Inconceivable

By Corrina Murdoch

Inconceivable weaves together the lives of four complex individuals, all tethered by a sinister force—the serial-abortionist Theresa, hell-bent on sowing chaos wherever she goes. Felicity, a tormented OBGYN, grapples with shadows from her past as she digs for the truth about the demise of her lover. James, California’s premier trauma psychiatrist, offers counsel under the guise of faith. And a philosophy student embarks on an existential quest to make sense of it all.

Felicity and James both bear the marks of Theresa’s prior deeds: one spiraled into a psychiatric facility, the other left emotionally scarred. As she resurfaces, the insidious thread of madness she brings stretches to its breaking point, forcing everyone into a desperate search for truth.

But Theresa has killed before, and she’s willing to kill again. Can Felicity and James untangle this web of insanity in time? What hidden secrets and obsessions haunt these doctors and their patients?

Inconceivable is a gripping psychological thriller that explores the corrosive power of obsession, the maze of paranoia, and the elusive nature of free will. As each character reckons with their past, they must make a choice that will define their future. Will they unravel the mystery before it consumes them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781638293354

Corrina Murdoch

Corrina Murdoch is a lifelong writer, working as a news reporter before self-publishing her breakthrough novel. She then cultivated a successful freelance writing career, contributing to magazines, websites, and academic projects. With a genuine passion for the written word, Corrina uses hyperbole to encourage readers to consider darker aspects of useful discourse, from a safe distance. When Corrina isn’t writing, you can find her in the great outdoors, swimming or running, and spending time with her wife, drinking tea and reading.

Book preview

About the Author

Corrina Murdoch is a lifelong writer, working as a news reporter before self-publishing her breakthrough novel. She then cultivated a successful freelance writing career, contributing to magazines, websites, and academic projects. With a genuine passion for the written word, Corrina uses hyperbole to encourage readers to consider darker aspects of useful discourse, from a safe distance. When Corrina isn’t writing, you can find her in the great outdoors, swimming or running, and spending time with her wife, drinking tea and reading.

Dedication

To my beautiful wife. You will always be my choice.

Copyright Information ©

Corrina Murdoch 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Murdoch, Corrina

Inconceivable

ISBN 9781638293347 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781638293354 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023923485

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgment

The Austin Macauley publishing team.

Proverbs 17:22

A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.

A gentle summer breeze runs through the windows, seeping through the industrial blinds that protect client privacy. It’s perhaps the most important aspect of what I do here. No amount of psychiatric help can benefit someone if it’s not done in confidence. Sometimes, it takes years to build that rapport. For others, it’s easier, but with my specialty, most take a while to open up.

I see my nameplate behind the desk in my office, adjacent to where I meet with patients. It’s cozier in here, while the treatment room is more sterile. No one that comes here needs the pretense that things are going to be alright with a candle and some journaling. A minimalist approach is better, even limiting the advertising to a small nameplate on the table. Dr. Robertson, California’s leading specialist in work-related extreme trauma.

The work is exactly as it sounds. I see police after they have suffered the trauma of taking a life on the job. Surgeons who failed to get that heart to resume its beating, even after they knew it’s a lost cause. Government agents with pain that seeps through every pore and aching military personnel who have no one else to tell. When I first started the practice, many thought I was crazed—as if there isn’t enough trauma out there to keep it sustained.

What they didn’t know was that I had already gone through the worst, most scarring event possible, and nothing they could ever say would be enough to throw me off my professional guard. Pair that with the help of some basic networking and referrals and five years later, I had the most lucrative psychiatric practice in the tristate area.

Now, we had two other counselors assigned to less traumatic cases. Each was carefully vetted and approved. Our receptionist keeps the office running, maintaining a professional, calm environment when the patients were anxious enough already. Regina has a genuine smile. I think that’s what does it. Or maybe it’s the ever-changing color of her acrylic nails that paint a bright and energetic contrast against her walnut skin.

The backbone of the office, she screens the calls, assigns a therapist, deals with public relations, and probably does even more tasks invisibly, allowing me to avoid even having to worry in the first place. All parts of the building are designed for confidentiality first.

