Page 146 of Blindside Sinner

“Fine.”

He hands me a paper with an address and the appointment time written in red ink and underlined three times.

“Thank you.”

I don’t smile at him, but there’s a traitorous little part of me that is thrilled that he cares so much. The bigger, more bitter part of me thinks that he’s just concerned I’ll die in his house and he’s trying to head off my untimely demise before it causes him a mess of bad publicity.

He nods once. Just before he walks out, he warns, “Don’t be late, either.”

I hold up my watch and tap the face melodramatically. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve been telling time for years.”

He scowls. “And tell him what’s wrong with you, too.”

I salute him. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yes, Mother.” I wave at the tray sitting on the desktop. Then I sigh and the sizzle fades out of my voice. “Thank you for bringing me the food.”

He fidgets in the doorway for a moment. Like there’s more he wants to say but isn’t sure if or how to say it. “Try to get some rest, Sloan,” he offers at last.

“Yeah. I will. Goodnight, Beck.”

The morning comes wet and stormy. I want nothing more than to burrow in bed like a hobbit, but I made Beck a promise, so I drag myself into the shower, get dressed, and make it to the address Beck gave me with ten minutes to spare.

The doctor is an old man with silver hair and wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses. His white jacket has his name—Dr. Barton Ramsay—embroidered over a pocket with a trio of colored pens poking out the top. His stethoscope is hanging around his neck and he smiles at me. It’s a fatherly sort of grin.

“Mr. Daniels said that you’re feeling a bit under the weather,” he begins.

“I’ve been nauseous. Not sleeping well, but still tired.”

“When did this all start?”

“A few weeks, maybe a month ago?”

“Hm.” He jots down the information on a little flip pad. “Anything unusual going on at the job? At home?”

I don’t explain that those are currently two sides of the same coin and both sides are equally FUBAR. “Uh, I suppose it’s been a little more… tense than usual.”

I’m not being super specific, but part of me wonders if this guy is gonna pick up the phone and report back to Beck as soon as I leave the room.

There’s also the matter of, like, what kind of adjective can capture what my life has become? Between the constant stress of Vivian itching to fire me if I step one toe out of line, of Beck being Beck and my undying attraction to him no matter how hard I try to dispel it, of the stalker letters and my burned belongings and the apartment break-in and living in the bedroom right next to the one where I’ve had many a wonderful night and knowing I can never go back…

Yeah, safe to say things have been a little “tense.”

He nods and puts the pen down. “Ms. Reeves, stress is powerful. Perhaps there are some things you could cut back on? Take a few minutes each day for yourself. Meditate. Do some yoga.”

“Yeah,” I croak. “Good ideas. I’ll try those out.”

The doctor smiles like he knows I’m B.S.ing. “Do you have someone you can talk to?”

“I have friends.” It’s only when he gives a little head shake that it occurs to me what he means. “Oh. Like a shrink?”

He nods. “Sometimes, it is of tremendous benefit to speak to a professional, especially when there is such dramatic stress in one’s life.”

Dr. Ramsay has been nothing but kind, but I feel myself withdrawing inward. I don’t want to be here, in this bright white room, where all my secrets feel exposed under the fluorescents and his gentle gaze.

“I don’t have one per se, no, not exactly.”

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