Page 28 of Room 553: A Psychological Thriller

So, I offer her the next best thing. “But I sure did like her a lot.”

This lands well with her, because there’s truth in it. “Laurel was an incredible lover, the kind you wouldn’t want to lose.”

It isn’t an exaggeration. I could hardly wait to be there, in that hotel room, in the moment, nowhere else. I could hardly wait to feel her nails dragging along my skin, her begging me not to stop, her saying she couldn’t take anymore. There is no way around it. An itch like that simply has to be scratched.

Dr. Jones looks flushed. Red colors her cheeks. I assume this is why she goes for the jugular.

“Did she ever mention her husband? Did she ever give you an indication what their marriage might be like?”

“No.”

“Never?”

I glance down at the table and then back at her. “Never.”

She waits for me to say more, and when I fail to deliver, she continues her line of fire. “At what point did Mrs. Dunaway discuss killing her father?”

About three fucks in. “I can’t recall.”

“But you did discuss it.”

“We discussed the fact that his expiration was rather imminent.”

“You didn’t consider that intimate?”

“Not at all.”

“See, Dr. Hastings…this is where I’m confused. You want me to believe that your relationship with Mrs. Dunaway was fairly banal.” She shifts in her seat. “You make it seem like the two of you hardly spoke.”

I check the clock on the wall. Our time is almost up. Unfortunate, because her visits are the only things that keep my mind from scratching itself raw. “We spoke. Sometimes.”

“And yet, you don’t consider her asking you to aid and abet in a murder to be discussing the ins and outs of your personal life?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

She glanced up at the ceiling, as if something were written there. A way out of this conversation, perhaps. Or a way in. I had the feeling that Dr. Jones had chosen this line of work because she liked complications. She appreciated its challenges. “You didn’t tell the police about it…you’ve only vaguely mentioned it to your attorney…you don’t consider that intimate?”

“I didn’t take her seriously.”

“But it was serious, though, wasn’t it, Dr. Hastings?”

“Not to my mind, no.”

“Well, to my mind,” she says, gravely, “It makes you seem like you have something to hide.”

Chapter Sixteen

Laurel Dunaway

Journal Entry

My hand shook as I applied the mascara. I checked my reflection in the mirror, making the decision to skip the eyeliner altogether. I applied lipstick, only to decide the color was too much. It’s all going to be fine. You have nothing to worry about.

I took several deep breaths. I balled my fists and then released them, the way the therapist told me to do whenever I’m feeling tense. I rubbed my hands together and shook them out. You can do this, I said to the woman in the mirror, a version of myself I hardly recognized. James set an appointment. They always made me feel a bit out of sorts. Antsy. Knotted up. Conflicted. I suppose it’s always been this way, even in the beginning. That was a part of the thrill of it. Like getting on a rollercoaster. You know what’s coming, but there’s still the long, slow climb to the top.

The anxiety has gotten worse in recent months. Tonight, I’d tried to think of everything—of anything—to get me out of it. I pored over every excuse in the book, and yet, I knew that none of them were going to work. I thought of telling James I was sick. I thought of forcing my finger down my throat and making it so. I wondered what would happen if I “tripped” and fell down the stairs.

A little extreme, sure. I just wasn’t sure I had it in me tonight. This kind of thing, you have to want it. And I didn’t.

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