debated whether she did. She worried that if she discussed her bad dreams, then it would give them more power. But keeping it all bottled up, as she often had in the past, hadn’t done her much good either. Finally she decided to err on the side of openness.
“It’s always the same stuff. I picture Kyle strangling Garland Moses to death in that beach house. I see him plunging the knife in Ryan’s chest. I picture myself giving Ryan CPR until my arms can’t move. I flash to Kyle slamming Hannah into the couch, her slumping over. I relive the feeling of choking the life out Kyle, the pleasure I took in hearing his windpipe crack. You know, fun stuff like that.”
Kat was silent for a moment. Jessie could tell she was weighing how to respond. Her friend certainly knew about processing trauma. She’d seen most of her unit blown to smithereens by an IED while serving in Afghanistan. The incident had left her with recurring headaches and a long vertical scar running down her face from her left eye. Jessie still didn’t know the details of what happened that day.
“Are you still seeing Dr. Lemmon?” Kat finally asked, referring to Jessie’s therapist, who had been guiding her through multiple ordeals for years now.
“Me and Hannah both,” Jessie confirmed. “In fact, I saw her just last Friday.”
“Did she have any special advice?” Kat asked.
“Sure, the usual: Don’t bottle it up. Talk about it but don’t wallow. Stay busy. Exercise as much as your injuries will allow.”
The reference was to both the dislocated left shoulder she got in the death match with Kyle and the burns to her back that she’d suffered rescuing a woman from a burning house with a serial killer in it.
“How much do they allow?” Kat wondered.
“Whatever my pain tolerance permits. The burns aren’t too bad anymore. The doctor says they’re healing well and I should be able to stop wearing bandages in another week or so. The shoulder still hurts but at least I don’t have to wear the sling anymore. But I’m supposed to go to physical therapy for another two to four weeks.”
“Well, at least you won’t have any professional distractions to complicate appointments,” Kat said optimistically. “This is your first official day being unemployed, right?”
Jessie nodded. It was technically true. Last Friday was her final day as a criminal profiler for the LAPD, not that she’d done much work lately. She’d given her notice, much to her captain’s disappointment, two weeks ago.
Despite his pleas that she just take a sabbatical and see how she felt when it was over, Jessie was adamant. She needed to break free of the cycle of violence that dominated her professional and personal life in recent years. Plus, wandering the same offices where she saw Garland every day just kept the wound of his loss too raw.
Because of her injuries, Ryan’s hospitalization, helping close out Garland’s cases, the condo move, and keeping tabs on Hannah, she had actually only been into the office a couple times. The last was on Friday, when she’d cleared out her desk.
“Hopefully the unemployment thing will be temporary,” Jessie said. “I have interviews lined up at multiple universities next week to discuss teaching positions in the fall. In the meantime, I’m trying to embrace not having a huge to-do list.”
Neither of them mentioned the primary reasons she could be so unhurried in her job search. Her divorce from Kyle had been lucrative. Before his conviction, he helped run a successful wealth management fund, so she would have done well in divorce proceedings regardless. But the fact that he’d tried to frame her for murder and then attempted to kill her made the case a slam dunk.
Beyond that, she also received a generous inheritance from her adoptive parents, who had been murdered by her serial killer birth father a few years ago. Garland’s lawyer had also told her that she should expect to receive a substantial gift when his will was read later this week. Jessie felt guilty for living comfortably as a result of so much pain and suffering. But with Hannah to take care of, mounting medical bills, and involved home security requirements, she’d made her peace with it.
Before she could expound on her job prospects further, her bedroom door opened. Out walked a sleepy-eyed Hannah, wearing underwear and a tank top, and sporting a shock of bed-head hair.
“She’s the spitting image of you,” Kat said snarkily.