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“Did you know that I met him, too?”
My eyes widen. “You did?”
“I did,” she says. “He came to talk to me about Wren.”
“I think he likes her. She’s a little afraid of him, and I keep trying to tell her he’s okay, but she doesn’t hear me.”
“Maybe I could tell her for you,” she suggests. “Could you get her for me, and I’ll do that?”
“I’ll try.” I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate real hard. When I raise my chin, I stare at Dr. Young, who’s watching me intently. “What?” I ask.
“We were talking about a police report.”
“Right.” I shake my head. “No, I haven’t filed one. His actions tell me I should, but something is holding me back.”
“I think a part of you trusts him.”
I squint at her as if that will make her words make sense. “You just told me he came here yesterday asking about me, and he left me that package. Now you sound like you think I should invite him to live with me. Make up your mind, doc.”
My snippy tone isn’t lost on me, but I have enough going on in my head without the one sane person who’s supposed to help me, making things more confusing.
“It’s not my mind that needs to be made up. Look, I can’t tell you what to do. That’s not what therapy is about. But I’m also not going to let you flounder.”
“Okay.”
“What if you file a police report and let them do their job?” she suggests. “If he’s not a threat, they’ll determine that for you. If he is, then you’ll be protected.”
I consider it and decide it’s a logical solution. “I’ll go to the station tomorrow.”
“Good.” Dr. Young leans back and relaxes in her chair. “Now, we’ve got a few more minutes before our time is up. Is there anything specific you want to talk about?”
We spend the rest of the session going through the steps of what I can expect when I make the report, and by the time I leave, I’m feeling less anxious. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last because as soon as I walk into my apartment, my cell phone rings.
“Hello?”
“This is a call from…”
I listen to the prison’s recording, fully intending to hang up, but my gut shouts at me to stay on the line.
“‘Bout time you accepted my call,” my father gripes once the recording ends.
“What do you want?” I ask, resigned to at least a short conversation.
As much as I despise the man, heismy father.
You owe him nothing.
“I had your Uncle Craig leave something for you,” he says, and my mind flashes to the carnations and note. “He said you’ll find it in the nightstand in your bedroom.”
A shiver runs through me at the thought of Uncle Craig in my home, and I make my way to my room. Pulling open the nightstand drawer, I gasp and stumble backward.
“What the fuck do I need a gun for?” I demand.
Dad chuckles, and it scares me just as it did when I was a child. “If you’re gonna be hanging around with bikers, you better be able to protect yourself.”
With those parting words, he disconnects the call. Question after question runs through my mind, not the least of which is how my dad or Uncle Craig found me. I’ve done everything I can to make sure my address isn’t listed anywhere they could find it.
After slamming the drawer shut, I stomp out to the living room and curl up on the couch to ponder the situation I find myself in. It isn’t long before I’m having an internal debate withmyself about reaching out to Journey, but I quickly dismiss the idea.
