The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) by Mery Jones

superbly confident way “And why is that?”
    “I guess I’m too conscious. Or too stubborn. Don’t get me wrong—It’s not about you or your abilities. I just don’t think I can be hypnotized.”
    “I see.” He watched me patiently. “Okay, then. It’s just an idea. Let me know if you change your mind.”
    I nodded. I would.
    He swiveled his chair around to face the files on his desk. “Oh, by the way,” he added, “you can put your arm down now.”
    My arm?
    I looked at my arms. The left one was suspended weightlessly in the air, straight up over my head. As I watched, on its own, it dropped down to my side. What was going on? I looked at Bertram, confused.
    He was smiling, amused. “Apparently, you’ re wrong about your ability to be hypnotized. In fact, you’re a very compliant subject. I merely suggested that your arm was lighter than air, and up it floated. It’s been there the whole time you were under hypnosis.”
    Wait—what? I’d been under hypnosis? Not possible. “But I haven’t been under. I remember everything—”
    Again, that knowing smile. “Do you? Or do you remember everything you want to remember?”
    What was he talking about?
    “Zoe, listen. You are highly suggestible. I’m convinced that hypnosis might be quite helpful in reducing your stress, even in easing your pregnancy. Think about it and let me know. I’m here, and I’d be happy to work with you. But now, you better hurry. Your session begins in about a minute.”
    A minute? I looked at the antique grandfather clock. Thirty minutes had passed since we’d sat down. I blinked, confused.
    Bertram handed me some tissues. “Here.” He dabbed my cheeks. “You’d better freshen up before you go.”
    What was he talking about? I glanced at the tissue; it was soaking, blotched with mascara stains. And my face was wet. Tear-stained.
    “What—I was crying?”
    Bertram blinked rapidly, his expression kind. “Yes. A bit.”
    “Why? What was I crying about?”
    He watched me. “Zoe, while you were under, I told you to remember what you wanted and to forget what you wanted.”
    “But half an hour went by—why don’t I remember it? What did I say?” I was alarmed, stunned. “What was I so upset about?”
    Bertram leaned forward and gently took my hands. His were small and hairless, and his nails were shiny. I noticed his Rolex watch. “Like I said. If you don’t remember what we talked about, it’s for your own reasons. Ethically, I can’t tell you what you said. If and when you’re ready for them, the memories will come to you on their own.”
    He released my hands. I felt naked, as if he could see parts of me that I hadn’t intended to expose. That I might not even know about myself. I was angry, felt invaded.
    “Bertram. I’m not comfortable with this. I didn’t agree to this. Whatever I told you, I didn’t intend it—and, frankly, I’m not happy about this whole conversation—” I wasn’t articulate, but he got the point.
    “Relax, Zoe. People don’t submit to hypnosis unless they want to. And once they’re under hypnosis, people don’t do or say anything they don’t want to. Clearly, you wanted to be hypnotized. And you must have wanted to say what you said. I didn’t force you to talk to me; you volunteered.”
    What the hell had I talked about? Nick? Molly? The baby? My father? What?
    “Don’t worry.” He scratched his thinning hair, shedding some flakes. “I’m a doctor. You can trust me; what I’ve heard is confidential. And seriously, let me know if you want to continue. If we work in conjunction with your obstetrician, we should be able to ease your pregnancy and, down the road, your delivery. Meantime, we can reduce the effects of all this job stress.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. Oh, right. The memo. I’d forgotten. We might all lose our jobs.
    Somehow, in the light of our career crisis, Bertram’s efforts to reduce my stress seemed helpful and well-intentioned. I