Page 88 of The Wedding Party

He killed ten people, at least that we know about.

Another interesting tidbit about Norman: he stabbed his victims to death quite brutally.

Logically, you’d think this means Carrie is the killer, but it’s not that simple. She didn’t send this documentation to Oliver. Someone else did. And that someone could have been in the hotel room the night Oliver died with every intention of us finding out about Carrie’s father.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

CARRIE

Journal entry number twenty:

I remember—so little. Too little. But what I do remember is how much I loved Oliver. I remember making love to him on the very bed where he died before we ever went to the party. I remember the tenderness in his eyes when he told me I’m beautiful. When anyone else tells me I’m beautiful, I don’t believe them. But it’s there, in Oliver’s eyes. He thinks I’m beautiful. Or he did. I’ll never see that look in his eyes again. We will never wake up and declare the morning “pancake morning” again, create yummy treats and top them with whipped cream. We’ll never sit by a fire while we each enjoy a book together again. We will never be us again. I’m not sure I’ll ever know who I am without him.

I’m not sure I’ll ever know my purpose in this life.

I mean, I’m an ER nurse, and my job is to save lives, but I couldn’t even save my fiancé. I keep thinking that. That I had a chance to save him and didn’t. I’m not sure what that means, but just as I believe in my heart I ran to that attic, fearful for my life, I believe I could have saved him. I don’t know how. I don’t know how. But I know that just that feeling alone makes me hate myself. If they convict me for a crime I didn’t commit, I’ll still deserve the punishment. Because I could have saved him but I didn’t.

Chapter Seventy-Nine

My morning session with Dr. Thompson is my final one before I’ll be allowed visitors.

She sits across from me after reading my latest journal entry, a solemn expression on her face. She finishes it, her gaze lifting to study me, several seconds passing before she sets the journal on the table.

“Guilt is a normal emotion. Blame is easy to put on ourselves. We’ve talked about this.”

“That doesn’t change how I feel,” I tell her.

I’ve found myself surprised at how I’ve opened up to Dr. Thompson. She doesn’t cast blame, and she doesn’t ask the same stupid questions I’ve been asked in the past. She lets the journal guide me. She lets me guide the conversations.

“That is true, and I’m glad to hear you say that,” she says. “No one gets to tell you what you feel is wrong. Not even me. In fact, I’d say that what you feel is normal.”

Normal.

How many times in my life have I ever felt normal?

Never.

But I almost do with her.

“However,” she says, “I’d like very much to guide you to a healthier place emotionally. And I hope that you’ll agree to stay with us for the full month commitment. I believe we’re making progress. I want to keep on this path.”

Considering what lies ahead for me out there—life without Oliver, Agent Castle, Oliver’s parents, and the tug-of-war for money they’ll surely present, if Agent Castle is right about them—I am all about this plan. “Me too,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

“Good,” she approves. “Now let’s talk about your conversation with Agent Castle today. I’d like to sit in, if you’re okay with that. I’ll act as a moderator. I’ll protect your interests, and I’ll put a stop to it if you become overly distressed.”

“I’d like that, but Dr. Thompson, I want to talk to her. I want to heal, but I need to help her find Oliver’s killer. I have to help. Maybe she’ll say something that will trigger me.”

“That’s the worry.”

“I mean in a good way. Maybe she’ll tell me something I need to know, something that will help me remember. I want to remember what happened that night.”

“Very well. I’ll keep that in mind. I won’t hold you back.”

But she will.

She and I both know she will.

Chapter Eighty