Page 5 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

There’s nothing there, of course. But at one corner, I find the familiar sight of letters scratched into the wood. D-A-I-S-Y, carved in crude markings. I run my fingertips over them and smile.

“Good night,” I whisper to the nothing beneath my bed, and climb under the covers.

Sadness comes, as it so often does. Silent tears trickling down my cheeks, turning to body-wracking sobs. There is an ache in my chest I cannot name. I want… Iwant.

This mattress was always too big for me. But it’s as soft as I remember, and eventually, sleep arrives. As I drift away, I can almost imagine the warmth of another, larger body wrapped around mine.

Chapter Four

The rest of the week passes in a blur. I clean and wander the empty halls and reacquaint myself with the house. I avoid the attic and try not to stare at the floorboards at the bottom of the stairs. Is there still a reddish tinge to the wood, or is it my imagination?

Just as I’ve built myself a safe place, I’m forced to leave it, because soon arrives the day I’m supposed to go to the Melsbach Research Facility.

My stomach ties itself into knots at the thought. There’s an itch under my skin, a nervous hum in my bones. Untapped energy with nowhere to go. I prefer to hide away when I feel like this, but I can’t when they’re dangling the promise of Dorian in front of me.

Dorian, Dorian. I’ve been trying so hard not to think his name or see his face in the empty corners of the house. I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself to hope for something. And there’s still a steady chant in the back of my mind—not real, not real, not real. It sounds like my parents, my psychiatrist, the MRF, and I still don’t know if I can trust my own voice above theirs.

I tremble through the entire drive over to that horrible, stark facility on the edge of town, and barely manage to squeak my name out to the security guard at the gate. When he calls in to the facility on the radio, I’m certain I’m about to be swarmed by men in suits. But the guard waves me through, and I walk inside. Right into the jaws of the waiting beast.

“Daisy?” I flinch. I’m still getting used to the idea of fitting myself into that name again. A young man approaches me. “I’m Ezra Bradford. Thank you for coming.”

Ezra is barely older than I am, reedy and nonthreatening despite his considerable height. His eyes are kind behind his black-rimmed glasses. His tie has dinosaurs on it. I stare at it; the MRF I remember isn’t the kind of place where men wearing dinosaur ties work.

“Thank you so much for coming here,” he says, and holds out a hand. “I know this must have been difficult.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that I was supposed to be at the airport this morning and wasn’t.

I bite the inside of my cheek and accept his hand. As our fingers brush, a strange feeling zips through me—some mixture of a static shock and an intense sense of déjà vu.

Ezra drops my hand and looks as taken aback as I feel. “Have we met before?” he asks, flexing his fingers before sliding them into his pocket.

“I don’t think so.” I’m certain we haven’t, but for a moment, it felt like Iknewhim. An instant connection. Not romantic, but the way I’d imagine I’d feel if I met some long-lost relative or someone I knew in a past life. But I shake it off.

“Could we step into my office?” Ezra asks.

I want to remind him he promised I could see Dorian. But saying it out loud will be as good as admitting I no longer believe he’snot real.I glance over my shoulder at the exit, and then back at Ezra. The silence hangs between us.

“My hope is that the better I understand him, the better care I can provide,” Ezra says.

The corners of my mouth twitch downward.Care, he calls it? I desperately want to retreat, but I can’t. I need to be brave. “Okay.”

Ezra guides me toward a bearded man in a security uniform. My eyes dart from his name tag—Hunter Barnes—to the scar that cuts across his cheek, and finally to my shoes.

“Barnes, this is the temp I mentioned,” Ezra says. “She’s here to consult on Subject X-15.”

I note the use of “X-15” instead of “Dorian,” like he’s been saying to me. The knot of anxiety in my gut winds tighter.

The security guard checks his clipboard. “Got it. You’re good to go.”

We step through the metal detector, and Ezra scans his ID card to open the door leading into the facility. He holds the door open for me.

I hesitate at the doorway, glancing over my shoulder once more, and force myself to step through.

The fluorescent lights, the too-white walls, the endless metal doors… I’ve never been to this place, but I’ve had nightmares that started like this. It reminds me of the mental hospital. My palms sweat as Ezra leads me through the halls. He stops in front of a door and I clasp my hands to hide their trembling.

His office is surprisingly cozy. A bookshelf in one corner holds a medley of books on ghost hunting and paranormal experiences, along with a Boba Fett figurine and an oversized D20. A coffee mug with an image of a cactus and the words “Don’t be a prick” holds pens on his desk.

It’s hard to connect someone like Ezra to the MRF agents I met on that night seven years ago. Still, I sit on the edge of the chair he offers, ready to bolt for the door if necessary. Across the desk from me, Ezra opens a folder and grabs a pen.

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