Page 8 of Born To Be Bad

Ariana’s searching eyes are quite beautiful. “You said Stockholm Syndrome?”

I clear my throat, nervous, not wanting to put my foot in it.

“I’ve heard of it,” she continues. “But I’m not sure what it is, exactly.”

“You’re not going to like it,” I warn.

“Give it to me,” she replies.

I take a breath. I don’t want to make an enemy of Ariana. I rub my clammy hands on my thighs. “It’s this really complex psychological phenomenon where hostages develop an emotional bond with their captors. It's named after a bank robbery in Stockholm, Sweden, back in the 70s, where the hostages ended up siding with their captors and even defended them after they were freed. It's rare, and bizarre, but it happens.” They’re both still staring at me, so I go on, despite not being good at monologues. “There is trauma bonding. The victim starts to empathize with the captors as a survival strategy. They might begin to see any small acts of kindness like being given food or not being hurt are signs of compassion. This happens in POW camps. Over time the skewed perception grows and the victim starts to identify with, and even defend, the abuser.”

“De Luca was not an abuser,” insists Ariana. “I grew up surrounded by love.”

Her heart monitor starts beeping a little fast for my liking. I wonder if we should be calling someone.

“I have absolutely no authority here,” I reply. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through. I’m here to support Alistair—and you, Ariana, if you’ll let me.”

“What is the treatment for this?” asks Alistair.

Ariana’s agitated. She shrugs. “It’s not relevant, so why ask?”

I choose my words carefully. I can always speak candidly later, when we’re not in the same room as his sister. “Slow and careful de-programming.”

She snorts derisively. “Like when you leave a cult?”

I don’t smile. “Yes. Like when you leave a cult.”

“Again,” she snaps. “Not relevant here.”

There is a gentle knock on the door. The nurse sticks her head in. If she can sense the tension in the room, she doesn’t show it. “Time for us to run some tests,” she says. “You can come back a little later, if you like.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” says Ariana. When the nurse gives her a quizzical look, she quickly adds, “I’m exhausted. I really need to sleep.”

“That’s not surprising, dear,” replies the nurse. “You’ve been through a lot.”

We leave Ariana to her tests and recovery, trudging back to the waiting room.

“We need Dr. Sandingham,” I say.

“I’m one step ahead of you,” Alistair replies, already dialing.

The waiting room, previously eerily quiet, is now buzzing with talk.

“Darlings!” calls Isobel, her arms out to embrace us. She has a small wound dressing near her eye where one of the bullets scraped past her. Gregory and Christopher are also there, along with Brumilde, the baby, Henderson, and Lucky. A house full of Ravens.

Alistair raises his hand in greeting but stays on the phone. I accept Isobel’s hug gratefully.

“The surgeon filled us in,” she effuses, “My darling Ivy, I’ll never be able to express how indebted I am to you. Truly.”

“Oh,” I reply, cheeks burning. “The surgeon is the one who saved Ariana’s life. I just supplied a bandaid.”

Isobel clutches my arms, pushing me away to look into my eyes. “That’s bollocks and we all know it.”

“Language,” mutters Christopher.

“We were in shock,” continues Isobel, “and you had the presence of mind and the skill to stop the bleeding. You saved my daughter’s life, and I’ll never forget that.”

I look at Henderson, who is talking to Lucky. Henderson had covered my body with his when the shooting began, and had taken out the attacker who had me in his sights. He had saved my life. So I guess we could go back and count who saved who, and the consequences thereof, and it would ricochet like a pinball machine.

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