The Last Session: A Novel - Couverture souple

Bartz, Julia

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 1982199504 ISBN 13 : 9781982199500

Editeur : Emily Bestler Books, 2026

Synopsis

The instant New York Times bestselling author of The Writing Retreat “weaves psychology and mysticism into this strikingly original” (Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author) thriller about a social worker who, after coming face-to-face with her dark past, must infiltrate a mysterious wellness center in the deserts of New Mexico.

When a catatonic woman shows up at her psychiatric unit, social worker Thea swears that she knows her from somewhere. She’s shocked to discover the patient holds a link to a traumatic time in her own past. Upon regaining lucidity, the patient claims she can’t remember the horrific recent events that caused her brain to shut down. Thea’s at a loss—especially when the patient is ripped away from her as suddenly as she appeared.

Determined to find her, Thea follows a trail of clues to a remote center in southwestern New Mexico, where a charismatic couple holds a controversial monthly retreat to uncover attendees’ romantic and sexual issues. Forced to participate in increasingly intimate exercises, Thea finds herself inching closer not only to her missing patient, but also to tantalizing answers about her own harrowing past. However, time is running out, and if she stays for the last session, she too might lose her sanity…and maybe even her life in this “hypnotic fever dream of a book” (Jennifer Fawcett, author of Keep This for Me).

A propos du livre

À propos de l'auteur

Julia Bartz is the New York Times bestselling author of The Last Session and The Writing Retreat, a practicing therapist, and a creative coach. She lives in Brooklyn. Connect with her on social media @JuliaBartz.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

Chapter 1

1

“Why don’t we draw our greatest fears?” Ace cocked his head as he handed me back the stack of computer paper. “Or is that too dark?”

“That’s an idea.” Uncertain, I took my own sheet and set the stack neatly to the side. Was it too dark? I’d been thinking of asking the art therapy group to draw their favorite meal, but knew Ace and Lydia would reject it immediately. I was running out of ideas. There was only so much you could do with crayons, the sole approved materials: blunt, soft, safe.

“Don’t ask me about those, honey.” Lydia swept back her gray-streaked mane. She looked like a well-kempt Upper East Sider, incongruous with the sights and sounds of a public hospital’s inpatient psychiatric unit. “That’s a door you really don’t want to open.”

“Why not? Come on! You need to face your fears head-on.” Ace spun a red crayon in his fingers. “Right, Dr. Thea? Aren’t you always saying that?”

“Ace, you know I’m not a doctor.” I’d told him this multiple times to no avail. My coworker Amani had warned me during his first hospitalization, but being a naïve newbie, just off my two-year social work program, I hadn’t listened. Ace had seemed so friendly, so pleasant. But in addition to manic episodes that caused him to think he had to save the world from human-presenting aliens, he also had a sixth sense for messing with you.

“Miss Thea,” he corrected amiably, scratching the back of his shaved head.

“And when do I say that?” A bead of sweat rolled down my chest. Outside, the March sky was frigid, gray, and rain-speckled, but in this wing it was always so hot.

He stared at me. “Maybe you don’t.”

“All right.” Lydia plucked a black crayon. “Biggest fear. I’m in.”

“Great.” I jumped up and went to the window, struggling until it burst open—it stopped at two inches, so no one could slide through. Damp, cool air washed over me and I sucked it in greedily. My head ached from last night, when my roommate, Dom, had again canceled our reality-dating-show-and-takeout night and I’d unwisely opened and finished a bottle of sauvignon blanc. The fluorescent lighting did not help with hangovers.

When I came back to the table, everyone was admiring a drawing Lonnie proudly held aloft. He was the best artist of the small group, but didn’t follow instructions and always produced something just like this: a naked woman with flowing locks and enormous breasts. I’d tried to fight it, first stern, then cajoling, but it hadn’t made a difference. Now I just let it go.

It now seemed strange that I’d made the efforts to start this group in the first place. Past me of only a year ago had been a different person: a second-career thirty-two-year-old who had high hopes, who really thought she could make a difference. Current me, frankly, found her embarrassing.

“A woman,” I said evenly to Lonnie. “You’re scared of women?”

“Oh, deeply.” Lonnie set down the paper and shaded in his subject’s hair—orange, just like mine. I’d been shocked to find out Lonnie had been a college professor decades before. He’d gone on medication after his first psychotic break in his thirties, but had stopped taking it, devolved into psychosis, and subsequently lost his job and home. Recently he’d been taken into police custody after threatening people on a subway platform, and we were in the process of transferring him to a longer-term care facility.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lydia paused in her scribbling. “You think women are the scary ones?” She caught my eye, colluding with me.

“Maybe what you’re afraid of is intimacy, Lonnie?” I tried to sound open, curious. “That would make sense. A lot of people fear—”

“Nope.” He pointed the orange crayon at me. “You. All of you.”

“I think Lon has a point.” Ace sat back, folding his arms. “Because men are physically stronger, y’all have come up with your own weapons. Mental ones.”

“Mind control?” Lydia looked skeptical, but Lonnie nodded vigorously.

“Exactly!” He stabbed the figure’s right boob with the crayon. “My ex-wife was so good at manipulating me, I would’ve done anything for her. And you know how she repaid me? Stole all my money and ran off with our goddamn dog walker.”

Lonnie’s stories about his ex-wife changed daily. It was actually interesting how he mythologized her. I didn’t know if she’d even really existed. Lonnie was mostly stabilized by meds at this point but occasionally seemed to lose his grip on reality.

“They know just what to say.” Ace nodded sagely.

