Page 64 of See Me After Class

Dessie

Apprehension gnawed within me as I examined the picture of Lila Monroe in the file. Something about it felt off, as if she were donning a persona for the public eye. Her smile seemed too practiced, too perfect. And those eyes… they held a hollowness that resonated with me. It reminded me of the path I could find myself on if I didn't unravel the truth about Oswald's murder.

The thought of living a life shrouded in lies and deceit was unbearable.

This case with Lila Monroe was more than just a patient evaluation. It felt like a dive into a complex, potentially obscured truth.

After Dr. Thorne left, I took a moment to prepare myself and the office for the session. Two quick cups of coffee did the trick for me. The adrenaline would be short-lived, so I hoped to put it to good use.

The city outside was bathed in the gentle glow of the morning sun, casting elongated lines that stretched across the room, adding a dramatic touch to the space. I arranged the armchairs to face each other, creating an intimate setting that I hoped would foster openness and trust.

At precisely ten a.m., the door opened, and Lila Monroe stepped in. She was a young woman in her late twenties, her presence an intriguing mix of nervousness and poise. Her gaze flitted around the room, taking in every detail before it finally settled on me.

"Ms. Monroe, I'm Dr. Dessie Davenport," I said, extending my hand toward her.

She reached out, her handshake firm. "Please, call me Lila, although some people prefer to go with Delilah," she replied, her voice carrying a note of practiced confidence. Her smile was charming, yet it didn't quite reach her eyes.

I returned her smile with a small one of my own, trying to make her feel at ease. "Please, have a seat, Lila." I gestured toward the armchair nearest to her.

As she sat down, she adjusted her blouse, a small, almost imperceptible sign of nervousness. "Can I get you anything before we start? Water, perhaps?" I offered, wanting to give her a moment to settle in.

"No, thank you," she declined politely, her hands folding neatly in her lap. Despite her poised exterior, there was an undercurrent of tension in her posture.

I took my seat opposite her, my notepad and pen ready, but my attention was fully focused on her. "Thank you for coming in today, Lila. I know discussing your experiences can be challenging, but I'm here to help you through this process."

She nodded, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face before she composed herself. "I understand. I'm ready to start."

As we delved into the session, I kept my observations sharp, looking for the subtleties in her expressions and responses. Lila Monroe was a puzzle. "I'm surprised Dr. Thorne referred me to you," she admitted slowly, her eyes unfocused for a second. "He has been privy to all of my personal history, right from when—" She stopped and swallowed.

Her hands trembled slightly as she steepled her fingers on her lap. I noticed the dainty French tips. "I apologize," she continued softly. "You'd think that six years later, it would be easier to talk about."

"It never gets easier, I'm afraid," I told her, holding her gaze, "but you learn better ways to cope."

I took my seat across from her. "With that said, I appreciate your coming in today, Lila. I understand this must be difficult for you."

She nodded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "I just want to put all of this behind me."

I opened her file, but my focus was on her. "Your book has received a lot of attention. It must be overwhelming."

"It is," she admitted. "But I needed to tell my story. For me and for my sister."

I nodded empathetically. "Let's talk about your experience. I understand recounting it might be hard, but it's important for your healing process and for me to understand how far you've come."

Lila began to speak, her voice steady at first but quavering as she delved into the details of her kidnapping. As she spoke, I paid intense attention, not just to her words but to the subtle cues in her body language. She would occasionally falter, her eyes darting away when mentioning specific details.

When she spoke of her sister, her voice cracked and her eyes welled up. "We were supposed to go through life together," she whispered, a tear escaping down her cheek.

I handed her a tissue, giving her a moment. "Take your time, Lila."

After a pause, she continued, but something in her narrative felt off. The way she skirted around certain topics, the inconsistencies in her timeline. It was as if she were dancing around the truth.

"Lila," I interjected gently, "Can you tell me more about the night of the kidnapping?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. "I've told this story so many times. It's hard to keep everything straight."

I leaned forward, maintaining a compassionate but firm tone. "You don't need to recount every tiny detail, only what comes to your mind right now."

As she shared the events of the night, her story became more fragmented. She mentioned a woman but then quickly changed the subject. Her gaze was evasive, her hands fidgeting.

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