"I can speak for myself," I remind him, crossing my arms over my chest before turning to my therapist, "I'll get in touch with my doctor and see what he has to say. Thank you." I wave as I walk back out the door to my car.
I feel the tears soaking my cheeks before I even realize they are falling.
"Hey, It's okay. It's going to be alright." Judson assures me as I wipe my cheeks on my sleeves.
"I'm fine, Judson."
We pull out of the lot, but I can't go to Judson's house, not without a hundred memories flooding my mind. I park on the street of my apartment building and make my way up, Judson close behind.
I push the door open and gasp. The whole place is trashed, my stuff tossed all over the place. I take a step back, a little freaked out.
"Stay here," Judson demands as he checks the bathroom.
I look around, trying to notice if anything is missing. My laptop and camera still sit unharmed on my desk.
"No one is here. Grab a bag. You're coming home."
He's so demanding, and at this point, I don't even feel like arguing with him. I stand frozen in shock, unable to get my brain to relay words to my voicebox.
"Blakely, please. Just get some stuff so I can make sure you are safe."
I grab a duffle bag and my school bag and shove it full of stuff I need. When we get back down to my car, I am literally shaking, so I ask Judson if he can drive us there.
It only takes about 10 minutes to get to Judson's house. The second we hit the driveway, I feel nauseous.
He opens the door and holds it open for me. I step over the threshold, feeling a wave of emotions. Happy, sad, upset, mad, annoyed, relieved. Everything hits me all at once, and I feel like I was sucker-punched right in the gut. I shrug out of my layers and glance at Judson, who looks extremely uncomfortable. He glances at me and back to the counter, where a large manilla envelope sits.
"What is that?" I ask him, strolling toward him. He takes several seconds, staring at it before responding.
"I don't know." He states, undoing the metal prongs and pulling several photos out of it. He tosses them down on the counter before pulling his hands down his face. He backs away from the counter, dumbfounded.
"What is that, Judson?"
He doesn't respond, looking a little stunned, so I make my way closer to the counter and look down at the pictures.
"That's me," I state, moving the pictures around.
"Judson, these pictures are from the day of the wreck."
I push them around on the counter, sorting them out—me getting in my car, me standing outside my car.
"Why would someone send these?" I glance at Judson, and the look on his face is sheer terror.
"Judson! Why did someone send these?" I raise my voice, trying to break him out of whatever trance he is in.
Was someone following me?
He takes a deep breath and turns to face me, his eyes wild, "I don't think the crash was an accident."
I feel my stomach turn as I run to the sink to throw up. I can feel him behind me as he grabs a paper towel, running it under the faucet.
"Are you okay?" He asks as I finish retching.
"Um, no, I'm not okay. You think someone tried to kill me?" I ask, pulling out a seat at the bar.
"These pictures prove that someone was following you that day. I don't know what to think anymore." He becomes more agitated the more he paces back and forth, and honestly, he is making me a little nervous.
"Was it Ryan? Do you think he did this?"