Page 19 of Texting Dr. Stalker

I hadn’t bothered putting any furniture out front because as much as I enjoyed living on Ember Lane and had grown up with the families around here, I didn’t want to talk to them every time I tried to relax. Sitting out front was a ripe invitation for old maid Josephine to ask about my lack of a love life or busybody Patricia to set me up with her long-suffering niece.

The back garden was my safe space, but it seemed Sailor preferred the front tonight.

Perhaps she wanted to moon bathe. Maybe she knew the chances of being dragged into conversation against her will wouldn’t happen at three in the morning.

Either way, there she was.

Curled up on a gently swinging egg chair, hugging her knees and staring at the sky.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t dare.

I doubted she’d be able to see me with the moon’s reflection on my windows, but I didn’t want to interrupt whatever she was going through.

My chest tightened as the glimmer of tears tracked down her cheeks, visible even from here. She made no move to stop them from falling.

Every instinct snarled to go over there.

To assure her she was safe. That he couldn’t touch her. That she wasn’t alone.

But I wasn’t a psychologist, and this was none of my business.

If she needed to talk to someone, it needed to be with a professional, and as handy as I was with a scalpel, I had absolutely no finesse when it came to mental health.

I’d once scarred my eldest sister so badly that I’d been banished from offering a shoulder to cry on. It wasn’t my fault that she’d asked me to try to save her dead hamster, and I’d helpfully announced it was dead and I could perform an autopsy instead.

Our mother had pulled me aside and explained that Jolie needed me to offer words of comfort, not hack up dear ole’ Harry the Hamster.

Ever since that incident, I’d done my utmost to avoid any kind of healing that involved talking, crying, and sympathy because I wasn’t wired that way. My idea of helping was to do something about it, not just sit around and do nothing. Even though doing nothing was exactly what most people with trauma needed.

Silence in which to heal.

Quiet in which to hide.

Therefore, Sailor definitely didn’t need me going over there and making things worse.

Tossing my entire drink down my throat, I stalked away from the window before I could make a terrible decision and scale the fence.

She’s not my responsibility.

I kept repeating that as I took the stairs two at a time and threw myself face first into bed.

* 7 *

Sailor

An Awful Mess

THREE DAYS PASSED BEFORE I FINALLY HAD the courage to write Lily a note.

A note that said thank you for everything, but hovering over me and watching me like a mother hen was doing the opposite of what she hoped.

I appreciated her sleeping here, but it wasn’t helping me move on—she was just giving me a crutch to avoid having to face what’d happened. When she went to work, the walls closed in. When she came back, I felt stifled.

I didn’t know what I needed to get over Milton’s attempted murder, but whatever it was…I need to do it on my own.

Reading the note, Lily clenched her teeth before nodding with understanding. We stood in the kitchen where I’d made her a fresh salad full of herbs and delicious things from the garden to take to work with her.

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