Page 92 of Jersey

After dressing her in one of my t-shirts, I guide her to the bed before pulling the blankets up to her chin. I can't invade her space completely, but I do curl myself around her back and pray that she can find sleep easily.

Chapter 37

Caitlyn

The knock at the door startles the shit out of me.

I know what I experienced. I know what happened to me yesterday, but sitting up in an unfamiliar bed still confuses me for a second, as if I'm having some sort of out-of-body experience rather than being in the middle of it myself.

I sit up just as the door opens, and I can't hide my reaction to it being Rhonda Moore, my therapist, rather than Roman.

"Rhonda?" I say, patting my hair as if she even cares what a mess I might be after the ordeal I went through yesterday.

"How are you feeling?" she asks as she steps inside the room, closing the door softly behind her.

"Exhausted," I confess as she crosses the room.

"Do you mind if I open the curtains?" she asks, not waiting for me to answer before pulling the first one back.

Thankfully, the blustery weather outside includes cloud cover, and the room doesn't automatically fill with bright sunshine.

She pulls the second curtain back, standing in place to look out over the property rather than face me directly.

She knows as a therapist that sometimes people need a moment to gear up for discussing traumas, and I feel like I need a lifetime of preparation especially since she just woke me from a dead sleep.

"Exhausted? That's totally understandable. Did you have nightmares?"

"No," I manage before having to clear my throat. "My mind was surprisingly blank."

"Blank as in you're in shock and having a hard time imagining that what happened is real?"

"I don't think so," I say, feeling grateful that she's speaking to me more like a colleague than a patient. This type of therapy has always worked better for me. It reminds me that I have the knowledge base and traditional education in order to face my issues on my own. It pushes me to think outside of my own experiences. "I'm fully aware of what happened."

"He murdered his two children," she says, not pulling any punches.

"I got the feeling he did," I say, a new threat of tears burning the backs of my eyes.

"He was going through all the motions with therapy with the newest therapist," she says. "Dr. Spring had no idea they were struggling so much at home."

I know I feel guilt for my role in what has happened, but I can only imagine what she must be feeling like, having had so much recent contact with all of them.

"I think the anniversary of his wife's suicide was the catalyst for everything coming to a head yesterday."

"Has it been a year already?" I ask, running my hand over the top of my head.

"It has. The children were doing better in school. Other than the shrine he had for you in his bedroom, everything seemed normal."

"He had a shrine?"

Rhonda turns to face me now, a sad expression on her face.

"He did. He had pictures. There were candles and even trash he'd collected from your bins."

"Jesus," I mutter. "He spoke about wanting to move out west. The children were already dead?"

"Peyton had been gone for days. Braden died right before he came to your house."

"Shot?" I ask, assuming the answer.

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