Page 17 of Cole's Command

Silly. Squeezing her eyes closed, she pulled in a breath. It’s silly to allow a pen to become so meaningful.

Releasing the air, Eden shook her head. It was illogical to continue an attachment to a physical possession. Her father had passed on, and she could rationalize his death, but it didn’t stop the pang that echoed in her heart when she thought of him. However ridiculous it was, she accepted that having the pen close and using it when she wrote up her notes consoled her. That was no-doubt part of the reason she insisted on writing the notes by hand in the first place.

“Come on, Dad,” she whispered, directing the pen toward her leather-bound notebook. “Let’s do this.”

Scrolling on her laptop, she opened the list of clients whose notes she needed to write up and scanning the record, one name leapt out from the screen.

Cole Vaughn.

Agitated energy fluttered in her tummy as Cole’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. He was certainly an interesting case, and Eden was glad he’d walked through her door. She’d meant what she told him in the office too—it was highly unusual for a guy his age to demonstrate such self-awareness. Most were happy to either blame other people for any perceived woes or dampen their feelings with alcohol, caffeine, and potentially other drugs. Cole had mentioned a proclivity for socializing, but she had the sense that he realized how deep that dark hole could go if he toppled into it. A man who didn’t understand how dangerous those distractions could be wouldn’t have found his way to a therapist at all.

“So, why is he in therapy?” she murmured, writing Cole’s name at the top of her notepad before jotting his client number beside his name.

Based on their limited interaction so far, it seemed most of his concerns were rooted in his family.

Sounds familiar.

He had spoken with heart about his brothers, and she believed he shared a good relationship with them, but Cole had only started to open up to her when the conversation shifted to his father.

That’s ironic. Her gaze flitted to her pen. We all have Daddy issues.

‘Daddy issues?’

She gasped at the voice, spinning around so fast that she nearly toppled her laptop onto the carpet below.

“Who’s there?” Her heart galloped as she jumped to her feet and lurched for the light switch.

But she didn’t know why she asked. Eden already knew the answer. She recognized the voice that had spoken. She’d know it anywhere. It was her father’s voice, but she just couldn’t bring herself to admit it.

“Who’s there?” She shouted this time, conscious of the fury furling inside of her as she paced around the room. “Stop this, Dad!”

Balling her hands into fists, Eden fought to control her breathing.

This is nonsense! It’s not Dad, and you know it.

It wasn’t so much the voice she’d heard that inspired her anger, but the frustration she felt for hearing it. She was creating Ray’s presence. Her scientific reasoning already knew his voice was nothing but a byproduct of her grief. There was no such thing as ghosts—no evidence to prove energy survived death—and there was solace in that reality.

That’s why I cling to it.

Switching off the light, Eden sank back into her chair. She refused to accept that her father was haunting her. It. Just. Wasn’t. Happening.

If he’s not here then why am I so rattled?

Her brow furrowed as her heart rate finally began to quell. Glancing at her notes, she reached for her pen, grasping it in her hand as her eyes fell shut.

“Dad?” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “Are you here?”

A part of her couldn’t believe she was even asking. Eden had seen patients in the past who’d spoken to the figments of their own imaginations, but she’d never once believed she would be one. But sitting there, it no longer seemed possible to deny it. Either everything she had learned to believe about space, time, and reality was built on false assumptions and an energy that had once been her father was there in her apartment, or she was going insane—seeing and now conversing with entities that weren’t truly there. She couldn’t decide which was the least appealing outcome.

“Get a grip!” she muttered, gripping the pen in her palm as she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I have far too much to do to sit here going through this.”

‘That’s because you work too hard.’

The rhythm of her heart spiked as Ray’s voice reverberated, this time coming from the opposite corner of the room from where she’d first heard it. Steeling herself, Eden forced her gaze open, and there between her wall-mounted plasma screen television and another family portrait was a silhouette that resembled her late father.

“Dad?” Her throat dried as she took in his outline. Everything from his large hands to his salt and pepper hair was exactly how she remembered him being.

‘Because you see me.’

---