Page 104 of Grave Matter

“You’re not well, Sydney,” Kincaid says grimly. “They have access to my files on the computer. They know what I’ve logged after our sessions. They know about your hallucinations. Your sleepwalking. They know you’ve seen ghosts.”

“No. No, because the things in the woods, those bears, the wolves, you saw them too. They’re real.”

“I know they’re real,” he admits. “And so do Everly and Michael. That’s not why they’re worried.” He pauses. “They’re worried for the same reasons I am, except I don’t need to lookat your brain, and I don’t need to prescribe you any medication. I know that all you need is time. Time to get well. Depression is a wound like any other. It takes time to heal. There is no quick solution.”

“But she drugged me,” I tell him. “She injected me.”

“You did try to attack her,” he points out.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why does it sound like you’re standing up for her?”

“Believe me, I’m not,” he says with a small smile. “I’m just letting you know the answers.” He gets up and opens a cupboard, pulling out my leggings, a clean pair of underwear, and my green sweater. “I went to your room and got you some clothes. Figured you would want to change. When you’re ready, and if you still want to, we’ll go to Everly’s office, together, and tell her that you’d like to leave.”

The idea of leaving gives me hope, and I’m grateful I don’t have to go alone. And yet, the thought of seeing Everly again makes me feel sick. Not just that I tried to attack her, which was kind of unhinged and embarrassing and did me no favors, but that she drugged me. She scared the hell out of me.

And she lied right to everyone’s faces.

“Can you tell me anything about Clayton?” I plead with Kincaid before he walks away. “Is he still alive?”

He pauses. “I’m not sure.”

“Did they…did they take him to run tests? Did they take him because he was bad? Because no one would miss him?”

Is that why I’m here?

Because they want to run tests on me, because no one would miss me if I disappeared? Was that their plan all along?

Were your sessions a way to somehow prove my worth to stay alive?

Did I prove my worth?

But I don’t voice those last questions. I’m too afraid of the answer.

And Kincaid doesn’t say anything. The look on his face, the steel grey of his eyes, tells me that he’s not allowed.

He leaves, closing the cabin door behind him for privacy, and I stare down at my tea for a couple of minutes, lost in thoughts that don’t make any sense, choked by a growing sense of fear.

I think I’m right.

I think they picked me because I was broken and alone, and they wanted to see whether I would crumble further or whether I could be saved.

How many times did Kincaid tell me he wanted to save me?

That he was supposed to protect me?

It wasn’t to protect me from myself, not entirely. It was also to protect me from them. It must have been a happy accident for them that I lost my scholarship—no one would notice at all if I never came back home.

Something snags in my thoughts, a prickle of unease, but when I try to focus on it, it floats away. It seems if I try too hard to think about anything, everything just dissolves.

I slowly get dressed, breathing deeply to keep the mounting dread at bay. The boat continues to rock, the waves coming in a little harder now, and on deck, the ropes start to bang against the mast.

The storm is almost here.

After I’m dressed, I make my way out of the cabin, pausing at the doorway to see Kincaid sitting at the chart table, staring at something in his hand that he quickly tucks away. He clears his throat and straightens up.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“How do you think? Like I’ve been drugged. Like I am losing my fucking mind because of the shit heap of lies everyone keeps telling me. Like if I stay here one minute longer, it’s going to beme in that tree next time, getting shot and dragged away to who knows where.” My heart is starting to race with anger, leaving me feeling woozy, and I have to lean against the doorway.

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