If She Lives

IF SHE LIVES Harlow Book 3 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any electronic or printed form without the written permission of the publisher. Text copyright @ Erik Therme 2023 All right reserved For Echo Contents PROLOGUE ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR EPILOGUE PROLOGUE The receptionist at the psychologist’s office is my third grade teacher, Mrs. Wulf. I’m sure of this, because she has the same gray perm; same red glasses; and an identical matching mole on her chin. Never mind that Mrs. Wulf was in her sixties when I was in grade school—probably the same age this woman is now—because if anyone was mean enough to cheat death, it’d be her. “Dr. Holland will be right with you,” the receptionist tells me with a pert smile. “Thank you,” I say. I sit in one of the chairs with a slow exhale. The faux Mrs. Wulf has already forgotten about me and is clacking away at her keyboard, and I distract myself by thumbing through the magazines and staring out the window, which affords a lovely view of the parking lot. The floor vent adds to my discomfort by blowing cold air at my feet even though it’s mid-October, and I’m about five seconds from abandoning this insanity when Dr. Holland steps out from the door across from me. She looks younger than the picture on her website, and I suspect the reason the photo was taken in black and white was to disguise her age. No one wants to spill their darkest secrets and fears to someone who looks like they just graduated college. “Tess Parker?” I take a breath before rising to my feet. “Hello.” “Come join me. I’m Dr. Holland.” Her smile is overly eager as she steps aside to let me enter her office, which is small but cozy in its own way . . . if a shrink’s office can be cozy. There’s a deep leather chair opposite a gray couch, and the large plush rug connecting them probably costs more than my car. “Make yourself comfortable,” she tells me. She makes no motion toward the chair or couch, and I feel as if this is a test to see which I’ll choose, which, in turn, will reveal something about me. There’s a part of me that wants to sit in the chair to see how she’ll react, but I promised Torrie I’d do this and take it seriously. And I will. Once. I settle onto the couch, cross my legs, then uncross them. Dr. Holland sits across from me holding a notepad. “I figure you’d use an iPad or tablet,” I say. “Most of my colleagues do, but I find it refreshing to use pen and paper. I get so tired of staring at a screen, and it’s nice to keep things simple, especially for a first meeting.” She smiles. “So tell me, Mrs. Parker—” “Ms.,” I correct. She lowers the pad. “I’m sorry, I should have asked. Do you prefer Ms. Parker or should I call you Tess?” “Tess is fine.” I’m legally still Mrs. Parker, but I’m not going to delve into that. It’s been two months since Josh and I separated, and while neither of us has talked about a divorce, we also haven’t talked about our marriage or done anything to try and fix it. There’s only the occasional phone call to touch base, or the times we pass each other in town, which is unavoidable in a population of two thousand. Our saving grace is that Josh works forty miles away in Delmar, so it’s rare we see each other in Harlow. “So,” Dr. Holland says, “what brings you here today?” “My sister-in-law, Torrie.” If nothing else, I’m going to be honest. “It was her idea for me to come, not mine.” She scribbles in her pad, expressionless, and I imagine she’s heard this answer more than once. “It was the least I could do,” I amend, “as Torrie’s letting me stay at her house for the time being. It’s a good arrangement. Torrie works at a bank in Newton, and I watch her six-month-old son Levi during the day, which saves her from paying daycare. Torrie and I have gotten close, which wasn’t always the case. We had a . . . rocky relationship to start.” I wait for the questions to come, but she only finishes writing and motions for me to continue. “I suppose you want to know how that makes me feel,” I say half-jokingly. “Isn’t that how this works?” “This works however you want it to work. I’m here to listen.” I’d like to believe that, but everyone has an agenda, whether they realize it or not. Mine is to tell my story, as sometimes that in itself can be cathartic, and the sooner I begin, the sooner I can be done. “I guess I should start with our five-year-old daughter Lily,” I say. “She was killed a little over two years ago by a man named Brady Becker. She was with me in a grocery store parking lot and ran out in front of his moving car. Brady was on opioid pain pills and shouldn’t have been driving. And I should have been watching Lily more closely.” My eyes flick to hers for a reaction, but she only nods. “Brady was sentenced to two years in prison,” I go on. “While he was incarcerated, I learned he had a twelve-year-old daughter named Eve who I started following and watching from a distance. I never planned to hurt or engage with her . . . I was just trying to work through my grief. The weird thing was, the longer I watched and learned