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Frustration bubbles in my gut, threatening to erupt. I was hoping she would lay out my childhood, or at least what she knows. After all, she is Mom and Dad’s therapist. One or both of them would have confided to her about the time I can’t remember.
“My mom mentioned you would let me have a recording of our early sessions,” I say.
The corners of her lips pinch. “Providing session recordings directly to clients isn’t standard practice, but we can explore alternative ways to give you support.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her attempt to get me back on her couch. Even though I don’t pay for the sessions myself, I don’t like the idea of her holding the recordings over my head like a carrot.
“Can’t you just email me the files?” I ask.
“That’s not possible,” she replies.
I grind my teeth. “Can you at least tell me what happened in my past?”
“Amethyst, I understand your frustration, but delving into your past is a delicate process that requires time and care. It's not something we can simply uncover in one session.”
My hands curl into fists. “Who says I was asking for an infodump? I just want access to my recordings. You’re supposed to help, and all you’re doing is fleecing our family of money.”
Flinching, she clasps her hands together on the desk, trying to maintain her composure. “We need to approach your memories with sensitivity and care. Healing takes time, and we can’t rush?—”
“It’s been fourteen fucking years, and I can’t remember a thing.”
Her eyes widen at the inconsistency, but she has the good sense not to mention my lie about the snippets. “Amethyst?—”
“No,” I snap. “If you can’t give me the recordings, then there’s no point in continuing. Just give me my prescription, and I’ll leave.”
When I rise off the armchair, she scrambles out of her seat and edges toward the door, as though challenging her is all the evidence she needs to diagnose me as feral.
My jaw tightens. What’s wrong with this woman? It’s me who should be jumpy. I’m the one who’s being beleaguered by ghosts and online trolls.
“I’ll send it to the pharmacy,” she says. “It should be ready for you when it opens.”
“Thanks,” I reply through clenched teeth and head for the door, sneering at her as she flinches.
My phone rings from an unknown number, and my heart skips several beats. Hoping to prove to her that Xero’s ghost still exists, I answer and place the call on speakerphone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Officer Bridges. I called the prison this morning. Mr. Greaves’s phone was smashed during an altercation, but it’s still in their possession. Was there anything else you wanted me to check?”
There goes my theory that a crooked prison guard stole his handset.
Shit.
TWENTY-FIVE
Alderney State Penitentiary,
Dear Amethyst,
I also thought my father would threaten my life, but he demanded to see my bloody hands and asked what went through my head as I tried to beat my brother to death.
Since we were in the school’s parking lot, I didn’t think he would inject me with poison, so I told the truth. I hadn’t done anything to deserve daily beatings. It wasn’t fair that I got to sleep in a box while everyone else had rooms. Having nothing to lose but my life, I told him to release me into foster care.
He stared at me for the longest time before saying, “I’m proud of you, son.”
And then he smiled.
I thought it was a trick. Many others approached me as a friend, only to lure me into an ambush to gain my brothers’ favor. I backed away, refusing to get into the car because I thought that moment would be my last.
