Page 16 of Traithorn

Nausea rises in my esophagus at the mere thought of what I left behind in my apartment this morning. The gift they left.Herhandwriting.

I swallow hard. I’m going to fucking vomit.

“Come on, Isa. You can do this,” I mutter to myself, shaking my body as if I can jolt the emotions loose.

Force them back down to the pit where they belong.

I’ve never been comfortable around other people, so why the hospital suggested group therapy is beyond me.

Days after the murder and the trial, they admitted me intocare. They feared for my life, they said. As if I would kill myself after witnessing the worst moment in my life.

Might as well have.

Then, I wouldn’t be living this hell on earth now.

I enter the vast space, noticing people milling about while minding their own business. Some seem more nervous than others, while some are completely unaffected.

Anxiety claws at my throat like a swarm of butterflies armed with razors.

Deep breaths. Focus. I can do this.

I find the nearest empty chair and settle in quietly, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I’ve been here multiple times before. More often right after everything happened, less now that there’s no ‘risk to my life,’ as they put it.

Still, I don’t know anyone here. I recognize some, but most are unfamiliar.

“Hello, group. I’m Ada, and I will be your counselor for this session.”

She goes on, letting everyone introduce themselves one by one until it’s my turn. My throat tightens at the same time as my mouth dries up, causing my tongue to feel like sandpaper. Sweat beads along my hairline. But I manage to get the words out, and the session continues smoothly, talking about grief and trauma and different exercises to cope.

“Alright,” she says, calm and steady, while clasping her hands together. “I’m going to show you a breathing technique you can use when things get overwhelming. I need all of you to try this with me.”

But she’s quickly interrupted by the hall door barging open with a bang that resonates through the room, startling some. Everyone turns to the newcomer, who approaches with heavy, determined footsteps.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

The voice is soft yet tinged with a hint of darkness.Oh fuck no.This can’t be happening.

I turn to look at the newcomer and am met with the officer’s uniform clinging to my boyfriend. A Kevlar vest and utility belt are completed with a sidearm, handcuffs, and a radio; his eyes turned directly at me.

The attention shifts to me in the room, embarrassment flushing my cheeks with the need to just sink underground and disappear. It’s so silent in the room, you would be able to hear a needle drop.

“Isolde. You need to come with me,” Casper says with an authoritative voice, eyes entirely too brooding as he stares down at me with accusations directed at me.

This cannot be good.

—————

I FOLLOW HIM OUTof the counseling center, settling into the police car standing in the parking lot. As soon as I do, the car door locks. The sound echoes in the small, crumpled space of the car, making my heart pound a little harder as I turn to stare at Casper. His eyes…they’re like two dark orbs I’ve never seen before, and it’s as if I’m suddenly afraid of my own boyfriend. Swallowing harshly, I wait for him to speak.

He rakes a hand through his hair, unkempt, so he must have been asleep before he got here. And the fact that he’s here, during my therapy session, tells me a lot.

It only makes the lead in my stomach weigh even heavier.

“What?” I ask, referring to his interrupting. “Why did you have to disturb my session? I texted you I’d be here.”

His jaw clenches, dragging a hand through his hair once more. Staring back at me. Swallowing the lump in my throat, my impatience dwindles.

“We got a witness. A threat of some kind. The police are ontheir way to your apartment as we speak.”

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