“Scared. Confused.”
“That makes sense.” I keep my voice gentle. “Where do you think that fear comes from?”
“I’m missing something,” he whispers. “Like a puzzle piece I can’t find.”
My chest tightens. “What do you think is missing?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s the key.”
“And the confusion?” I ask. “Is it connected?”
Faintly, he tells me, “Yeah. It’s the same thing.”
“Why do you think they’re linked?”
“Because I’m worried I did something.”
“When?” I prompt.
“When Jenny went missing.” His breath hitches. “I think I’m missing something from that night.”
“What do you remember about that night?”
“I don’t know,” he says helplessly.
I shift closer. “When you think about Jenny being dead, whatdo you feel in your body?”
His hands curl into the sheets. His chest tightens. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t—I can’t—”
“That’s enough for today,” I say quickly, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. “You’ve done really well. You need to rest now.”
I exhale into the sofa cushion, my head falling back.
The fabric beside me dips and I turn to see Nate.
“How are you holding up?” he asks, smiling sadly.
My shoulders rise and fall. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Did you find out anything from him?”
I groan in frustration. “Not really. It’s too soon. EMDR isn’t some miracle cure for trauma.”
“Sounds like a type of music.” Nate starts pretending to be a drum-and-bass DJ—a terrible one. I hit him.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. What is EMDR?”
“Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing Therapy.” I’ve seen patients recover repressed memories with it, and it’s usually faster than most other forms of therapy. “It uses movement or sound to ground the patient while we talk through their memories.”
I search for a simpler way to explain it. “I guess it’s a bit like mindfulness. You focus on the sensations in your body—what you hear, see, feel. That process can cue up memories that are locked away.”
It’s a process—one that takes work—but it’s also one of the least stressful methods. And whatever is eating at Eli? It’s definitely stressful.
“So,” Nate says, leaning back, “you can’t just wiggle your fingers and tell him to think happy thoughts?”
I might kill him.