6
John visibly brightened, forgetting his
predicament.
He grabbed his jacket, rushing towards the
door.
He paused for a moment, then mumbled:
“Jessica can’t handle this alone. I’ll check it
out and be back soon.”
The door slammed shut.
Two minutes later, I called a number.
After a few rings, a gentle male voice
answered.
“Ms. Sarah, what can I do for you so late?”
“I want to ask about my husband’s therapy.
He hasn’t shown any progress lately. Is there
a problem with the treatment?”
The voice responded with slight confusion:
“Mr. John? His therapy ended a year ago. He
should be functioning normally; he shouldn’t
have compulsive behaviors.”
“I’m sure Mr. John has recovered. I’ll send you
the electronic file; please review it.”
After hanging up, John’s therapist quickly
sent the file.
I reviewed the records of his therapy
sessions.
He’d recovered and completed treatment last
year.
He’d kept it a secret, maintaining his “OCD
patient” persona.
My trust had been betrayed.
A meticulous person who followed procedures
strictly.
How could he not notice the missing button
on his shirt?
He would’ve been frantic before.
Even a drop of grease would make him
shower and change.
Yet he ignored the sauce on his hands.
L
shower and change.
Yet he ignored the sauce on his hands.
Someone sensitive to hair and odors would
never adopt a stray cat with Jessica.
I changed, drove, and found Jessica’s
apartment.
The door was ajar.
A woman’s voice emerged from within.
