Page 13 of Sins of a Husband

“I’m happy to hear that.”

“I feel like I’m being watched, Dr. Burton.”

“Explain to me why you feel that way now. You said the same thing when you first came to see me, and I thought we resolved it.”

“It’s always been there, but I manage it. The recent murders with similarities to Brian’s has been very unsettling. I’m beginning to think it might be the same person—the one who murdered my husband and left me for dead.”

“These men that were killed. They were the husbands of your firm’s clients, correct?”

“Yes.”

“All divorce cases?” His brow arches.

“Yes. Both women were divorcing their husbands because they found out they were cheating,” I say, staring out the window.

“And the wives are not suspects?” he asks.

“No. They both have alibis. The police don’t have anything on anyone yet.”

“I saw on the news that the only connection between the murders is that both men cheated,” he says. “If that’s the case, the person who murdered those men isn’t the same person who attacked you and Brian back in Rockstead. Brian never cheated on you, did he?”

“No.” I shake my head. “He would never have done that to me.”

Dr. Burton’s head cocks. “So why is the feeling you’re being watched back into play?”

“It never fully went away. I always felt it in the back of my mind, but I was able to keep it there. Now, after recent events, it’s back with a vengeance.”

“You said the feeling started when you turned sixteen, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Describe the feeling to me.” He pushes his pen to his notepad.

“I—I don’t know how to describe it. When the feeling hits, I scan my surroundings multiple times but never see anyone or anything strange. Yet, I swear I can feel a pair of eyes burning into the back of my head. I sound crazy. I know.”

“It’s obvious the murders have opened the door to your own past trauma. Considering everything you've been through, those fears are not uncommon to rush back. I’m going to write you a prescription for Risperidone. It’ll help with the paranoid feelings and anxiety.”

“I hate taking medication, Dr. Burton.”

“I know. But it’s only temporary.” He glances at his watch. “I’m afraid our time is up. I want to see you weekly. Stop at the reception desk before you leave, and Beth will schedule your appointments.” He rips the script from his pad and hands it to me.

The pharmacist told me my prescription would be ready in about fifteen minutes, so I browsed around the store. I stop in the aisle where the pregnancy tests are and stare at them. I wish I had a reason to pick one up, but I started my period last night. I want nothing more than to have a child with Oliver. Brian and I used to talk about kids all the time. I wanted to start trying, but he wanted to wait another year. I never understood why, and he never offered an explanation.

It's been twenty minutes, so I return to the pharmacy and get my medication. I climb into the back of the cab, and the driver takes me home. Unlocking the door, I can’t wait to talk to Oliver, but I am quickly disappointed when I walk in, and the house is empty. I pull out my phone and send him a text.

Hi. I’m home. You’re not.

I set my phone on the island, grab a bottle of wine, and pour some into a glass. Fifteen minutes have passed, and still not a word from Oliver. I walk into the living room and sink into the leather couch. My eyes go directly to the painting—Eyes Without a Face. The invisible gaze from the painting seems to burn a hole in my mind, as if the eyes of a predator are boring into me, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike.

“You are being ridiculous, Kat,” I mumble. “There is no way on this planet the person who murdered those men is the same person who launched his attack on Brian and me—no possible way. That happened years ago and states away.” I try to reason with myself.

I look at my phone again. Still no message from Oliver. It’s been forty-five minutes, and I’m freaking out. Suddenly, I hear the handle to the front door turn and footsteps enter the foyer. I jump up from the couch. Oliver is taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack in the corner when I see him.

“What the hell, Oliver?” I snap. “Where were you?”

“I’m sorry, darling. I was stuck in a meeting downtown.”

“And you couldn’t bother to tell me? I’ve been worried sick about you—like you were in an accident or, worse, murdered.”

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