I knocked on the door, which was ajar, and waited. This was never going to be an impulsive act.
Shuffling steps preceded its opening moments later. They belonged to an old man, the once handsome face lined, craggy. He was thin, apart from a paunch that drooped over the belt of his expensive trousers.
“Dr. Nicholls?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Grace. Grace McKay.”
I’d given him a false name when I’d booked. He’d said he’d retired but I convinced him I was a special case. I didn’t want him to know who I was and what I was up to. Hell, I didn’t even know he existed until six months ago.
But I’d been living with him, and what he’d done since I was eight — when he’d killed my mother.
It was when I went through Dad’s things that I found the police report. And the yellowed newspaper clippings about Gary Nicholls, pictured always in a uniform. Veteran. PTSD. Wife drops assault charges. Avoids jail. Retrains as a therapist. I didn’t know my father had kept this thread to the past alive. He wasn’t the sentimental type, although I was convinced Dad had died of a broken heart. Gary Nicholls killed him too. Eventually.
The police ruled it a suicide, my mother’s death. Dad knew this couldn’t be true. Even though he and my mother had been separated for years, he knew she wouldn’t have left me. Not willingly.
Dr. Nicholls ushered me into his room and gestured to the Chesterfield, and I sat on the edge. He slid into the Eames chair opposite.
“So, Grace. How can I help you?”
“I think I’m suffering from PTSD. My mother died when I was young. Suicide.”
“Why do you think it’s PTSD? What are your symptoms?”
“Emotionally numb. Unable to develop attachments. Always angry. Insomnia. Drugs. Alcohol.” I’d done my research.
He nodded. “There’re a range of therapies available. But first, tell me about the circumstances of your mother’s suicide.”
This was my in. There was no turning back, even if Nicholls begged.
“I was eight when it happened. My mother was dating a soldier. That night, she’d invited him over for dinner. She’d been floundering since she’d split from my father. She’d been diagnosed with clinical depression.” The tears welling in my eyes were real.
“Go on.”
“The next day, her body was found in the bath. The police said she’d accidentally overdosed. Blamed the depression. They found a needle but couldn’t explain the gash on her forehead and said it was suspicious. The man she was dating was cleared. His ex-wife gave him an alibi.”
This was in the police report. And the clippings.
“I know it wasn’t suicide.”
His black eyes flashed oily recognition.
“You’re not Grace, are you?” His tone was flat.
“No.”
“You’re Susanna’s daughter. Abigail.”
I said nothing, not even a whisper.
“I’ve been expecting you.” I could see the wheels turning. “Let me explain. She was unhinged. She attacked me. I was defending myself. She fell. She——”
That’s when I put three bullets in him. One for my mother. One for Dad. And one for me.
Now it was finished.
Diane Lee is based in Adelaide, Australia. A recent law graduate, she is interested in writing about everyday people and the everyday decisions that impact their lives in extraordinary ways. Her nonfiction has been published in Word Vietnam, PS I Love You, Entropy, Motorcycle Mojo, Get Lost, Flung and ScribesMICRO. Her flash fiction has been published in The Victorian Writer, Pure Slush, A Plate of Pandemic, Flash Phantoms, Blasphemous, Let Me Tell You A Story, The Dichotomy of Love anthology and has made the Australian Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction LONGLIST. Diane speaks better than basic Vietnamese and writes best when constrained. Her favourite revenge story is Nobody, starring Bob Odenkirk. She blogs at dianeleeproject.wordpress.com.
