Crossing Lines: A gripping psychological thriller (Behind Closed Doors Book 3) (2 page)

Some other changes have not been so good for her; her determination to protect whatever lies beneath the nonchalant mask has brought out a short temper in her. Although I’ve never seen it, her diva demands are well-known throughout the world. In fact, she’s as infamous for her pigheadedness as she is for her ability to flip from nice to nasty. ‘You never really know where you stand with Krystal’ is something I've heard time and time again, but also something I am yet to experience. I’ve always known where I stand with her. Ever since that day we argued, I’m not afraid of her, or what she can do, and she knows it. But then again, she also knows I won’t play cat and mouse with her, especially not when it appears to be her favorite game.

I also get the impression she isn’t so happy with her life the way it is: the distasteful retorts, the poorly timed eye rolls, the overall glacial front she presents to the rest of the world that, to me, appears forced and somewhat calculated. These are things that others would dismiss as harmless, because she chooses to be every guy's fantasy and every girl's want-to-be. But to me, I understand how she chooses to present a plastic veneer to the rest of the world, instead of letting her genuine personality, whoever she might be, shine—or better yet, bowing out, retiring and living her life in peace. I suspect she'd be much happier that way.

Still, I recognize the guilt that drives her to live this way. I even understand it: its punishment. In the same way, I understand to protect my family from the fire that rages within; I must keep myself closed off, and them at distance. What I don't understand is why Krystal does the same.

She isn't married, and as far as I’m aware she’s never come close to experiencing that kind of connection with anyone. There are no children, and an absolute-zero desire to have them. It’s difficult to see her drive, her passion, her dedication to whatever projects she signs up for, when she makes no long-term commitments to anyone or anything, and moves from one completed project to another as she pleases. She has the freedom, the money, and the privilege to do whatever she wants, whenever she wants. What exactly does Krystal Valentina feel responsible for? And why does she appear as trapped by those responsibilities as I feel by mine?

“D, I …” As her words die away my attention returns to Krystal and the puzzling war displayed in her expression. Did I miss something important when my mind stepped out of our session?

My gut knots. Something big is about to happen. There’s more emotion in her eyes than I’ve seen without a camera rolling, and I can see she’s battling with it. A battle she is losing.

“I …” Her right hand clenches and relaxes. Her thumb nervously plays with the lone ring on her finger. "I, um …”

For the first time ever, her tempered grey irises dodge my gaze. They shoot toward the bookcase on the right, then to the ceiling as she blinks against the water gathering in them. Finally her gaze meets the hardwood floor. Her exterior shell crumbles before my eyes and she asks, “Do you have some paper?”

Huh?
Disappointment deflates the eagerness poised inside me, ready to pounce on the breakthrough. I’m not sure where she's taking this, but I reach across to the printer tray behind me all the same. This big deal can’t be just about paper and she doesn't seem unstable. She seems … well, like someone else entirely. Has the real Krystal Valentina just stepped beyond her glacial wall? After five years of therapy, that would be a big deal.

Her hands tremble as she accepts the dozen or so sheets of white paper and lays them on the ash coffee table between us. Again her attention is with the ring on her right hand. It’s an ancient chain of blue flowers set in a silver band, the only staple item in Krystal’s wardrobe. It’s something she always wears, even now when it’s totally at odds with her pink-and-black ensemble.

As though she knows I’m looking at her hands, she abruptly stops. Instead, she reaches for a piece of paper and begins folding, making razor-sharp creases as we sit in silence. Once a perfect paper crane sits in the palm of her trembling hand, she looks at me. “I haven't needed to do this in a long time.”

Do what? Origami? I ponder the statement for the few moments it takes for her to place an impressive swan beside the crane on the table between us. The tremor remains as her hand reaches for another piece of paper and my head spins. Something serious is happening here today. Nothing about her behavior is familiar for the person I know right now. She's somehow softer, shyer, even breakable. Evidently. But these are weaknesses she would never show.

“Krystal, are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“I lost my temper,” she volunteers without any further prompting. “I hit a pregnant woman.” She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. Her gaze remains on the paper she’s folding. “Then I left her unconscious and alone, because I lost my temper.”

The floor of my stomach slips. I honestly don’t know what to say. It sounds nothing like the Krystal I know, but as her psychiatrist my job is not to judge her for the confession, as others would. It’s to help her understand and come to terms with something troubling her. As a friend of many years, I’m struggling to hide my shock. “When did this happen?”

“Does it matter? It doesn’t change what I did.”

No. I guess it doesn’t. But it would help me to understand how much and for how long it’s been playing on her mind. Honestly, she cannot know she's dropped a bombshell on me. If not for the dramatic change in her, I’d have said she was having me on.

So, this is the real Krystal.

I watch a frog form within the folds of paper. The fun, flirtatious movie star who'd eat alive anyone who dared call her a diva was nothing more than another character she played. Now I can see her, really see who she is and how her mind works. When the shields come down there is a mountain’s worth of insecurities, trying to hide the worst of who she is from the rest of the world. Is there any wonder I find this walking, talking contradiction fascinating? So resilient on the outside, and yet, so delicate on the inside.

Delicate,
I repeat silently.
Now that’s a word I would never have associated with Krystal.

“Has this ever happened before? Or after?” Her gaze meets with mine, but she doesn’t answer. I know to take her silence as an admission. “Go on.”

“A couple of times. The first was an accident. The second and third time, they pushed and pushed until I lost it. The last time, it was absolutely one-hundred-percent deserved. I mean, I was attacked; what was I supposed to do, take it?”

I know she’s talking about the fan who jumped her from behind. She made a very public apology, covered his medical bills, and compensated him because she’d hurt him.

