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CHAPTER THREE

The vintage, chestnut grandfather clock that hung on the wall kept ticking and filling the silent room with its noise while I glared at it. I had never really understood the clock's point when there was another perfectly normal wall clock just inches away from it. Then again, Dr. Martin was a peculiar man.

I thought my conclusion of him being weird was valid because what therapist was okay with sitting in his office for an hour with a client who refused to speak a word ever since their sessions began? The first day had been the only day he had tried to get me to talk, but I had been so angry for being there that I refused to speak and so every hour I spent with him was in total silence.

My mom had suggested I see a therapist after witnessing Connor's death and waking up covered in sweat from my nightmare-ridden periods of sleep. As much as I had been mad at her for making me see Dr. Martin every Friday after school, I did as she asked because it was the only way I could reassure her. Also, telling her on several occasions that I was being followed by a strange man did not help my case.

Her eyes had told me how scared and sad she was at my predicament, and I was pretty sure she thought I was going crazy at some point. The last thing I wanted was for my beautiful and bubbly mother to be drained of whatever energy she had left, after everything she has endured since my father's untimely death. So, I went to therapy and sat there in stone-cold silence, unable to put an end to it so my mother's heart wouldn't be broken once more.

I watched as Dr. Martin continued to scribble into his notepad, his dark eyes peering from his thick-rimmed glasses. He stopped to scratch his grey hair at some point. Still, my therapist immediately continued with furrowed eyebrows. I wondered what he wrote in there, just as I always did whenever I came around.

For some reason, I felt the urge to lash out at him today even though I never used to care. "Aren't you supposed to be helping me?" I spat out bitterly even though I was the one who had refused to speak in the first place.

If Dr. Martin was shocked at my outburst, he didn't show it. He simply placed his pen gently on the notepad and raised his head to stare at me with kind eyes. "Of course, Miss Dawson," he replied with a smile that only made me want to scream.

I needed him to be angry, to yell at me, to tell me that I was the one to blame for everything. Instead, he smiled at me and watched me like parents watching their baby about to make his or her first step.

Glowering at him, I said, "I see now that you're perfectly okay with taking my mother's money for each session, without doing your job. I should have known you were nothing but a quack.” His smile only got more expansive, and I felt my teeth clash against each other. "Why are you smiling? None of this is funny," I bit out furiously.

He leaned back in his chair with a pointed gaze at me. "No, it isn't Miss Dawson…"

"Kat," I corrected.

"Kat… I'm merely excited that you are ready to talk. I apologize if my excitement made you feel uncomfortable.” Even his voice was soothing, but I didn't want to be calm. I tried to stoke the fire that was burning hot within me.

"I never said I was ready to talk about anything. There's nothing to talk about." I averted my gaze from his soul-searching eyes and fidgeted with the strap of my bag.

"I beg to differ, Kat. I think there's a lot you ache to talk about starting with Connor's death and how it made you feel. Your fear of everyone blaming you, guilt, and, most especially, your father's death."

His last words made my head jolt up to glare at him with narrowed eyes. "What does my father's death have to do with Connor?"

Dr. Martin leaned forward, his elbows on the desk as he watched me with careful eyes. "It has a lot to do with everything, Kat. If it wasn't for his death, you would never have been uprooted from your life and moved to this town where horrible things have been happening to you, your mother, and your friends.”

I gasped. He had spoken the exact words I had been thinking every day since Connor's death, and from the way he watched me, he knew how spot on he was. However, I refused to be vulnerable around Dr. Martin.

If there was anything I hated, it was being considered pitiful by anyone, and something about my father's death immediately made me defensive and cold.

"This was a mistake, I never should have come here," I whispered, but I knew he could hear me.

I shot up from the chair, my bag secured on my shoulder and bolted out of his office as I willed the tears not to fall while he watched me leave. It wasn't until I was out of Dr. Martin's building that I let the tears fall as I gasped desperately for breath.

I clutched tightly at my burning chest, wishing my mom and I had never moved here in the first place. Also, cursing Liam Eddison a million times in my head for delivering the killing blow on my father.

Running far away from the building, as my newly purchased boots pounded against the concrete, I went toward the only place I knew could grant me comfort at the time.

Hopefully, I wouldn't run into any of the boys there.