Page 63 of Little Twisted Things

“I know. But I’m going to ask for an extensive psych eval. She doesn’t belong in prison. She belongs in a psychiatric institution where she can get the help she needs. All of this was created from childhood trauma. It technically isn’t Katherine’s fault.”

“I cannot believe you’re saying this. She’s fucking playing you. How can you not see that?”

“She’s not. She turned herself in for what Dahlia had done. We’ll get a better understanding once a psychiatrist sees her.”

37

Katherine

The steel door shut behind me, and the sound echoed through the hallway long after the orderly had walked away. I belonged here. This is where I had to stay to get the help I needed. White walls and a narrow bed bolted to the floor. A desk, and one window heavily secured so the possibility of escape was zero.

Since my conversation with Detective Walker, everything in my mind went silent. I tried to talk to them, but nobody was there. Where was The Librarian? Sunny? I knew Dahlia was asleep for good, so I didn’t expect her to answer. The things she had done. Horrible things. I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. When I was at the cottage, I didn’t have to think about it. Everything was perfect. The sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline. The birds singing their songs. The light breeze that kept me cool when the sun grew too hot. My beautiful garden. My beautiful home. And of course, my handsome husband. He understood why I had to leave. He always understood everything.

I heard a key go into the lock and the door opened. A nurse walked in and smiled.

“Hi, Katherine. I’m Emily, and I’ll be your nurse this week. I’m just going to take your blood pressure before I give you your meds. Okay?”

I nodded as I sat on the edge of the bed. She wrapped the cuff around my arm and squeezed the ball attached to it. The cuff tightened around me as a low hiss escaped the pressure cuff.

“Perfect.” She smiled, taking the cuff off. Here’s your meds.” She handed me a small paper cup. “And here is some water.”

I popped them into my mouth and took a sip.

“I need to make sure you swallowed them. Open wide.”

I did what she asked as she checked my mouth.

“Good. Dr. Bondi will be in soon. Until then, try to get some rest.”

About an hour later, the door opened, and an attractive woman walked in. She stood about five feet eight, with her blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She wore a tailored black skirt and a crisp white blouse which disappeared beneath the white lab coat she had on. Her green eyes studied me before she spoke. There was no doubt she was the psychiatrist who was sent to evaluate me.

“Hello, Katherine. I’m Dr. Isabella Bondi.” She extended her hand.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I softly placed my hand in hers.

“I’m a psychiatrist who specializes in dissociative identity disorder. I’m here to help you.”

“Okay.” I nervously played with my hands.

“I read over your files. You are quite an interesting person.” She smiled.

“Not really. I’m just someone who wants to live a normal life.”

She reached over and placed her hand on mine. “That’s our goal. I don’t want to overwhelm you right now, and I want you to get settled. I just wanted to introduce myself, and we’ll start our sessions tomorrow.

She left the room. She seemed nice enough. I was tired, so I climbed into bed and pulled the blanket up to my neck.

The Next Day

The door opened, and one of the orderlies told me it was time for my session with Dr. Bondi. He took me to her office and made me wait inside the waiting room where another orderly stood guard at the door.

“Hi, Katherine.” Dr. Bondi smiled as she opened her office door. “Come on in.”

I stepped inside the office with the two large windows. Bookshelves lined one wall with psychology books and framed family photographs. The walls were painted white, with a navy-blue couch beneath the window and a knitted cream throw folded neatly across one arm. Two oversized chairs faced each other with a small glass table holding a box of tissues and a vase of fresh flowers. It looked comfortable.

“Have a seat.” She gestured to the couch. She walked over to her desk, grabbed a notepad and a pen, and sat in one of the chairs directly across from me.

“So.” She smiled. “How are you feeling today?”