Page 84 of Cruel Cravings

Whereas I’m being pulled into bad memories of my sessions with Dr. Wolford, it seems the same thing is happening with Brontë.

He’s stopped in front of the psychiatrist’s desk to peer at the framed photographs on display.

I hover where I am, my skin prickling as familiar feelings arise. The same feelings I’ve let take me over so many times that there’s no stopping it.

Once the paranoia seeps in, I’m no longer myself. Why would Brontë bring me here if he’s not…

“We need to leave,” I say. “This isn’t where I’m spending the night.”

Pulling my jacket tighter, I force myself to move. I move toward the door before I stop after a couple more steps.

Nope. I’m not going to run again. Not before I get answers.

“How did you know the code to his office?” I demand, turning back around. “You entered it like you knew it by heart. How would you know that?”

Brontë’s motionless, his massive frame still standing over the desk. The bright light from my phone catches the sharp edges of his mask, illuminating the darkness in his eyes.

Something’s on his mind.

“Youknowhim.”

Nothing. Just silence.

It drives me crazy, stretching between us, taut as a wire. I glare at him, refusing to give up this time.

“Were you a patient of his?” I press.

Brontë finally looks up. His head turns slightly, just enough for his gaze to meet mine. “Something like that.”

“Then what?—”

“He’s my father.”

26.Jael

Bad Things - Summer Kennedy

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking out any breath I have left. I go from frozen in place, so shocked I can’t breathe, to bursting with movement.

“You’re working for him!” I scream, shaking my head. “You brought me here so he could take me back!”

I spin on my heel and dash for the door.

Brontë beats me there. His giant strides quickly bridge the gap between us so that I’m crossing the threshold and he’s already within reach to snatch me back.

“Don’t put your hands on me!” I scream into the otherwise silent office.

He’s hooked an arm around my stomach and dragged me away from the door. I kick my feet and scratch at his forearms as the air locks inside my lungs and the room tilts.

I’m lightheaded, yelling at him to release me.

Dr. Wolford, my therapist—the man who kept me trapped in the hospital for years—is the father of the man who has been stalking me all along.

The mere thought makes me sick to my stomach. It makes me feel like I’m losing my mind all over again.

It’s all been some conspiracy against me. Some well-coordinated, well-organized effort to keep me down and make me suffer.

“How could you?” I cry out, tears watering my eyes. “How could you do this to me!?”

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