Page 17 of Dying to Meet You

“Have you talked to Eden today?” Bringing up she stayed with Caleb last night could spark a discussion from Blaine riddled with jealousy, but I take the risk anyway.

He burps Zeb, then looks me dead in the eye before actively avoiding answering my question. Picking up a funky-looking piece of art shaped like a duck from the table, he says, “What in the paper-mâché voodoo is this shit?”

“In other words, she did and you’re keeping secrets or she didn’t, but you know there is an issue?” Come on. He acts like we don’t go through this same dance every few weeks. One of them will be upset, they cover for one another, I can tell, but instead of just including me I’m forced to press them.

Then they wonder why I share more information with Keir. I’m not choosing favorites; I get shut out.

He rubs Zeb’s back while digging around for the pacifier that fell on the couch, mumbling, “I know about the note.”

Good. All of us should be on the same page. It’s more effective for protecting her. “Tomorrow morning there will be a security detail of agents here.” The incredulous look he gives me prompts me to cut him off before he gets going. “Period. We’ll take all the help we can get. With the anniversary of Camp Carroll coming up, the note, and the copycat killings…we need to be careful.”

For seconds, Blaine’s mouth is in a stern line. I watch as he steps my way.

I’m caught off guard by the effect watching him move toward me has. He’s been busy in the gym. I can see the bulge of his biceps through his shirt, the plumped-up curve of his ass, and the raised veins of his forearms.

Sweet fucking damn. If it’s possible he’s getting even hotter. I’m acutely aware of how long it’s been since I’ve had him.

Smiling into the kiss he lays on me, he says, “Standing on business, huh?”

I wish it weren’t the case, but I’ve grown to rely on my intuition. The resurgence of The Realists would be devastating, but a copycat cult or killer isn’t any better. “I am.”

My hand finds the back of his head, pulling him in tighter for another kiss. The effect is a rod-hard erection. But there won’t be any indulging tonight; I have work to do and phone calls to make.

Chapter Eight

Sounds stable

Eden

Myquickstepsthroughthe wooded area around the center are fraught with anxiety. The last place Nialak had been seen was near the exit at the back of the building. I’m ready to turn back when I come around a tree and almost trip over him lying in the fetal position striking his head with a stick.

Kneeling next to him, I try to be soothing. “Can I have this? Nialak…can I have the stick? Please? Let go of it, that’s it. That’s it.” I sit cross-legged next to him, tossing the stick away from us. Other than a couple small scratches he appears physically okay. “Can we talk about it?”

With a halting voice, he says, “I-I-I’m bad.”

In varying degrees, this is the sentiment shared by many of my patients. Their self-worth was destroyed by the control inflicted on them, the lies they swallowed, and the acts they were forced to partake in. When the belief system they ascribed to starts to fall apart, they see themselves in a negative light.

“Nialak, what makes you think that?”

Take apart the instilled thoughts, strip away the lies and the patients can start to rebuild. Hopefully. There are times it doesn’t work. Some patients find living in the real world too daunting, and they return. Or take their lives.

I listen to him as he struggles to find the words, to tell me why he thinks he’s a bad person. It’s a fight to keep my own brutal thoughts about myself out of the mix. Dr. Almari’s words are still tearing me up. Her nasty assessment of me called forth the voice I hear in my nightmares.

“You’re nothing but an abomination. You were never meant to exist.”

Dr. Wallen finds us sitting next to the towering oak, Nialak still balled up. “I can take over here if you’d like. You have a call from home.”

I stand after a nod to him. His extensive work using hypnosis with Nialak could come in handy right now. When he gets stuck at a low point, talking him back to reason is difficult.

“Well, please pray for my husband Blaine. He had a tickle in his throat, dry eyes, and the thermometer read ninety-eight point six this morning. He feared the end was near.” I’m kidding, but between Zach getting a stomach bug, Blaine starting to feel under the weather, and my current hypervigilance because of that note, I need to find some levity.

Dr. Wallen chuckles. “I can take your last two patients if you need to leave.”

On the walk back, it hits me-why would they call the center? I have my cellphone on me. Looking at it, there are no missed calls. A pit forms in my stomach. This feels suspicious…intentionally unsettling.

The blinking red light on my desk phone indicates a held call. I pick the receiver up with a shaky hand. “Hello?” I hold my breath briefly before saying, “It’s me. Is something wrong?”

I almost hang up. Then I hear, “Eve?”

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