After what feels like three hours, I dare to look up at the clock and see that our time is up.

Fi. Nuh. Lee. All I want to do is change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and fall asleep listening to my podcast with Rx curled up on the pillow beside me.

But I’m not off the hook quite yet. There’s still five minutes left, and Jenny is never one to skimp on time, unlike me.

“So tell me more about your homework assignment. Talking to a stranger. How did it make you feel to engage with someone you don’t know?”

Oh, crap. I thought we were past this. She’s really going to make me relive this stupid lie all over again? I can’t even remember what I told her. Something about pilgrims and marshmallows?

Quietly, I tiptoe to the kitchen and procure a bottle of red wine from the fridge. There’s half of the bottle still left in there. Better than nothing.

If Jenny hears me glugging on the other end, would she believe me if I told her I was just chugging milk? Gotta up that calcium, Jenny. Don’t wanna get osteoporosis.

“It made me feel fine,” I say, lamely. “I enjoyed the conversation. It made me feel good about myself. I feel more optimistic about the human race.”

“Mal.”

And I know I’ve been caught. I can’t fool Jenny.

I groan. “It went awful. I really did do that assignment, I swear. I almost chickened out, but I went up to the hottest guy at the dog park and started making stupid conversation with him. It started off fine, but then I began talking about true crime stuff and it freaked him and his kid out. It totally backfired.”

“Some people might not be able to understand your fascination with the macabre,” Jenny offers.

Yeah, no shit. That’s why most of my friends live on the internet. I feel isolated most of the time when I’m in public, knowing that most people won’t understand me or the things that make my brain light up. They’ll just think I’m a sicko. It’s not fair. The girls who host the My Favorite Murder podcast became pseudo celebrities, but I’m a weirdo for actually being a loyal listener? I’m glad I can listen to my podcasts with the privacy of my earbuds. Other people find my interests shameful. You’d think I go around committing the crimes myself. Liking intense stuff doesn’t make you dangerous. Just look at me. I can barely kill a spider. I can’t even hold a knife properly. I have an emotional support dog who probably needs his own emotional support dog.

“It isn’t anything to be ashamed of,” Jenny assures me, as if she heard my whole inner monologue. Your affinities are your own. And you know, Mal, it’s not unusual to have a preoccupation with dark themes when you’re a survivor of abuse.”

I seize up. At the word “abuse,” I almost throw my phone against the wall.

Thanks for the reminder, Jenny. I hate when she brings that word up. It’s like she’s using the term against me. I hate thinking of myself as a survivor. It makes me feel weak and pathetic. Next time she forces me to talk to a stranger, I’ll just talk about boring shit like the weather and the rising price of gas. Though it’s going to take some effort to get me to try that exercise again.

I pour the remaining wine into a large glass.

I put myself on mute so I can slurp it down while Jenny drones on about my history, as if I’ve somehow forgotten the gory details. As if I wasn’t there myself. It pisses me off when she does this. It’s like she’s trying to show off, to show me that she hasn’t forgotten, and isn’t she a good therapist for preserving my most shameful memories just in case I ever forget? I don’t need a reminder that I was abused as a kid every time I have a bad day.

I throw back the wine glass, taking a generous gulp.

I carry the phone and my wine glass to the front room’s picture window, turning off the overhead lights on the way so that my new neighbors (or any other creeps lurking around) can’t see inside the house.

Rx follows me and I lift him onto the little bench by the window so he can look out, too. He’s not much of a security dog. He loves watching for squirrels, but if he sees a person, he gets shy.

I remind myself that I still need to set the alarm. What a dumb mistake, really. I made a point to choose the best of the best in terms of security systems. And then my dumb ass goes ahead and forgets to use it. If someone were to break in and kill me in my sleep, it would serve me right.

My worries about dangerous people attacking me don’t end at my doorstep. I know better than anyone that the people you put all your trust in can end up hurting you in the end.

I hug my arms around myself as I stare out into the cold dark night, wondering what horrible atrocities are happening out there right now. It’s not a matter of if there’s a crime being committed now. It’s a question of where and when. I’ve listened to enough true crime podcasts to know that on average, someone at your local grocery store or library is a deranged nut. Just because people look and act normal doesn’t mean they are. People do horrible things all the time. Kidnappings, rape, murder. Think about all of the crimes you never even hear about because the victims are too scared to say anything—or maybe they’re dead and their bodies have never been found. That makes the crime rate even higher. I always assume a place is more dangerous than it lets on.

By that logic, even the dog park can be unsafe. Who knows, maybe that hot dad wasn’t really that boy’s father. Maybe he’d kidnapped him and the kid was brainwashed. Maybe that’s why he freaked out when I brought up missing kids.

Shit. Now I’m going to be haunted by the two of them. What if I’m right, and I was the last one to see the kid alive?

If I voiced these concerns to anyone out in the real world, they’d shun me. And maybe suggest I take a visit to the psych ward.

The thought of all of these things makes me feel very alone, even while Jenny is on the phone with me.

I make a point to occasionally unmute myself to say things like “Uh uh” and “Hmmm” at appropriate moments, just so she knows I’m still listening.

Rx looks up at me, cocking his head in reaction to the noises coming out of my mouth.

I tune back in when Jenny says, “I just have to say this—and I normally don’t say this as a professional, because it might not be my place.”

Oh, god. I can only imagine what she’s about to say… Is she going to suggest a new medication? Or more exposure therapy?

“I know that true crime is a hobby of yours. But considering your background and your current state of mind, I wonder if your media intake might be verging on unhealthy. You consume so much dark content. I can’t imagine that it doesn’t influence the way you see the world.”

I immediately go on the defensive. “Just because I read and watch a lot of dark things doesn’t mean I’m sick,” I protest. “I find comfort in the macabre. It’s the only thing in my life that I can rely on. It gives me purpose. You want me to stop it just because you find it disturbing?”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a hobby,” Jenny continues, “I understand that. I just think you may want to monitor your attachment to one-way relationships to these true crime podcasts and superficial relationships with the people involved in these crimes. Especially with your history.”

“What do you mean, especially with my history?” I say, my voice a jagged edge.

“I think that your hyperfixation with true crime might be your way of feeling secure and protecting yourself from getting hurt again. I’m worried that you’re further isolating yourself from the rest of the world.”

There she goes again, diagnosing me from her fancy armchair. She doesn’t even know about the amount of time I spend on the message boards, chatting with other fellow true crime junkies who I consider to be my closest friends. If she did, it would only justify her concerns.

“Well, maybe I need protection,” I snap, a bit angrier than I mean to. It must be the wine loosening my tongue.

“What do you need protection against, Mal? Who do you think is going to hurt you?”