”But,” she continues, “when I was younger I didn’t handle my anger very well. If people pissed me off, I let them know about it.” A smile lifts at the corner of her mouth. “I guess nothing’s changed there, but I didn't know my own abilities when I was a kid. I mean, you’re not supposed to be able to break bones with your bare hands, right? But I did. Several of them. I was almost kicked out of school so many times, for kicking the asses of the boys in the grades above me, I lost count. Mom almost sent me to live with Dad this one time, and the last time I hit my sister both Mom
and
Dad threatened to press charges. They would have probably called the cops if I hit anyone outside of the dojo ever again. I was … an angry child.”

“You were a violent child,” I correct.

She draws in a deep breath and lets out a long sigh. “Yes. I was a spoiled, bratty child who lashed out when things weren’t going my way."

“But you’re not in jail, so when did this change?”

“Sensei told me I wasn’t living the values of Judo, and if I couldn’t learn to control my anger he’d have to ban me from his martial arts studio. He couldn’t in good conscience continue to equip me with the skills to harm others."

“That’s some serious shit, Krystal!” Then I almost curse again, forgetting myself and my place in this conversation.
I'm her counselor right now, not her friend.

But she just smiles at me. “Yeah.” She nods and reaches for another piece of paper, and I notice her hands are still trembling. “I learned quite quickly that my words were just as powerful when delivered the right way. I also learned that I don’t need to fight to get what I want. I just have to be able to read you better than you can read me, then while you’re still trying to figure me out, I've pre-empted your every move. To you it only seems like I know you better than you know yourself.”

“You’re manipulative?” She just smiles at me and so I take this as an admission once again. "And because you know me better than I know myself, you already know I think it’s quite sinister that not only do you know you’re manipulative, but you exploit it to your advantage.”

Her hands stop folding the paper. Her gaze lifts from it to meet mine, as her eyes widen in a way that tells me she didn’t anticipate the challenge. In fact, my choice of treatment is most likely the fast track to triggering her super-bitch flip switch. “So what’s the point of playing cat and mouse with me, Krystal? What are you trying to achieve by revealing this today?”

“Nothing.” Not sure I can trust her statement, I repeat it and she replies, “I need help. Your help.” I wait for her to continue, and I watch as the final shreds of whatever control she has snaps. Her lower lip trembles and she utters, “I think I’m losing it, D.”

Somehow, I still feel like I’m being played with. I don’t trust this sudden revelation of her as an insecure girl; sure she’s on the verge of tears but … hasn’t she just admitted to manipulating others? My guard remains firmly in place. “Why?”

“Because …” She looks away from me and whispers, “I'm angry, Darryl.” Her voice trembles. “I'm angry all the time.”

I hear everything she says, but at the same time I’m mesmerized by the perfect nails working to create another paper animal. She doesn’t make a single error at all. When did she learn origami? How has she found the time to practice this to a perfect art form? Then, it hits me: it's a coping mechanism. This is how she deals with the anxiety she’s revealing to me.

“It doesn't matter how hard I train, or how much I meditate or search to find balance, it's never enough to calm me down. Never.”

I’m familiar with this part of her story. Years of martial arts training have saved her from the insanity of life as one-half of an identical double act Krystal and Katrina
and
the daughter of TV-villain Angela Valentina. She was a star before she went to elementary school, and more than once she’s referred to the dojo as her sanctuary.

“I know exactly what I’m capable of, D. I can kill a person with my bare hands with very little effort.” It’s quickly becoming apparent why she’s telling me this, and why it’s important in what’s going on with her right now and her violence as a child. “Darryl.” Krystal's hands freeze. Her gaze lifts from the paper dragonfly in her hand and locks with mine. “I'm so close to losing it, with so many people, I know the unfortunate bastard who makes me snap is going to end up dead.”

Maybe I should have connected the dots sooner.
But that’s the thing about someone who’s perpetually fearless. You don’t expect them to confess their biggest fear. Especially not when those fears are of what she is capable of, rather than what she isn’t.

Krystal’s holding back an immense amount of power, inside a deceptive waif-like frame. She’s three levels above a black belt, and qualified as a Sensei years ago. If she’s afraid she’s going to hurt someone, then she’s going to hurt someone. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but if we don’t start taking these sessions seriously, then I'm as useful to her as a chocolate coffee pot.

This might seem huge, and it should—it is. But it’s not something she can walk away from today without coping strategies. We can discuss techniques. But the sooner we explore where the rage comes from, the easier it will be to deal with.

“Krystal …”

A knock on the door interrupts the reassurance on the tip of my tongue. I twist in my seat and look over my shoulder as it creaks open. Isla, my secretary, turns her head around the gap. “Doctor Hawthorne?” she mumbles nervously.

Honestly, I’m not a tyrant, and although she knows not to interrupt my appointments with Krystal, she has nothing to be afraid of. I’m grateful for the fact that she’s worked here for more than forty years. She was my father’s secretary before he died. She attended to the needs of his successor, and she's been with me for the past ten years. I honestly believe she might be an angel in disguise.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have the school principal on line one. She'd like you to go to the school as soon as possible. It's a matter of some urgency!”

I roll my eyes as the disappointment pools in my stomach, “Can you tell her …” Immediately, I bite my tongue. No one knows Krystal is my patient. When I turn to her, she's already risen to her five-eleven height in heels, declaring our session over.

I sigh. Nothing good has ever come from an urgent meeting with Lisa's head teacher. But still, I turn back to Isla and say the words I really don't want to say. “Can you tell her I'm on my way?”

As Isla nods and closes the door, Krystal floats across the room towards her designer purse and hangs it from her shoulder. She pauses to check her makeup in a compact mirror, then turns to face me. Save for the half-dozen Japanese paper models on the coffee table, all evidence of the insecure woman who sat on my couch moments before is gone.