The idea is to take the patients out of a setting of normalcy so they can rebuild outside their regular lives. You have to drive about twenty minutes out of the city, take a few strange turns, and navigate an industrial district.

It takes you to a below ground parking garage that also serves as an entry to my business. Yes, some other shady things might be happening in similar places. People seldom put this much effort into concealing truth unless it comes to shame or guilt. Believe me, I understand both, but only God is in a position to judge; I’m just here to help.

My first of the afternoon is Detective Stanley. He walks with a military pose into the waiting room, greeting Regina with what a trained eye can see as a smile. I can watch it on my security feed, and though I have a few minutes left to lunch, it feels rude to make him wait. Closing and locking the door that connects my office to my treatment room, I walk through to the treatment area and say, Gerald, nice to see you. Come on in.

I’ve been treating Gerald Stanley for the better part of a year. His face was all over the news after a police shooting and inquiry, even after he was fully acquitted of any wrongdoing. But the guilt never left him. In fact, he came to me worried that it was actually impeding his ability to make rational decisions.

For a brief while, it dipped into hallucinations and insomnia. Though his work psychiatrist had cleared him for duty, a lingering doubt led him to this clinic’s doors.

Despite his deep mahogany skin revealing more wrinkles than many of his age, and the tufts of hair showing grayer, he seemed lighter. Entering my treatment room, he looked up at the bare walls. Unlike most therapists, I keep the entire room sterile-looking.

My office might look like a comforting zone, but the treatment room is different by design. The furniture is white, as are the blinds, broken only by a horse figurine that my wife bought me and the foot-tall wooden cross that I hang on the east wall.

It’s usually the first thing that patients look at. While the website makes it clear that I offer services informed by my religion, sometimes that giant cross (and perhaps everything it entails) takes people aback. No one’s ever asked me, but the upfront reaction, and response over time, to that cross tells me so much about a person’s state.

Today, when Gerald walked in, he looked at it straight on and smiled so that his calm jaw lifted the muscles to his eyes. I knew then that it would be either his final or penultimate session. I couldn’t be happier. If I had any doubts, the fact that he stayed standing and avoided my eyes in an effort to save my feelings made me certain.

Though I appreciated the compassion, I wouldn’t taint the session with any doubt. That’s why Detective Stanley came here. A year ago, he was called to a violent scene that surrounded drugs and the kind of garbage that keeps kids as a safety net against any enemies.

Despite tenure, it took him off-guard when one of the known traffickers had pounced into his sights. The man dove toward the child, and the detective shot. It was unfortunate that the man rolled the boy over him. That the shot pierced the back of his spine, left to function in half. And it was Detective Stanley who carried that burden. It drove him mad at first, with a thirsty need to avenge the child that the media smeared with tales of his killer.

Eventually, it died down. There is a lot of tragedy in LA, especially when you look close enough. Gerald came to me after his mandated sessions ended through the LAPD. When the coverage died down, he still couldn’t overcome the guilt and confusion that turned each breath into a jagged pain that rang through to the soul. But he came, he saw, and I think that he conquered. The good detective was never much of a Christian, but when it came to right and wrong, he knew the difference.

I spoke before he could, in a way I feel compelled to do, one last ditch effort at helping avoid any discomfort for the patient, So, Detective, I am glad to see you today, because I wanted to discuss your progress thus far. As you know, we reassess routinely, and I want to use some of today’s session for this purpose.

The smile in Gerald’s creases deepened as he openly relaxed, legs spread and leaning forward thoughtfully, You know, Doc, I had my doubts about you. But you can see through me as well now as you could back then.

There was a brief pause before the patient continued, I think this is my last session, Doc. I feel alright. There’s no more haunting, just the fact of being alive. Did you hear that Darlene’s pregnant? I can’t wait. And you are the one that made it possible. When I pulled that trigger, and hell, in the months that followed, I couldn’t understand that there could be something else. Something greater. You saved us. I’ll always carry that boy’s memory in my heart and prayers, but it doesn’t strangle me anymore.

That makes sense, Gerald. You’ve atoned, and now it’s time for you and Darlene to forge something new, I said, with genuine enthusiasm. I’ve had the pleasure of knowing you and Darlene for some time now, and aside from Maria raving about her bake sale contributions, I know that you will make fantastic parents.

