Page 117 of Healed Heart

“He fucking killed my wife, Angie.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

Except I do.It all makes sense now.

The puzzle pieces click together, fitting into the chilling image of Ralph as an obsessed, calculating man who would do anything to manipulate reality to his favor.A sociopath.

“Angie, I need to go,” I say hastily.

“But the dinner?—”

“I’ll be there.”I cut her off.The last thing I need right now is to explain things to her and see the dawning horror in her eyes.Not when I’m barely keeping myself steady.“I just need some time.”

I end the call before she can respond and toss my phone onto the passenger seat of my car.

Ralph’s image flashes in my mind, but now I see him for what he is—an obsessive manipulator who would stop at nothing to possess the one thing he holds most dear.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.The dashboard clock reads six forty-five.I have just over an hour until dinner with Angie and her brother, who is hopefully going to help me put Ralph behind bars, where he belongs.

In my pocket, my phone buzzes again.I ignore it, my thoughts too consumed by Ralph.His face, his lies, his chilling composure.I’m uncomfortably aware that he’s still out there, a free man, while I’m the one facing charges.

The urge to drive back to the hospital, to confront Ralph again, is powerful.But I know better.He’s expecting me to snap, to lose control and give him another chance to play the innocent victim.

He won’t get that satisfaction.

Instead, I take a deep breath and will myself to think rationally.Angie’s brother may hold the key, so I need to go to that dinner and be presentable, not a raging bull ready to charge.And beyond that, I need to be patient.

Ralph will slip up.He has to.

His entire existence is one big con, one careful lie after another.But no matter how careful he may be, he’s still human, and humans make mistakes.

Damn.I need some clarity.

Need to get my head on straight.

And that means…

Fuck.

I know who I should call.If he’ll even take my call this late in the day.

But I have to try.

I get home, walk through my door, and call Dr.Engel.

“Dr.Lansing,” he says into the phone.“How can I help you?”

“I’m sorry I missed our last appointment.Do you have time to talk now?I’ll pay extra.”

“That’s not necessary.But I appreciate the call.It tells me something.”

“Yeah?”I scoff.“And what’s that?”

“That despite what you think about psychiatry, a part of you believes I might be able to help you.”

“I don’t need help.I need the truth.I need to prove that the bastard who framed me for assault is the same one who took my wife away.”

“And in the meantime?”he asks.“What do you do with all of that anger?That grief?”