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online I finally agreed to go on a date, walking in the park with Moose. Hours sped by without one anxious moment, just laughter and the wonderful feeling of being safe while totally being myself. When he met Ally a couple of months later, they adored each other instantly. Even moving in with each other was easy: if one of us was missing a household item, the other had it. But in those early days I still caused arguments, trying to push him away, testing his loyalty. I was just so scared of being hurt again, so scared of losing myself like I had with Derek—of what might happen if I did.
    When I was a kid I felt angry a lot, but I kept it bottled inside, which is probably why I was depressed so much as a teenager. It wasn’t until I began dating that I started losing my temper. But I always managed to stop myself at a certain point—until that moment with Derek on the stairs. When he told me he’d spent the night with his ex-girlfriend all I could feel was shame. All I could think was how everyone was going to know I wasn’t good enough. Then my hands were reaching out and he was falling.
    Afterward I was shocked and horrified by what I’d done, even more by how powerful I’d felt. It terrified me—this sense that there was something dark inside me, something I couldn’t control. And I wanted to believe what you said, that it was the same trigger it always was: abandonment issues, intimacy issues, low self-esteem, all of the above. But now we know one of my parents is violent, beyond violent. It’s looking like maybe I was right to be scared.
    This morning I was in my shop sanding that mahogany chest, trying to forget everything, and it worked for a couple of hours. Then I nicked my finger. As blood welled up I thought, I have a killer’s blood in me.

SESSION THREE

    I’m angry and confused, all right. I’m so stressed out I want to take a baseball bat and smash the crap out of something. I can’t believe it’s been over a month since I was here. I worked all that weekend on that mental exercise you taught me. Imagining how life would be if I wasn’t worried about my family or genetics, what I would doing with my time. I tried to envision myself feeling light and happy as I looked at wedding decorations and invitations. But I still couldn’t stop thinking about the Campsite Killer—where he was, who he was. I even went back to the site and looked at the photos of all his victims again. My thoughts always turned to Julia. Did she get my message? Did she hate me? On Monday I got my answer.
    *   *   *

    I was out in my workshop, scrubbing varnish off my hands while Stevie Nicks belted out “Sometimes it’s a bitch…,” when I heard the phone. I scrambled through the pile of tools and equipment on my bench to a mound of rags, under which was the cordless. The number was private.
    “Hello?”
    “May I speak to Sara, please?”
    I recognized the cultured voice. My pulse sped up.
    “Is this Julia?”
    “Are you alone?” Her voice sounded tight.
    “I’m in my workshop, Ally’s at school. I was just getting ready to go inside for some lunch—I skipped breakfast this morning.…” I was babbling.
    “You shouldn’t have called again.”
    “I’m sorry. I’d just found out who you really are and I wasn’t thinking—”
    “Obviously.” It hurt, and I caught my breath.
    “Don’t call here again.” And she hung up.
    *   *   *

    I handled it with my usual grace and aplomb—chucked the phone clear across my workshop, which knocked the battery out of the back and sent it spinning under a shelf. Then stormed into the house and ate a bunch of Ally’s Oreo snack packs and Ritz Bits cheese sandwiches, cursing with every mouthful. She’d spoken to me like I was something she’d stepped in, something she wanted to scrape off her shoe. My face burned and tears stung my eyes when I thought what I always thought after an ex-boyfriend dumped me or stood me up, or when Dad didn’t hold my hand