THE THERAPIST

15

𝐂 𝐡 𝐚 𝐩 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫  𝟏𝟓

     I STOOD IN the kitchen, listening to the sizzling sound that kept echoing off the walls of the room. Moonlight seeped into the space through the slats of the Venetian blinds.

     Trying to push away the thoughts of Mallory Blake, I stirred up the food in the pan. Mallory’s killer had broken into my car and left behind her wedding ring packaged neatly in a white envelope. Was he trying to send me a message, or was he doing this to torment me? What was the essence of murdering my client and sending me an item of hers? Mallory’s killer had followed me to the rehab center. I didn’t doubt he’d been stalking me. Was this same person responsible for Caldwell and Rosalind’s death? More questions than answers. This wasn’t good.

     I had debated calling Detective Meredith and telling her about this new development. Would they help me? Probably. But I wasn’t convinced. I turned off the stove and walked to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of Chardonnay and returning to the counter.

     I stretched a hand, picked a wineglass, and turned toward the sink, then letting out a sigh, I rinsed the vessel under the running water. The ding-dong echoed in the kitchen. I closed the tap and wiped the glass with a paper towel. Who could that be? I wasn’t expecting anyone. Eva would be home by now, reading a bedtime story to her eight-year-old daughter. She wasn’t the type to drop by unannounced. My family didn’t live close to me.

     It might be one of my neighbors. Ms. Stevenson lived across the street. Her house had that old-fashioned charm and whenever she needed something, she normally called my phone. At sixty-something, I found it odd she’d prefer to stay all by herself. The person behind the door wasn’t Ms. Stevenson. She couldn’t have walked all the way from her house, which made me—

     I moved briskly to the blinds and rotated it. In the glint of the overhead light on the porch, I saw him. He wore a dark suit, the top button unfastened. His hair hung down, shining in the light. What was he doing here? I thought I made it clear I didn’t want to see him ever again. He clutched something. I couldn’t see what it was.

     I pretended I didn’t hear the bell and went ahead to fix myself dinner. When he was tired, he’d just leave, but so many years of marriage had taught me Garry wasn’t the type to relent and go away. Seconds later, the bell rang again. I huffed.

     “Avery, I know you’re in there. Please let me in,” he said loud and clear.

     Something in his voice gave me cold feet. I had decided to be stern toward him. That was the only way to shoo him away. Now, hearing him plead to enter the house we bought together, spent in it years as man and wife... It didn’t feel right. He was human. And like all humans, he was flawed. He’d asked my forgiveness several times, and I knew each one of them was sincere. The problem wasn’t with him.

     If I allowed him into my life again, I’d be reopening old wounds that never healed. I didn’t know his intention right now. Was he doing this to gain my forgiveness or to reenter my life? If it was the latter, I wasn’t sure I’d let him in. That part of me was gone. I was no longer his wife, but apparently, he didn’t understand it.

     “Avery!”

     I took off the apron and hung it on one of the hooks, then reluctantly went to the front door and opened it.

     He stood on my porch, holding a bouquet of roses. How romantic! Except we weren’t in any kind of relationship. If we had anything at all, it would be platonic, so him showing up on my front porch with flowers was out of place for me. I gave him a once-over, noticing the contrition in his eyes.