Page 175 of Heart of Frost and Scars

“I appreciate your concern,” I say, “but I need our relationship to remain professional. It’s important for my healing.”

“You’re right. I overstepped.” He adopts a soothing tone. “I thought you might need comfort, knowing how hard today must be for you.”

“What?” My heart stops.

“You don’t remember?” Pity draws his features as he scoots forward. “A year ago today, you were abducted.”

Of course, I fucking remember. But I never told him the exact date.

“How do you know that?” I stand, backing away.

“You told me, Frankie.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or maybe I saw it in the news.”

I don’t remember ever mentioning it. My mind races, trying to recall if I slipped, but nothing comes to mind. Suspicion coils in my gut and encases my skin in ice.

“I think we should end the session.” Heart racing, I move toward the door. “In fact, I’ll no longer be requiring your treatment.”

“Your therapy isn’t complete.” He stands, his expression unreadable. “We’re making progress, but you still have things to work through.”

“I’ll do it on my own.” I grab the door handle, my palm slick with sweat as I wrench it open.

Monty leans against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets and blue eyes crashing into mine.

One look at me, and he shoves off the wall and storms forward. “What’s wrong?”

“Doyle’s leaving.” Hugging my waist, I step to the side to let the man pass. “For good.”

“If you change your mind,” he says, exchanging a glare with Monty before turning to me, “I’m only a phone call away.”

Sensing my discomfort, Monty shifts and puts his broad frame between us. “She won’t be making that call.” He raises his voice. “Jasper?”

Jasper steps from around the corner. “Sir?”

“Escort Dr. Whitaker off the island.”

“Right away, Mr. Novak.”

With Monty blocking my view, I don’t know if Doyle glances back as he departs. I don’t care. When the front door shuts behind him, I release a serrated breath.

“What happened?” Monty pivots, bending his knees and leveling his gaze with mine.

“Did you tell him what today is?”

“I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Was it in the news?”

“No.” He blinks. “Not that I’m aware of. We kept dates and timelines out of the narrative. But a thorough journalist could’ve gleaned the details and posted it somewhere.” His jaw flexes. “What did Doyle do?”

“He touched my face. I told him it was unprofessional, and he mentioned how today must be hard for me.” A swallow sticks in my throat. “He must’ve spent some time looking for that date. But for what purpose?”

“He’s at the top of the suspect list.”

“I figured.”

“He’s not coming back.”

“No. I fired him.”

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