I honestly expected a less physical gesture, but the large man stood and walked over, meeting me in a genuine embrace. He spoke while pulling away, Doc, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I guess you might know this, because you guessed that I was ending my sessions and all but Darlene and I were wondering, would you consider being the godparents?

Even after a year of sessions, I didn’t see that one coming. Maria and I want children, without dispute, but I had kept our life private, a firm separation between work and home. Yet to gain the trust of a patient, it involves some vulnerability. Instead of feeling the weight of Maria’s inability to bear children and letting it fester as disappointment, we moved forward and found other ways to help the world.

For the first few years, we hoped God was just waiting for the perfect time. After two years, we both grew concerned. Parenting was the cornerstone of the life we planned. We consulted the doctors and searched for the source. I knew it couldn’t be me, but I kept that to myself. The results of the fertility doctors were devastating for us both.

Maria, unable to conceive due to an ‘inhospitable’ uterus, as if anything about that woman were less than ideal. It was different for me. That day, I learned that my chances of becoming a father were stolen again. Shame, grief, regret, and yearning led to me to take a full month off from the clinic.

The prospect of being a godparent, the honor mixed with bitter regret as I maintained composure. My left leg, the one injured long ago, twitched, but that’s my personal cross to bear. I always felt particular compassion toward the good detective, and looking at the man across from me, had the pleasure of seeing this man transformed.

I usually see people at their darkest points. Crossroads. Trauma. Memories. Pain. Guilt. Shame. It is my duty to help them find a way back to the light; it’s my penance for being unable to bring new light into the world.

Looking across at Gerald, I could clearly see that light within. Though the offer held good intentions, there was a pang like remembering an injury from your youth. It wasn’t a child of our own. And to actually parent this child would mean an untimely demise for both Darlene and Stanley.

Clearly, it was a gesture and one that made my heart inflate and left foot twitch as I answered, Well, of course! I’ll have to speak with Maria, but I can confidently say that we are honored. Especially since I take it this will be your last session with me.

He let out a breath and relaxed. Part of me was worried that this offer meant a codependent attachment to therapy, but looking at Gerald, he actually seemed relieved. Entering therapy is a challenge, participating is a challenge, but the biggest issue is ending those sessions. Removing that crutch and marching into the unknown.

Stanley spoke, I am so glad to hear that Doc, and yes, I wasn’t sure how to bring it up, but this is going to be my last session. I’m sorry if that takes you off-guard.

Uncharacteristic to therapy, I held up a hand and stopped him. Please, Gerald, let me tell you that the greatest reward in this business, strange as it may be, is when someone no longer needs you. Of course, the clinic offers transitional services, someone to follow up over the next year. But, from what it sounds like, I will be seeing you in the meantime. What’s the date of the christening?

A proud smile crossed his face before saying, Well, Darlene is entering the third trimester, so probably within the next few months. We’ll see you at church, and we can absolutely organize the meetings with the priest around your schedules.

My friend, I say as I stand, extending my hand for a shake. I do believe that everything will work out as it should. You’re a testament to courage, and it is an honor to have been of service and it’s now an honor to call you a friend.

We shake hands before he leaves, albeit forty minutes remaining in the session. There is no benefit that can come from furthering the moment. Therapy, like my experience through life, has the beginning, the middle, and the end. I sit in my chair; one I keep purposely uncomfortable as a method of keeping a focus on the patient and distinguishing myself from them. I would have to find a new client because as much as client success is a marvel, it’s also a blank slate in my timetable and bank statement.

My mind wandered, sitting in place, craning my neck to see the cross in the corner. Godparents? Was that our destiny? We are, while perhaps not young, not old either. I’m three weeks out from my 44th and Maria is a comfortable mid-30s. Just as I began to sink too deep into the echoes of could have been, I heard a rap on the door.

Like an angel, Regina appeared at the door with a refreshing smile and a stern, poised energy that lent cheer to any situation. She spoke in a melodic voice, easily changing tune to a situation like a radio dial, I saw Stanley out front. Just one more success to add to your books. It’s honestly amazing to be a part of something so transformative.

