therapy. Even if I had to confront the memories I’d worked hard to forget. Even if I had to fill each page of my notebook with action points and tiny goals. It was a great plan, a great target for me to aim for.
So why did the few bites of pizza I’d managed suddenly congeal in my stomach?
chapter
9
T HE LONG TABLE AND folding chairs barely fit in the cramped conference room at Victim Support Services. A girl with Goth eyeliner slumped in a seat near the door. She shot me a sideways glance and then went back to gouging a pattern into the table using a paper clip. A man with sagging jowls and deep eye pouches sat beside her and tugged on his suit sleeves. He appeared to be about my age, but with the world-weariness of someone much older.
“Hello.” A plump woman in her fifties followed me into the room and offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Marci Crown. I’m the psychologist on staff here, and I facilitate this group. I saw your son out there. He’s adorable.” She pulled out a chair for herself across from Goth girl and Basset-hound man. The seats closest to the door were taken. I squeezed my way to the far end of the table. The others avoided eye contact.
A crowded room with only one door. Couldn’t they see this was a fire hazard? A trickle of sweat ran down my rib cage. Panic attacks were bad enough, but this place was going to give me claustrophobia on top of it. I’d have to crawl over the raccoon-eyed teen and the businessman to escape. Why had I agreed to this? The drive to the victim center had drained me, and now I wanted to find an excuse to leave. I half hoped Bryan was upset about being left in the lobby to play on his own—what kind of mother was I to hope my child was upset so I could make a quick exit? But as I expected, my oh-so-resilient child was calmly coloring at the receptionist’s desk.
Dr. Marci glanced at her watch, holding it out far from her face and squinting. “I was hoping Daniel would make it, but he asked me to tell you all that he’s having a bad day.”
“He’s agoraphobic.” The Basset-hound man tossed the explanation to me.
“Henry, let’s not use labels,” Dr. Marci interrupted. “Daniel is a lot of things beyond his hesitation to venture out. Let’s start with some introductions.” She zeroed her gaze onto Goth girl.
The young woman lifted her chin long enough to roll her eyes. “Name’s Ashley. Friends call me Ash. Get it? Ash—the debris of destruction.” She waggled her fingers and glared at all of us in what I supposed was meant to be a menacing face.
Good grief. Did she really think the nihilistic role was cool? She looked like an adolescent vampire. A vampire who needed a shampoo.
Unable to force a very warm expression on my face, I dug in my purse and pulled out a stick of gum.
“Are you going to keep that?” Henry stared at the foil wrapper in my hand.
My gaze swung from Henry to the gum wrapper.
Ashley smirked. “He’s a hoarder.”
I almost choked on my gum. This was getting better and better. I handed the piece of foil to Henry and scrunched lower in my chair.
“Penny, I’m glad you decided to join our group.” Dr. Marci poured herself a cup of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table.
I’m not joining this group. I’m sitting in on one session as penance for freaking out in front of Bryan. “Thanks. It’s nice to meet you all.”
Ashley snorted, not faked out by my attempt at sincerity.
“Okay,” Dr. Marci raised her eyebrows in Ashley’s direction. “Let’s get started. Share a little about why you’re here and how your week went, and what you need today. Penny, you can go last so you get to know us first.”
Oh, joy.
The door swung open and another woman scurried into the room. “Sorry. Traffic was awful.”
“Glad you made it, Camille. We’re just getting started.” The others around the table echoed Dr. Marci’s greeting.
Finally, someone normal. Camille wore stylish khaki capris with a striped
So why did the few bites of pizza I’d managed suddenly congeal in my stomach?
chapter
9
T HE LONG TABLE AND folding chairs barely fit in the cramped conference room at Victim Support Services. A girl with Goth eyeliner slumped in a seat near the door. She shot me a sideways glance and then went back to gouging a pattern into the table using a paper clip. A man with sagging jowls and deep eye pouches sat beside her and tugged on his suit sleeves. He appeared to be about my age, but with the world-weariness of someone much older.
“Hello.” A plump woman in her fifties followed me into the room and offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Marci Crown. I’m the psychologist on staff here, and I facilitate this group. I saw your son out there. He’s adorable.” She pulled out a chair for herself across from Goth girl and Basset-hound man. The seats closest to the door were taken. I squeezed my way to the far end of the table. The others avoided eye contact.
A crowded room with only one door. Couldn’t they see this was a fire hazard? A trickle of sweat ran down my rib cage. Panic attacks were bad enough, but this place was going to give me claustrophobia on top of it. I’d have to crawl over the raccoon-eyed teen and the businessman to escape. Why had I agreed to this? The drive to the victim center had drained me, and now I wanted to find an excuse to leave. I half hoped Bryan was upset about being left in the lobby to play on his own—what kind of mother was I to hope my child was upset so I could make a quick exit? But as I expected, my oh-so-resilient child was calmly coloring at the receptionist’s desk.
Dr. Marci glanced at her watch, holding it out far from her face and squinting. “I was hoping Daniel would make it, but he asked me to tell you all that he’s having a bad day.”
“He’s agoraphobic.” The Basset-hound man tossed the explanation to me.
“Henry, let’s not use labels,” Dr. Marci interrupted. “Daniel is a lot of things beyond his hesitation to venture out. Let’s start with some introductions.” She zeroed her gaze onto Goth girl.
The young woman lifted her chin long enough to roll her eyes. “Name’s Ashley. Friends call me Ash. Get it? Ash—the debris of destruction.” She waggled her fingers and glared at all of us in what I supposed was meant to be a menacing face.
Good grief. Did she really think the nihilistic role was cool? She looked like an adolescent vampire. A vampire who needed a shampoo.
Unable to force a very warm expression on my face, I dug in my purse and pulled out a stick of gum.
“Are you going to keep that?” Henry stared at the foil wrapper in my hand.
My gaze swung from Henry to the gum wrapper.
Ashley smirked. “He’s a hoarder.”
I almost choked on my gum. This was getting better and better. I handed the piece of foil to Henry and scrunched lower in my chair.
“Penny, I’m glad you decided to join our group.” Dr. Marci poured herself a cup of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table.
I’m not joining this group. I’m sitting in on one session as penance for freaking out in front of Bryan. “Thanks. It’s nice to meet you all.”
Ashley snorted, not faked out by my attempt at sincerity.
“Okay,” Dr. Marci raised her eyebrows in Ashley’s direction. “Let’s get started. Share a little about why you’re here and how your week went, and what you need today. Penny, you can go last so you get to know us first.”
Oh, joy.
The door swung open and another woman scurried into the room. “Sorry. Traffic was awful.”
“Glad you made it, Camille. We’re just getting started.” The others around the table echoed Dr. Marci’s greeting.
Finally, someone normal. Camille wore stylish khaki capris with a striped
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