Page 24 of One Last Lie

The doctor sighs and sits on her stool. She looks pensively over my shoulder for a moment, as though weighing what she wants to say, then turns back to me. “Harriet said you placed your hand on a hot stove while leaving a pot of soup sitting on a cold burner. Is that correct?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t because I hallucinated that the flame had migrated. I was just distracted.”

“By what?”

“By…”

By my suspicions that my employer may have murdered her husband.

But that isn’t paranoia! Not mine, anyway. Elijah is the one who suspects Cecilia.

“Doctor, forgive me,” I finally say, “but I hardly think I’m the only person who’s seen you for some regrettable household accident. Certainly, this was a rather airheaded mistake, but I can’t believe it’s indicative of some broader psychological problem.”

"Normally, no," she agrees. "However, in your case, I think it's prudent for us to consider all possibilities."

“In my case? What on Earth are you on about? What makes me different from any other fifty-year-old woman of sound body and mind?”

“Your past history of psychological trauma concerns me.”

Once more, I’m stunned. “Past history…”

“Yes. Twenty-eight years ago, you were hospitalized for eleven weeks after the disappearance of your sister, Anne Wilcox.”

I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. I remember Annie’s disappearance, of course. I can still see the look on my father’s face when he called the police. I can still hear my mother’s voice berating me for not taking better care of her. But the hospital?

“That’s…” I stop myself just before saying it’s not true. The doctor has my medical record in her hand. If I insist that something isn’t true when she can see proof of it committed to paper, then I could simply increase her suspicion that I am unwell.

But… it’s not true! Surely, I would remember if I had spent three months in a sanitarium!

“We just want to make sure that you’re able to perform your duties, Miss Wilcox. You’re responsible for the care of three children.”

I stiffen. “I assure you, doctor, I am more than capable of caring for my charges.”

“I’m not saying that you would ever intentionally do anything to hurt any of them,” she says placatingly. “But their circumstances are very much similar to yours. They’ve lost a father, and they’re struggling with grief. You lost your sister suddenly as well, and it’s possible that some repressed memories are affecting your ability to perceive the world around you.”

“You can’t possibly conclude that from one burnt hand.”

“No,” she admits, “I can’t. I’m just trying to make sure that you’re healthy.”

“I’m healthy,” I say curtly, “and unless you have a pressing reason to feel otherwise, I’d like to pay for my treatment and return to my job.”

“No,” she says, “no pressing reason. And don’t worry about the cost of your treatment. The Ashfords’ will charge it to their staff insurance. You will receive a care report, but the bill will be sent to that account—free of all personal medical information, of course.”

“Then I shall take my leave,” I say. “Thank you, doctor.”

“Before you leave,” she says, standing to block my exit. “I’d like to give you a card. Mine, of course, but also that of a friend of mine, an excellent psychologist whose practice is located in Glen Downs fifteen minutes from the Ashford Estate.”

“I don’t need a psychologist,” I retort firmly. “Thank you.”

“Just take the card,” she insists, “and if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to give him a call. I know you’ll find him a warm and caring man.”

I have no interest in speaking to any psychologist, but I have even less interest in continuing to argue with this woman, so I nod curtly and allow her to hand me two business cards. After a final terse thank you, I stalk back to the parking lot and get in the back seat of the Ashford’s car.

“Everything okay?” Javier asks.

“Fine.”

He clams up and doesn’t speak for the rest of the drive. I feel bad shutting him down like that, but I am beyond out of sorts right now.

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