Page 89 of Doubts & Fears

“Because it’ll change everything.”

“Indeed, it will, Ms. Taylor.” I sighed. By her own admission, she wasn’t ready.

I made more notes to explore potential ways in which we could bring it up later. She caught me off guard again with her next question.

“Can I tell you something that has me perplexed? Romanov, is that their last name?”

“Yes.” Where was this going?

“And you think the older one is my real grandfather? Like, biologically, don’t you? Can you tell me how that’s possible? Because my last name wasneverRomanova.”

“What makes you think we believe that?”

“I don’t know, other than my gut. And not to mention he looks like an older version of my…my fath…Same with the other man.” I could tell by her breathing that she was trying to get her emotions under control.

“Your father?” This officially eliminated Romanov as her maternal grandfather.

“Yes, my father. The thing is, I don’t remember what my last name was. Pasha will probably know, and I guess you could ask, but that’s a whole other can of worms.”

“Your last name was Dmitrieva. Mischa Natalya Dmitrieva. Although you’re right, we believe that you’re biologically a Romanov.”

“Thank you,” she said with a little sob, repeatingDmitrievaa few times.

“Can I ask how you became Kinsley?” I tried rewording the question from earlier. I was hoping she wouldn’t be as defensive and was in luck. Her answer was quick and concise.

“That’s simple. Mischa Natalya died.”

The statement shook me. Everything from the way she stated it so clinically to the way it almost came off like a well-rehearsed script. My heart raced, and I leaned forward in my chair.

“When did she die?” My heart beat faster in my chest. Was I dealing with a dissociative identity disorder?

“I’m not sure, exactly. Not the night her parents died. I tried to save her, but…but…I couldn’t. I promise I tried. I tried so very hard.”

Risingpanic shook her voice as she spoke, and then, like a dam, she broke. It was like the night we’d asked about New Haven, her gut-wrenching sobs echoing down the line.

Fuck, I wasn’t expecting this. I hated that I couldn’t see her. In therapy, gauging a patient was key to knowing when to press and when to back off. I settled for what I hoped would be what she needed—validation.

“It’s okay. I believe you,” I said, dropping my voice into a soothing tone.

“You…do?” she asked, surprised, her voice taking on a childlike quality. I rubbed my eyes, feeling exhausted. The secondary timer beeped; our session time was up.

“Yes, I do. I’m so proud of you. You’ve done very well for our first session. Now I need you to pay attention, carefully. Are you listening to me?”

When she didn’t answer, I called her name and repeated my question. Had I lost her again? Damn it all, this girl was perplexing in so many ways. Almost inadvertently, I repeated the question with a more authoritative tone.

“Ms. Taylor, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Sir.” She instantly responded to the command, and I let out a loud breath.

“Not today, but when I feel you’re ready, you’re going to tell me how Mischa died. She deserves to have her story told. I won’t ask you about it again until I feel you’re ready, but Iwillask, and you will tell me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir, I understand, but I’m not sure if I can.” She started sobbing again.

“I appreciate your honesty. You’re being such a good girl. Remember, I won’t ask about it until I feel you’re ready. When it’s time, I know you’ll be able to tell me.”

“I will try, it’s just…” She cried out once more.

“Ms. Taylor?” She didn’t respond. “Ms. Taylor,” I said loud and sharp, switching my tone once more to get her attention.

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