairly empty schedule. She put it back in her purse next to a composition notebook.

"Is that your anger journal?" I asked her. She nodded her head slightly, and looked around to make sure no one heard that. I started to think up a plan. I smiled. I was back in business.

"Carla, do you mind typing it up?" I asked her.

"What, right now?"

"Well, I do house calls, and seeing we're both here," I didn't finish the thought; I wanted her to suggest that I come over. I don't think she understood my hint. She was not the sharpest tool in the shed. "Near your house," I added.

"Oh! Would it be more convenient for you to do a house call right now? I think my husband is home, but we can stay out of his way," she suggested.

"You have very good ideas, Carla. Smart lady," I told her. She grinned. Flattery will get you very far in life. She lead me to her house behind the bus station. I quite liked her house. Nate must have picked it out: Carla was too dull to know about anything of quality. Speaking of Nate, I didn't see him as I entered their house. We took a seat in her living room, and she pulled out her laptop.

"Why do you want me to type it out?" she asked me.

"It will feel more permanent, and re-writing the emotions you've been dealing with will help in coping," I explained, excited, "may I look at your journal?"

She handed over the notebook, and I flipped through it. She wrote about being angry at the most seemingly benign interactions; a talk with Karen caused Carla to want to rip out Karen's breast implants; a run-in with her neighbor's dog made Carla want to strangle his leash around his 'terribly scrawny neck'; finding an earring in Nate's back pocket made Carla want to 'kill the bitch that it belonged to'. Oops, sorry Carla, that one's on me.  

We talked about if she had any episodes. Carla proudly stated that stopping to write about her emotions was a success in channeling her anger. I told her I was proud. And I was truly proud. Of myself. I never knew how seamless this idea would be. As she was typing the last words to her journal, she declared that she was done.

"Do you mind if I take a look?" I asked her. She handed the laptop to me.

I added one more entry about wanting to kill Andrew Duncan for the lust he made Carla feel. She didn't feel right about feeling unfaithful to her husband, and that made her angry. Classic Carla, blaming other people for her problems. She would go on to dump Andrew's body in the river, and I would be able to procure the evidence necessary to convict Carla. Andrew would not be able to tell a soul about my past, and with Carla out of the picture, Nate and me would be together. It was a perfect plan.

"What are you typing?" she asked me curiously.

"Can I send this to myself? As a record of your progress?" I asked. She gave a slight nod hesitantly. I sent the copy that I edited to my work email, and closed out of the journal, closing the laptop and handing it back to her.

"So, how are you feeling?" I asked her, smiling, leading us into a generic therapy session and reclining into her brown leather coach.