Things We Can't Tell (Cold Case Series 1)

iii.

Another session

𝟹0 𝙳𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶.

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜. 

 '𝚆𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚖.' 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. 

 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚞𝚜: 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝟸𝟾𝟻- *******

S E S S I O N 3

The next day began like any other. Lindsey and I did our usual routine. I tried to forget last night's disturbing dream, but the questions about Lindsey kept appearing and going back to my mind. 

Is she hiding something from me? Does this have something to do with her mental health? Am I overreacting?

These thoughts kept going in my head. The more I tried to let it pass, the more it kept coming back.

Lindsey did her routine, the one we agreed on doing. She completed her morning tasks. I observed her closely, searching for any signs that might show something. She remained silent, as always, she have a dead expression. 

Nothing's new. Nothing's weird.

Am I the one being weird?

I clicked my tongue, before proceeding with my tasks as well. 

After breakfast, Lindsey went to take a bath. As soon as she was out of sight, I felt the urge to find answers. I went to her room, silently. My eyes scanned the space, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

I looked for the telephone that I saw yesterday when I was cleaning. However, when I searched for it, it was nowhere to be found. Questions are starting to fill my mind again—did she move it? Where could she hide it? Or was I simply imagining things?

Feeling more confused, I left Lindsey's room and went to my own. 

Where could she have hidden it? I have access to the drawers and closets. She can't go outside. 

"Tsk." I clicked my tongue for the second time this morning, biting my thumb's nail.

When Lindsey finished her bath, it was time for our daily session. I wasn't really looking forward to it, knowing what would happen.

Nothing.

Like our previous sessions.

Nothing will happen.

We sat down at the table, a scenario that I already memorized. 

"Hello, Lindsey." As always, I showed a smile. As always, she showed nothing.

Still, my smile didn't disappear as I glanced at the papers and the journal on the table.

"Did you do what I told you?" I said, smiling. Of course, she didn't.

I opened her journal, not expecting anything. "Well, we can take it easy. First start with-"

I stopped what I was going to say when I saw the blank pages filled with ink. The empty journal was no more.

A messy handwriting. But not messy enough for me to not understand each letter.

My throat dried despite not using my voice, as I read and reread the sentence. Lindsey had never written anything before, but today she did.

𝐼 𝑎𝑡𝑒. 

 𝐼 𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑡ℎ. 

 𝐼 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠. 

 𝐼 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑝𝑡. 

 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑢𝑝 𝑎𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 

 𝐼 𝑤𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑘.

I stared at the one page with writing. My brain stopped working for a moment.

My mouth opened first, followed by my voice. "O-Oh." 

I couldn't find the words to say. I felt a chill run down my spine.

Was it just not a dream? Or is it just a coincidence?

The logical part of my mind is insisting that I must have heard her moving around the house, and my half-asleep state had turned it into a nightmare. Yes, that must be it. Yet, the fear I had felt was so real, so intense. I couldn't shake the image of Lindsey standing in the kitchen, her scream piercing the silence.

The shattered glass, the missing telephone, the vivid nightmare—they all seemed connected in a way I couldn't quite grasp.

I shook my head and forced a smile. "Great job!" My tone was obviously fake. But I didn't mind it at all. 

"Continue writing, okay?" I said as I put down the journal and slid it to her.

My smile didn't disappear. 

It's like my usual smile every session. Not entirely fake, but not real too.

But my smile now is definitely not just fake . . . but a forced one. The automatic smile I show when I'm nervous. 

I'm at lost. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now.

Something is happening. I don't know if this still has something to do with her trauma or mental illness.

It's either Lindsey is hiding something . . . or I'm losing my mind.

⌖