I stood while saying, And just like that, Regina, you’ve shined light on all the right things, but nonetheless, we may need to schedule some client interviews.

Well, Doc, that’s something I actually wanted to mention. I make a habit of performing regular vetting of our patient requests and referrals, and a strange one came in last week. Apparently, it’s a staff member at an abortion clinic in the city who is having concerns. Regina squinted before continuing, It seemed odd because—

The word abortion set a pit into my stomach, and I could feel the color draining from my face. No one here knows my past. Not even Maria. What I’ve lost, and the failure to stop it, it’s how life led me to this business.

Regina’s unknowing eyes went toward the cross, avoiding the obvious. I’ve always been a fan of straightforwardness and honesty, so rather than leaving Dumbo in the room, I say with a smile, Because I lead a faith-informed practice. That is unusual, especially since we are so clear about it. Don’t these clinics usually provide their own counselors?

I asked about that, but she was clear in wanting to speak to someone outside the clinic; stated concerns that she needed to discuss with someone who might take her seriously, Regina says in an even keel.

My knees buckled, running through a storm of possibilities and fears and regrets. It’s amazing how no number of sessions with patients or doctoral degrees hanging on the wall, when panic sets in, its claws sink in deep and can halt me in my tracks. I was perhaps still for too long. Hopefully, Regina didn’t notice because I looked up and asked evenly, Did she mention why here?

She said that she only felt comfortable speaking to you. No church affiliations or previous counselors on record. Steady employment. Our practice works because it has both secular and religious options, and it was my mistake, Regina trailed off again.

I shake my head back into cognition while saying, Wait, what mistake?

Regina never made mistakes. She spoke, with clear embarrassment but meeting my eyes, I thought—you know—because of where she works, that one of the other counselors was the right fit. That when she asked about you by name, that she meant the practice itself. But I was wrong. I had her booked with Dr. Centrists, but she refused, only willing to meet with you.

I tried to steady myself. In the last hour, some heavy-hitting subjects were picking at my trauma scabs. All I wanted was a moment to call my wife and hear her voice, listen to her worry about a new patient or the next church event. A cool glass of water and ten minutes to rest my eyes. I floated for a second before Regina did a gentle cough, saying, Sir, she’s still here. And requesting you see her.

At this point, the only role I could return to was psychiatrist. Godparents. Barren. Abortion. Trauma. It all clouded my vision, but like any doctor worth their salt, I can compartmentalize. Perhaps to prove something to myself, or maybe because of sheer desire for distraction, I nodded to Regina and said, Send her in.

Sure, I usually did a full week’s research on client history. But I had a feeling that after a brief stint in my treatment room, she would retreat. The Lord informs my counsel, and that should be sufficient. So, I stood, buttoning my shirt as Regina returned to the door with her iconic knock and said, Dr. Felicity Marx here to see you.

The person behind her was obscured until Regina shut the door with the two of us together, face to face. I felt like someone had punched my ribcage, the jab of forgotten familiarity that only leaves behind a tinge, a nuance of pain. A memory slipped away like sand as I caught myself silently staring at this woman with confusing familiarity.

The feelings flipped around for a moment, suspended in confusion. Was it anger? Regret? Memory? Something to do with Maria? With me? It began as fear and turned to an unfamiliar feeling, one I’ve experienced fewer than five times in my life; absolute disdain.

Technically, I should have left it there, but there was something in Felicity’s cloying eyes that was taunting. Dangerous. And enraging. I could ask her to leave. Instead, I found myself extending a hand, alarmingly stable in its action and calmly say, Felicity Marx. As her hand met mine, a shiver of disgust ran through me. I take it you are to be my newest patient, welcome.

I saw her smile and comfortably trek to the seat, as though she knew the place already. With a smile that churned in my roiling stomach, her lips parted in a smile that showed bleached teeth and mystery. She said, It’s a pleasure, doctor. We have so much to discuss.

Deuteronomy 27:25

Cursed be anyone who takes a bribe to shed innocent blood. And the people shall say, ‘Amen!’

It never quite gets old. The way that people see me and knowing that they could not possibly be more mistaken. The light blonde hair that bounces with curls at my shoulders catches eyes, quickly followed by notes on my gym-toned body and respectable dress. Subtle makeup, batting eyelashes, and greeting everyone with a smile, you’d be amazed how easily that does the trick.

