Page 55 of Sins of a Husband

I rush to the kitchen, grab the coffee, and hand Dr. Burton his cup. Then, I take a seat on the couch.

“I’m losing my mind, Dr. Burton. I think I need to be institutionalized,” I say, my hands wrapped around the piping-hot mug. I reach into my pocket and pull out the storage unit key and the crumpled paper that The Widowmaker left for me yesterday.

“What is this?” he asks as I reach over and hand them to him.

“When I came home yesterday from running some errands, I found that on the kitchen island. They were sealed in a white envelope.”

“Is this a storage unit key?” He holds it up and studies it.

“Yes. So, I went there last night. Inside was a large black safe. When I opened it,” I covered my mouth with my trembling hand as tears swelled in my eyes, “All my missing jewelry and the knife that was used to kill my husbands and those other men were in there. Dr. Burton, The Widowmaker, was in my home again. Why is he doing this to me? Torturing me the way he is.” I cup my face in my hands as tears begin to fall.

“Katherine, I need to ask you something.”

I sniffle and wipe my eyes. “What?”

“Who is Dahlia?”

“What?” My brows furrow.

“Have you ever known anyone named Dahlia?” he asks.

“When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary friend. Her name was Dahlia. She showed up when I was five.”

“How long did she stay with you?”

I brought my hand up to the back of my head and smoothed down the hair.

“I don’t know. I think at least a couple of years. One day, she was gone. Why?”

He shifts in his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose before pulling out his small black recorder.

“Dahlia visited me today.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s more real than you think.” He presses the button on the recorder, leans over, and sets it on the coffee table.

I listen. Her voice is familiar but also different—like a distorted version of mine. My heart pounds against my chest, threatening to choke me as I struggle to hold back the tears. It's overwhelming—this flood of emotion and memories brought on by her words as she describes what she’s done. Dr. Burton can see I’m highly upset, so he reaches over and turns off the recording.

“The trauma you experienced when you were five is what formed Dahlia,” he says. “During trauma, the brain can compartmentalize the traumatic experiences. You couldn’t cope with watching what your mother was doing to your father, so Dahlia took your place and sent you far away to protect you—to a place that made you happy. She is what is called an alter. And what you’re experiencing is dissociative identity disorder. The times when you felt someonewas watching and following you were real because Dahlia is inside you, watching your everyday life unfold.”

“This is too much,” I say, getting up from the couch. I pace around the room, holding my head. “So you’re saying thatIwas the one who killed Jack, my parents, my husbands, and all those other men?” Tears streamed from my eyes.

“It wasn’t you, Katherine. ItwasDahlia. She is a completely separate person from you. After I leave, research D.I.D. so you can better understand.”

I drop to my knees and sob in the middle of the living room. Dr. Burton stands from his chair, walks over, and tries to comfort me.

“Dr. Burton, I need you to commit me to a mental hospital.”

“I think that’ll make things worse for you. I can help you, Katherine. I’ve spent the entire day reading literature on the disorder, and I will continue to do so. If you come to my office three times a week to start, we can work on putting Dahlia to rest so she can’t come out again.” His hand softly rubs my back while his soft voice soothes me.

“I need to call Detective Walker and tell her I killed all those people.”

“No, you don’t. You must understand thatyoudid not kill those men.Dahliadid.”

“How can I not remember anything?” I shout.

“Because when Dahlia comes out, you go to sleep and stay asleep until she lets you wake up. Let me help you. You do not need to ruin your life because of this. It isn’t your fault, Katherine. Okay?”

---