Page 31 of The Unraveling

Your ad has been approved and will run for another fourteen days—

I swipe the email away, disgusted. We’re running advertisements for the practice—like I’m a two-bit ambulance chaser—when previously, all my clients came from referrals. I should be grateful that Sarah knows how to do these things for me, instead of bitter about the fact that I must.

“You’ll get back to that,” she reassured me last week when I came to check in and expressed wariness about using ads. “But right now you’re down forty percent of your patients. You have to do something.” So I agreed. Now we’re placing ads and running discounts for people who pay out of pocket and all kinds of stuff I would have turned my nose up at not too long ago.

But it’s about survival.

The practice’s and mine.

Someday it will be about more. Someday people will come because they’ve heard good things.

I open a different icon, eyeing my door—I probably have another minute or two before my patient finishes updating her medical forms. A rush of nerves and excitement sends tingles down my spine when the dating app tells me I have New Messages.

Two of them.

One from a man five years my junior with sandy red hair, blue eyes, and a teasing grin. His name is Phil, and while I’m not usually attracted to his particular combination of looks, there’s something about his smile—it makes me think there’s more to him than meets the eye. It’s pure fantasy, of course. We’ve exchanged flirty comments, and he’s suggested grabbing coffee. I’m not planning on saying yes anytime soon. But I type out a quick message, because this is good for me. I’m getting my feet wet. Easing into the idea of companionship in the future. Plus, it feels safe, anonymous almost. I can say anything, mess up, or decide to stop responding without real repercussions, since I didn’t use my last name to create my profile and my photo is nothing more than a vague smile.

I tilt my head, chewing the end of a pen, and open the second message. This one is from a man I haven’t chatted with yet. Though we must’ve both hearted each other or he wouldn’t be able to send me a message. He’s handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a dimpled smile that makes me think he’s adventurous. I read through his introduction. The first paragraph is filled with compliments, telling me he loves my smile and all of the things that caught his attention on my profile. It’s a good start. The second paragraph dives into details about him—attorney, thirty-eight, lives downtown. But things turn south when he gets to his hobbies. “I’m a hockey fanatic who played in college but didn’t have what it takes to get to the big leagues.”

Delete.

And just like that, the smile is gone from my face and I’m dragged back to thoughts of you and whether I’m ready to date yet.

A knock at my door quiets my ruminations. Sarah pokes her head in with a smile.

“Your first patient is here. You have a few more minutes. She’s still updating some forms.”

I take a nervous breath. “Great. Thank you.”

She steps inside. “And this package came for you. I’m sorry I opened it. I thought it was paper I ordered from Amazon yesterday.”

I haven’t ordered anything for the office. Not that I remember, anyway. But lately, my memory hasn’t been so sharp. I take the open box. There’s a book inside.

You, by Caroline Kepnes. I’ve heard of it, but haven’t read it. “I didn’t order this, Sarah.”

“Really? I did notice that the address has the wrong suite number. But it has your name on it.” She shrugs. “Amazon must’ve made a mistake. But did you see the show? The book was made into a series.”

“No.”

She smiled. “It’s so good. Creepy as hell, but addicting. It’s about a guy who stalks women.”

I blink a few times, looking down at the label. My name is definitely there, even if the suite number is wrong. “It’s about a stalker?”

“Yeah. You should read it. Just don’t do it at night alone. It’ll scare the crap out of you. There’s gory murders and stuff.”

I drop it back in the box abruptly. “Send it back. I don’t want to read it.”

“Oh. Sure.” Sarah forces a smile. “No problem. I’ll send Mrs. Amsterdam in as soon as she’s done.”

“Thanks.”

My assistant shuts my office door, and I feel more than a little unsettled. A book about a stalker shows up addressed to me? It’s a very strange coincidence. Though a guilty conscience will do that to you, connect dots to form a line that isn’t really there. How many times have I told that to patients? It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that I’m playing a dangerous game.

A few minutes later, there’s another knock at the door. This time, Sarah shows my first patient in. I feel panicky, but when Mrs. Amsterdam smiles, I welcome her, telling her I missed her, too, and yes, I’m back for good. Something turns on in my brain after that. Words come from my mouth, and my hand sketches notes across a pad. She tells me about her husband and her dog and her daughter-in-law. It’s like riding a bicycle, and I’ve hopped right on, started pedaling along like nothing ever changed.

Even though everything has changed.

Soon enough, the soft buzzer that keeps time on the table next to me goes off. I check my watch, certain an hour hasn’t really passed. Surprisingly, it has. Mrs. Amsterdam and I finish up our conversation and discuss meds—she needs something different for anxiety—then I’m walking her to the door.

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