good work and it won’t be the last,” said the editor. “And don’t forget our Web site. We’ll post any good video you get. Who knows where else it will end up! Good Morning America used some of it today.”
When she ended the call, Anastasia congratulated herself on having the foresight to register at Elysium using a different last name, with a credit card she’d kept active after her divorce from Jeff Wilcox. If the Abernathys knew that it was she who was responsible for the press coverage, they undoubtedly would have asked her to leave. She had to remain on the inside to cover the aftermath of the murder as well as to finish her research on the story that had brought her here in the first place.
Anastasia picked up the spa directory from the table and perused the contents. She ached to take a yoga class or get a massage to relieve the tension in her neck and shoulders. But she decided it would be in the best interest of her story to call the skin-treatment room for an appointment.
“Is Kyle Quigley available to do my facial?” she asked. “I hear he’s the best.”
Chapter 34
M onday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons at three, Wendy Ellis had a standing appointment. The sessions with Dr. Ben Dixon were the focal points of her week. Those were virtually the only times she ventured out of her cottage. If she could have talked Dr. Ben into coming to her instead of going to see him in his office, she would have. But he insisted that she come to him.
Wendy suspected that it wasn’t really essential that the therapy be conducted at his place in the main building. Dr. Ben just wanted her to leave the safety of her cottage. He was always encouraging her to get out more and telling her that she would feel better if she interacted with the world. It wasn’t healthy to be alone all the time.
“But I’m not alone,” Wendy protested as she sat in his office Friday afternoon. “My father comes to see me every day. Dr. Abernathy comes to check on me during the week, the kitchen people bring me my food, and I see people once in a while when I walk over here to see you.”
“Do you talk to any of them?”
Wendy looked down at her lap. “Not really,” she said. “I only talk to my dad, you, and Dr. Abernathy.”
“You’re living a very isolated existence, Wendy,” said Dr. Ben. “That was fine for a while. You were wounded.”
“I still am,” said Wendy, reaching up to feel the cotton mask she wore to cover the place where her nose had been. “I have to face the fact that I always will be. I don’t want anyone to look at me.” Her brown eyes filled with tears.
“What exactly are you afraid of?” he asked.
Wendy thought for a moment, her eyes focused on the painting on the wall. “I’m afraid people will be disgusted, that they’ll think I’m a monster,” she whispered. “ I think I’m a monster.”
“Let me ask you something else, Wendy. Say you were walking down the street and you saw someone approaching who looked like you—how would you react?”
“With the mask or without?” she asked.
“Both,” said Dr. Ben.
Wendy shrugged. “I guess if I saw somebody walking toward me with a mask on, if they weren’t dressed like a lowlife or I didn’t get the feeling that they were going to attack me or something, I’d think that they were wearing the mask because of the smog or because they were afraid of germs or something like that.”
“And if you saw somebody without the mask?” asked Dr. Ben.
“I’d be grossed out.”
“Would you think the person was a monster?”
“No, I guess not,” said Wendy. “I guess I’d just feel sorry for the person and be glad it wasn’t me.”
“So you’d feel compassion for that person, right?”
Wendy nodded.
Dr. Ben leaned forward in his chair. “Wendy, do you think you can try? Can you give your fellow human beings the benefit of the doubt and trust that they will react as you would?”
For a full minute, Wendy said nothing.
When she ended the call, Anastasia congratulated herself on having the foresight to register at Elysium using a different last name, with a credit card she’d kept active after her divorce from Jeff Wilcox. If the Abernathys knew that it was she who was responsible for the press coverage, they undoubtedly would have asked her to leave. She had to remain on the inside to cover the aftermath of the murder as well as to finish her research on the story that had brought her here in the first place.
Anastasia picked up the spa directory from the table and perused the contents. She ached to take a yoga class or get a massage to relieve the tension in her neck and shoulders. But she decided it would be in the best interest of her story to call the skin-treatment room for an appointment.
“Is Kyle Quigley available to do my facial?” she asked. “I hear he’s the best.”
Chapter 34
M onday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons at three, Wendy Ellis had a standing appointment. The sessions with Dr. Ben Dixon were the focal points of her week. Those were virtually the only times she ventured out of her cottage. If she could have talked Dr. Ben into coming to her instead of going to see him in his office, she would have. But he insisted that she come to him.
Wendy suspected that it wasn’t really essential that the therapy be conducted at his place in the main building. Dr. Ben just wanted her to leave the safety of her cottage. He was always encouraging her to get out more and telling her that she would feel better if she interacted with the world. It wasn’t healthy to be alone all the time.
“But I’m not alone,” Wendy protested as she sat in his office Friday afternoon. “My father comes to see me every day. Dr. Abernathy comes to check on me during the week, the kitchen people bring me my food, and I see people once in a while when I walk over here to see you.”
“Do you talk to any of them?”
Wendy looked down at her lap. “Not really,” she said. “I only talk to my dad, you, and Dr. Abernathy.”
“You’re living a very isolated existence, Wendy,” said Dr. Ben. “That was fine for a while. You were wounded.”
“I still am,” said Wendy, reaching up to feel the cotton mask she wore to cover the place where her nose had been. “I have to face the fact that I always will be. I don’t want anyone to look at me.” Her brown eyes filled with tears.
“What exactly are you afraid of?” he asked.
Wendy thought for a moment, her eyes focused on the painting on the wall. “I’m afraid people will be disgusted, that they’ll think I’m a monster,” she whispered. “ I think I’m a monster.”
“Let me ask you something else, Wendy. Say you were walking down the street and you saw someone approaching who looked like you—how would you react?”
“With the mask or without?” she asked.
“Both,” said Dr. Ben.
Wendy shrugged. “I guess if I saw somebody walking toward me with a mask on, if they weren’t dressed like a lowlife or I didn’t get the feeling that they were going to attack me or something, I’d think that they were wearing the mask because of the smog or because they were afraid of germs or something like that.”
“And if you saw somebody without the mask?” asked Dr. Ben.
“I’d be grossed out.”
“Would you think the person was a monster?”
“No, I guess not,” said Wendy. “I guess I’d just feel sorry for the person and be glad it wasn’t me.”
“So you’d feel compassion for that person, right?”
Wendy nodded.
Dr. Ben leaned forward in his chair. “Wendy, do you think you can try? Can you give your fellow human beings the benefit of the doubt and trust that they will react as you would?”
For a full minute, Wendy said nothing.
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