Page 224 of Always: A Legacy Novel

“Gian is, although a bit more French, I would say.”

Catherine nodded to herself.

“Now does it make more sense why I would be the one to come?” Cara asked.

“I suppose.”

“You’ve had a rough couple of months, haven’t you?”

Catherine let out a shaky exhale. “You could say that.”

“You told me they have the house on lockdown, and you can’t leave.”

“I would go the beach,” Catherine murmured. “If they let me leave, that’s where I would go.”

“Why?”

“Better memories.”

“I see,” Cara said.

“I like the floor because they don’t ask me questions when I’m like this. They don’t hover, or stay too long. They don’t look at me too hard, or wonder what I’m doing now. They see me here. They don’t know what to do, so they leave. I don’t have to talk, or answer questions, or go back over what happened and why I did it. I don’t have to pretend or lie. The walls have to be built up somehow, right? So I started mine from the ground. Nobody is getting over them now.”

Catherine’s chest had progressively gotten tighter and tighter the longer she spoke. She wasn’t used to doing that lately—talking a lot. Her hands balled into such tight fists that her fingernails dug into the skin of her palms, likely leaving behind crescent shaped marks. She found it was harder to breathe all of the sudden, and despite being on her back on the floor, the room almost tilted.

“Take three breaths,” Cara said softly.

She had a nice voice. Catherine noticed. Soft, caring, and smooth.

Catherine took the breaths.

“Find three things you can see,” Cara said.

The ceiling. A crystal chandelier. The family portrait on the far wall.

“And three things you can smell,” Cara added after a moment.

Cara’s vanilla perfume. The flowery detergent their maid used. Lingering cinnamon and sugar from her mother’s baking.

“Three things you can feel—emotions, not touch, Catherine.”

A black vortex in her heart. Panic. Numbness.

“Three things you can hear, now.”

Cara speaking. A tick-tock of the Grandfather clock. Her own heartbeat.

“Lastly, three things you can touch, please.”

The rug beneath her tickled her neck. Her dress felt a bit too tight around her throat. And her finger swept over the ridged line of a clean scar on her inner, left wrist.

“And how do you feel now?” Cara asked.

Catherine swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “Better.”

“How often do you get anxiety attacks?”

“Lately? Every day.”