Lydia scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. You want to talk about what we have to put up with? Fear of men attacking us, raping us, killing us.”

“Here we go.” Ace rolled his eyes.

“Oh, so it’s not true? So I’m just making it up? You hearing this, Red?” She turned to me, but I concentrated on dumping out more crayons. There were incredibly disturbing stats on women and domestic violence, of course—but I also knew jumping into the fray would just make it worse.

“Calm down.” Lonnie waved a dismissive hand.

“You’re just going to sit there and let them talk shit about us?” she asked me, her volume increasing.

“Why don’t we focus on the prompt. What are you drawing?” Hopefully, I could head off one of her rages, which were rare but legendary. Before she could answer, Ben, the fourth and mostly silent member of our group, let out a prolonged groan. He held the sides of his head and stared down at his paper as if he’d made an unforgiveable artistic mistake.

“Shut up, Ben,” Lydia spat. For some reason, she treated him like a bratty teen instead of the half-catatonic sixty-year-old he was. He was on a powerful dose of meds for schizophrenia and was also in the process of being moved to another care facility. He’d spent most of his time in the TV room, but had shown up for art therapy the previous week, where he’d peacefully doodled cartoon characters.

“Hey.” Ace straightened. “Don’t talk to him that way.”

“Or what?” Lydia faced him. “You’ll use one of your trusty male weapons? Kill me? Rape me?”

“Don’t worry, honey.” Ace smirked at Lonnie, who smirked back. “No chance of that.”

“Oh, I’m too old and gross, huh?” Lydia stood so fast her chair fell over. “Is that what you’re saying, you piece of shit?”

“Hey.” I set down a crayon. “Everyone, let’s just—”

“You got it!” Ace chuckled, unbothered. “No one wants to see your ugly ass.”

Lydia’s pale face flushed tomato-soup red.

“Watch out!” Lonnie called, gleeful. “The old hag will slit your throat.”

“Stop.” I said it loudly, but no one paid attention.

“Maybe I will slit your goddamn throat,” Lydia yelled, her shout bouncing around the small room.

“What is going on in here?”

We all turned. My boss, Diane, stood in the doorway, eyebrows near her hairline.

“Nothing.” As if a switch had been flipped, Lydia calmly plopped back in her seat. Ace and Lonnie went back to coloring, docile as schoolboys.

“Well, it doesn’t sound like nothing.” Diane strode in, her trademark block-heeled pumps clicking on the floor. Diane was only a little over five foot two, but the power she held here was incredible. I’d brought it up once with Amani. Transference. She’d shrugged. Everyone sees Diane as Mommy.

“Hi, Diane.” Guilt and embarrassment flooded my system. I felt like my teacher had asked me to monitor the classroom and returned to find that I’d completely lost control.

Diane stood behind Ben’s chair, peering down at the scribbles. Lonnie had deftly flipped his paper over and was now drawing a large tree.

Lydia offered Diane a rare grin. Several of her lower teeth were stubs, melted by meth use. She’d been brought in after having a psychotic break at her inpatient rehab program, where she’d punched her roommate. We were hoping the program would take her back.

“We’re just talking about our greatest fears.” Lydia tapped her paper. “I was going to draw a clown. They freak me out.”

“Mine is intimacy,” Ace jumped in smoothly. He pointed to his paper, where he’d quickly drawn two stick people next to each other.

“Oh yeah?” Diane peered down. She’d been unsure about the art group to begin with.

“Ben’s fear is failure,” Ace went on, unable to keep an amused smile off his face.

“That’s a pretty… intense prompt.” Diane looked over at me.

“Our idea,” Lydia said quickly. “Not hers. She wanted us to draw our favorite animal.”

Now they were protecting me. The hangover headache resurged.

“Sorry if we were getting loud,” I said. “People were feeling real passion for the topic.”

“Okay. Well.” Diane stepped back. Clack. “Thea, can you come to my office when you’re done here? There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Ooh,” Ace murmured under his breath, like I was getting called to the principal’s office.

“Sure,” I said breezily.

Diane left and the rest of the hour passed slowly. Ace, Lydia, and Lonnie continued to quibble, but the dangerous tension of earlier had dissipated. At the end I gathered up the crayons as the others threw their papers away.

“What’s that?” Lydia pointed to the paper I’d mindlessly scribbled at. Before I could look down, she snatched it and held it aloft.

“Is this a cunt?” Her voice was gleeful.

And I guess you could see it that way: a scribbled space, becoming darker in the center.

“Something on your mind?” Ace winked. “You know, I could give you some tips.”

“Caves.” I said it quickly, willing the incoming blush down. If I blushed in front of them, I was done for. “I have a fear of caves.”

“Scary,” Lonnie agreed in a rare moment of solidarity. Maybe he was just glad I’d let him draw breasts the whole time. They walked out together, chattering, Lydia taking Ben’s arm to lead him back to the TV room. I was reminded ridiculously of The Breakfast Club.

I stared at my paper for a moment. I hadn’t really been thinking of it—I’d mostly been pondering what Diane wanted to talk to me about, and where to get lunch—but I had dreamed about a cave last night. I’d been trapped in a tiny space. I didn’t remember the dream, just the setting: cold, damp, wet.

The memory triggered a curl of terror in my chest. I crumpled the paper up and tossed it in the trash with the others.

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Emily Bestler Books
• Date d'édition: 2026
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 1982199504
• ISBN 13: 9781982199500
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 368
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: Simon and Schuster Netherlands BV, GPSR Europäische Union; info@simonandschuster.nl; ; Herculesplein 96; Utrecht; 3584 AA; Pays-Bas