Page 99 of The Truth in My Lies (Secrets of Suburbi 1)

Mine.

How was that possible? My phone started ringing. I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Ben. I ignored it. God, oh God. Had I done this? How could I have done this?

I dumped the box of passports out on the floor. I knew it was what my husband wanted. To lead me to this point where I’d be grasping for anything to make sense. To make the false memories go away. I grabbed the envelope and tore it open.

Adeline,

Do you remember now? Do you know what you’ve done? Or are you fighting it?

You need to embrace it, Adeline. You’re not who you think you are.

We’ve talked about this so many times. Argued about good and evil. Right and wrong. Doing something good doesn’t make up for the wrongs. It doesn’t change the past. I’m sorry, Adeline. I truly am. You’ve done so much good. But you’ve done so much more evil.

Now that you know, you only have one choice.

Unless you’re ready to be caught. Ready to face the consequences of your actions. Ready to pay for all the lives you took.

If not, stop pretending you’re the one in pain and take your damn medicine. It controls you. It numbs you. It makes the memories fade. I get why you resist that. But in your case, that’s a good thing. Trust me. You need to be controlled. You need to be numb. You need for your memories to slip away. Trust me. I’m the doctor. Remember?

And if you’re still having trouble remembering, look in the mirror. Those bruises on your face? Those aren’t from your husband. He’s dead, remember? He was the second life you took. Don’t you remember that night in the woods?

XOXO,

-Dr. Nash

I touched the side of my jaw where I knew a bruise was. It was like a switch went off in my mind. Everything came flooding back. The memories of my husband were true. He promised to take care of my mother if I dropped out of college. But he hurt me. I was so scared of him. I was terrified of the man I had married. I wanted an out. He traveled during the week, so I kept going to school. I finished my degree. I kept going until I got a doctorate in psychology. I kept going until I knew I could take care of myself and my mother. And I covered my trail the whole time. Expensive fake personal trainers, cleaning services, anything I could think of that would equal the cost of tuition. And my husband bought it. He thought I had become an entitled housewife, just like he wanted me to be. Everything was going according to plan.

But I never expected to get pregnant. It sped up my plans. I didn’t have time to do it right. All I could do was flee. By the time I reached my mother’s nursing home, she was already dead. And he was waiting for me. In my haste to get away, I hadn’t been checking the mail. I hadn’t seen my diploma come. He knew my secret. He had been making plans of his own the whole time. Which included stopping the payments for my mom’s medical bills.

My perfect escape plan faded to dust. I kept screaming that I was pregnant, but he didn’t listen. He had never hurt me like that. He left me broken. He killed our baby. My baby.

I tried to kill myself after that. I had lost everything. Every. Single Fucking. Thing. There was no point in living. But he found me before I died and he sent me away. To a terrible place. Some horrible psych ward. It was like I was still living with him. Every day was worse than the day before. But I escaped. I got out of that wretched place.

I was finally free. I became Dr. Katrina Nash. I started over. But I never forgot my past. I thought becoming a psychologist would be meaningful. That helping others would soothe my own demons. Those women from the passports weren’t my friends. They were some of my patients. The ones with problems like mine. It felt like I knew them because they bared their souls to me. But not enough. I tried to help. But I knew what it was like to be abused. I knew how hard it was to trust. I knew what was going on in those women’s lives, but I couldn’t reach them. I couldn’t help them. Not the way I wanted. I even hired an abused woman as my secretary. Maria Gonzalez. That’s why her fingerprints and mine were the only ones on the files. Because I was Dr. Nash and Maria worked for me. She was just one of the many women who I couldn’t get through to. That I couldn’t help with words. I kept trying. And failing. They’d show up with bruises, bandages, casts. I wasn’t good enough at my job to save them.

And then my husband found me. I had nothing left to give him. My job wasn’t fulfilling. It already felt like my soul was dead. He said he was close to finding my father. My dad was the only family I had left. And technically my husband was too. He promised me he'd changed. He promised he’d be better. He held me as I cried over the loss of our child. The loss of my mother. And he apologized. He said he’d never send me away again. He said he’d never hurt me again.

I knew better. But I let my husband back into my life. He could be so charming when he wanted to be. But the abuse started again. My weakness started again. I couldn’t help my patients if I couldn’t even help myself.

When my husband finally did find my father, I was a shell of who I once was. And my husband wanted me to kill him. He wanted to trap me back in our marriage. He needed something else to hang over my head so that I’d never run away again. He convinced me to pull the trigger. So I did. I played into my husband's hand perfectly. But what he didn’t realize was that I had nothing left to live for. So then I shot my husband too.

I remembered missing. And running. The sound of crunching leaves as I fled into the woods. He tackled me to the ground, but I still had the gun. I shot him and his blood rained down on me. His body collapsed on mine. I couldn’t breathe.

No. I tried to make the memories stop. No. I dug my fingers into my scalp. No!

I remembered killing my new identity of Dr. Nash too. Setting fire to my office. But I took my files with me. I changed my name to Jennifer Clarke. I was so sick of not being able to help. I started striking up conversations with my ex-patients online. Telling them I knew what they were hiding and that I could help. That I had a way out. That I had gotten out. Talking never helped anyone. But action

? That fucking helped.

Every Friday, I thoroughly cleaned my house. Not because my husband would be upset if it was dirty. But to wipe away any fingerprints in case the Feds came busting down my door when I was away. Because I traveled almost every weekend. I told myself my husband was abusing me. The past merging with the present was the only way I could justify my actions. But my bruises weren’t from him. They were from the struggles with the men I killed. The husbands of the 20 women whose passports I had. I ended those women’s struggles. Gave them new identities and a fresh start.

The fee for my help? Half their husband’s life insurance policy. A policy which I had made them increase before I came to fix their problems.

Only once had I almost gotten caught. But I hadn't been done my work. I still had a few ex-patients that needed my help. I burned down my house and moved with my files again. But I was close to being done. So close that I changed my name back to Adeline. So close that I used my father’s last name. So close that I made myself easy to catch. I left a trail of breadcrumbs right to my doorstep. And it worked. Ben showed up.

But the detective investigating me wasn’t supposed to be so freaking handsome. He wasn’t supposed to make me feel the way that no one ever had before.

I touched the side of my jaw again. They were bruises from my last victim. Mr. Gonzalez. I was done. I had helped everyone I needed to. I was supposed to surrender now. It was the last thing I had left to do.

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