Next Door. Блейк Пирс

those visits. Now, though, at the age of twenty-seven, she knew why she was here. She had taken Greene’s advice and called the on-hand bureau therapist to talk out her reaction to yesterday’s crime scene. Now she found herself trying to recall the offices she had visited as child.

      “Ms. Fine?” a woman called from the other side of the room.

      Chloe had been so deep in her own thoughts that she hadn’t heard the door to the waiting room open. A pleasant-looking woman waved her back. Chloe got to her feet and tried her best not to feel like a failure as she followed the woman down a hallway and toward a large office space.

      She thought back to what Greene had told her yesterday as they had shared coffee. It was still bright and shining in her mind because it had been the first bit of real advice a seasoned agent had ever given her during her very young career.

      “I saw this therapist several times my first year. My fourth crime scene was a murder-suicide. Four bodies in all. One was a three-year-old kid. Rattled the hell out of me. So I can tell you without hesitation…therapy works. Especially if you start it at this stage of your career. I’ve seen agents think they’re hot shit and don’t need the help. Don’t be one of those, Fine.”

      So no…needing a therapist did not make her a failure. If anything, she hoped it might make her stronger.

      She entered the office and saw an older gentleman of about sixty or so sitting behind a large desk. A window behind the desk revealed a small topiary outside, butterflies darting to and fro. His name was Donald Skinner, and he had been doing this for more than thirty years. She knew this because she had Googled him before deciding to make the appointment. Skinner was very prim and proper; he seemed to expand slightly, filling the room a bit more as he walked over to greet her.

      He gestured toward a comfortable-looking armchair in the center of the room. “Please,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

      She sat down, clearly nervous. She knew she was probably trying a bit too hard to try to hide it.

      “Ever done this before?” Skinner asked.

      “When I was much younger,” she said.

      He nodded as he took a seat in an identical chair positioned in front of hers. When he sat, he hefted his right knee up on his right leg and folded his hands atop them.

      “Ms. Fine, why don’t you tell me about yourself…ending with why you are here today.”

      “How far back?” she asked, meaning it as a joke.

      “For now, let’s just focus on the crime scene yesterday,” Skinner answered.

      Chloe took a moment to think and then started. She held nothing back, even delving back into her past a bit to paint that picture for him as well. Skinner listened intently and now mulled over everything he had just been told.

      “Tell me,” Skinner said. “So far, out of the crime scenes you’ve visited, was this the grisliest?”

      “No. But it was the grisliest thing I’d been allowed to actually see.”

      “So you are willing to fully admit that it was this event from your past that caused you to react the way you did?”

      “I suppose. I mean, it’s never happened before. And even when it sort if tries to bother me, I can stomp it out pretty easily.”

      “I see. Now, are there any other factors that might have come into play? It’s a new city. A new instructor, a new house. There’s a lot of change.”

      “My twin sister,” Chloe said. “She lives here in Pinecrest. I figured maybe the idea of seeing her again after a year or so…maybe that did it in addition to the scene being so similar.”

      “That could very well be the case,” Skinner asked. “Please forgive me asking such a simple question, but did the murder of your mother lead you to a career with the FBI?”

      “Yes. I knew by the time I was twelve, this is what I wanted to do.”

      “And what about your sister? What does she do?”

      “She’s a bartender. I think she enjoys it because she only has to be social for a few hours of the day and then she can go home and sleep until noon.”

      “And does she remember that day the same way you do? Have you spoken about it?”

      “We have, but she won’t go into great detail. When I try, she shuts me down pretty much right away.”

      “So go into those details with me right now,” Skinner said. “It’s clear you need to discuss it somehow. So why not with me…an impartial party?”

      “Well, like I said earlier, it seemed like a pretty basic yet unfortunate accident.”

      “Yet your father was arrested for it,” Skinner pointed out. “So to me, as someone not familiar with the case, I don’t lean towards accident. It makes me curious how you can see it so clearly as such. So let’s go over it. What happened that day? What do you remember?”

      “Well, it was an accident caused by my father. That’s why he was arrested. He didn’t even lie about it. He was drunk, Mom made him mad, and he pushed her.”

      “I’ve given you the chance to go into greater detail and that’s all I’m getting?” Skinner asked in a friendly tone.

      “Well, some of it is blurry,” Chloe admitted. “You know how past memories are sort of fogged over with rose-colored glasses?”

      “Indeed. So…I want to try something with you. Because this is the first time we’ve met, I’m not going to try hypnosis. I am going to try a proven form of therapy, though. It’s what some refer to as timeline therapy. For today, I hope it might help to dig further details from that day—details that are right there in your mind but have sort of been tucked away because you’re afraid to see them. If you continue to see me, this sort of therapy will eventually help us to pluck the fear and anxiety that arise in you whenever you’re faced with that day. Does that sound like something you’d be willing to undergo today?”

      “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

      “Okay. Good. So…let’s begin with where you were sitting. I want you to close your eyes and relax. Take a moment or two to clear your head and get comfortable. Give me a tiny nod when you are ready.”

      Chloe did as she was asked. She allowed herself to sink back into the chair. It was a very comfortable faux leather armchair. She felt that she was still tensing her shoulders, uncomfortable with being so vulnerable in front of someone she had never met. She sighed deeply and felt her shoulders go limp. She nestled into the chair and listened for the hum of the air conditioner. She found it, listened to its droning, and then gave a nod. She was ready.

      “Okay,” Skinner said. “Out on that stoop with your sister. Now, even if you can’t remember the sort of shoes you were wearing that day, I want you to imagine that you are looking at your feet. Look down at your shoes. I want you to focus on them and nothing else—just the shoes you were wearing that day when you were ten years old. You and your sister out on the stoop. But keep your eyes only on those shoes. Describe them to me.”

      “Chuck Taylors,” Chloe said. “Red. Scuffed up. Big floppy laces.”

      “Perfect. Now study the laces. Really zone in on them. Then I want your ten-year-old self to stand up without looking away from those laces. I want you to stand up and walk back to where you were before discovering the blood on the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. I need you to go back a few hours. But don’t look away from those laces. Can you do that?”

      Chloe knew she was not hypnotized but the instructions seemed so simple. So basic and easy. She stood up inside her mind and walked back into the apartment. When she did, she saw the blood, saw her mother.

      “Mom is right there at the bottom of the stairs,” she said. “Lots of blood. Danielle is somewhere, crying. Dad is pacing.”

      “Okay. But just look at your shoelaces,” Skinner instructed. “And then see if you can go back