They never see me coming. But they sure as hell notice when I go. The flutter in my abdomen brings a blush to my cheeks and with it, a thirst that is less easy to explain. People look at you gently. Paul certainly does, sitting beside me in the waiting room at the OBGYN. They’re about to tell us that this baby is healthy and thriving.

I know it’s my seventh time through this. A miracle Paul had called it. Since that hilarious day where the stick showed two lines, this man of pride is on his knees. Proposing. Literally. It wasn’t the first time. Now my behavior is better suited. The first time this happened to me, I almost cackled. Of course, that idiot had thought it was just the stress. Men are so forgiving, but it makes sense. I carry their life inside me. And with that comes all the power in the world. Trust me.

Paul fights back ignorant tears as he puts the diamond around my finger. It was a big one, but who actually likes a princess-cut diamond? I can probably get away with an easy five figures for it later. For now, I carry the power of three lives-this little parasite, his, and mine. It’s only 8 weeks, but here we are, about to see the good doc to give my fiancé and I the good news. Praise the Lord, am I right?

I hate these rooms, not for the machine or people fiddling around with my parts. Could you imagine a more careful environment, save the children, after all? It’s the smell. The odor of a hospital is like a fingerprint, and it’s my first time at this one. My mind wandered over a Rolodex of smells while Paul cried at a screen showing a lentil-shaped tumor growing inside me. I kid though. Truth is, I love the extra life and opportunities they give me. There is no power greater than holding a life inside you except, perhaps, knowing that you will choose and enact its demise.

People seem to like money, but that’s kind of boring, right? Everyone has a thirst for something, and mine is a two-way street. I take. I destroy. The goal is to do more of the latter than the former; it’s easier to gather power this way.

Burn it all down and laugh at the flood following the fire that people are always too stupid to see coming. The thought brings me back as Paul stares at the image while they take a screenshot. There’s a specific smell when you burn that ink, like I will soon burn the pic of the ultrasound, killing the remnants before moving on.

I listened to the hum of machines while the doctor ran through a script I’ve heard countless times. Healthy. Wealthy. And thriving. It’s like the punch line for a joke that only I can see. For a while at least. It’s 8 weeks. This state goes up to 24 weeks, but there are some that’ll let you go to term. I’ve got time to figure this out, while Paul continues to scramble for our new lives together.

To give some context here, I met Paul at some sort of mixer that I stumbled across in a nice hotel. I always loved their Negronis. This was 12 weeks ago. He’s some sort of bone surgeon, cutting open the flesh every day, losing patients, saving them, and raking in millions.

Top of the world, leading in his field, active in the community. Hell, this guy was probably going to run for office when bone cracking got old. It’s the funniest thing, and perhaps it was that shameless Georgian charm, Paul was my easiest one yet.

Apparently, the night that we met was to celebrate his genius at repurposing cadaver bone. I mean, you can’t think I’m the darkest one in the room if you’re Dr. Frankenstein over here getting an award. Charm is easy here, and so much better than Florida. The energy in the room moved with a practiced ease, and I picked up on the current quickly.

It led me to Paul. That led to a drink, and a chaste exchange of email addresses. I didn’t want to interrupt his day, after all. We laughed together flirtatiously for around ten minutes before the details exchange, and I quickly excused myself to mingle or rather to slip away into a cab I called five minutes ago under the name Linda. Company like this? There’s definitely a Linda.

He called the next day. We met for dinner on a Thursday. It gave me plenty of time to adjust. See, all you need is the hook to reel them in. It’s not a total overhaul, just the illusion of one. I found the perfect dress and shoes, even going to the local hairstylist to kick up a bit of gossip. The only problem was the humidity, wreaking havoc on my black mascara, creating a dribble that makes my green eyes look like a sea foam accident. He didn’t seem to notice.

That night led to another date, this one sooner and for lunch. The move to midday was a strange power play men meant to use, like dangling their nighttime magic as an actual carrot worth chasing. I sat through it with poise and giggled. I try not to sink that low, but it was a good move. Within the next two weeks,