With a weary sigh, he does as I ask, pivoting to stare towards the pool house. I turn back to the table—and the gun—but I still can’t make my hand move.
Evangeline, also known as Dr. Smirnov, also known as my new therapist. I was dumb enough to think she could help me.
Exposure therapy is medieval. What about holding a gun is going to do anything to help the gnawing panic I feel in my gut every time I even look at one?
She told me I could start on a low dose of some medication for my anxiety, but I’m gonna need a tranq dart before I can get within a foot of this gun.
“Come on, Nat,” I grit to myself. “It’s not even loaded.”
Or is it? the anxious voice in the back of my head ponders. Loaded or not, the ugly, metal gun looks far from innocent. I almost think it’s taunting me.
Pick me u
