Page 18 of Devoured
He hesitated, then his shoulders dropped. “Take care,”he murmured—to me, not to her.
Then he was gone, and I was left with Dr. Alan’s Cheshire-cat smile.
“Shall we?”she said, stepping aside.
I crossed the threshold on my own. My feet slowed—not from fear, exactly but more like instinct. The body knowing when to brace, even if the mind isn’t ready.
Behind me, the door clicked shut.
Chapter 7
Dr. Varnar’s office looked nothing like the rest of St. Dymphna. No plastic furniture or scent of bleach. Instead, it was all dark wood and leather, with a Persian rug on the floor and black-and-white photographs of empty beaches on the walls. Real books lined real shelves, and heavy curtains blocked the window completely.
He stood when I entered, and I immediately understood why Marion had warned me. He had that particular kind of handsomeness that made you want to look away—a well-sculpted face, pale eyes that seemed to strip you bare with a glance. His hair was dark, silvering at the temples, cut short. The charcoal suit he wore was tailored so perfectly it looked like a second skin. When he smiled, it stopped at his mouth. Nothing else in him moved. I felt it—the same way I did with Dr. Alan. That careful, practiced charm. Like they’d both learned how to appear human without ever quite being it.
“Mrs. Quinn,”he greeted. “I’m Dr. Varnar. Please, sit.”
“Ms. Mitchell,”I corrected. “Or just Zahra. My husband is dead.”
Something flickered across his face—interest, maybe, or amusement.
“Of course. My apologies, Ms. Mitchell.”
The leather chair he indicated was positioned slightly lower than his, so once we were both seated, I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes. I recognized the tactic. Some men needed that angle to feel superior.
“Water?”he offered.
I shook my head. My throat was desert-dry, but taking anything from him felt like accepting a collar.
He lifted a folder from his desk. My name was printed in black ink on the tab. His fingers were long, manicured. He didn’t open the folder right away—just let it rest on his palm like he was weighing it. Weighing me.
“How did you sleep?”The question sounded casual. It wasn’t.
“Fine.”The lie came easily. I wouldn’t tell him about the hooded figures, the ritual blade, the chanting that still echoed in my skull. Sanctificati in dolore. Per ignem redempti. The words had carved themselves into my brain.
“No nightmares? No... disturbances?”
The way he said disturbances made my skin crawl. Like he already knew what had happened in my room. Like he’d been watching somehow as I lay curled on that mattress, too terrified to close my eyes.
“I don’t remember my dreams.”Another lie.
“Interesting.”He made a note without looking down. “First night is usually difficult. This building has a way of... welcoming new arrivals. The walls here have seen so much over the years. Sometimes new patients report strange experiences. Visions. Sounds.”
He paused, watching my face. “But you don’t believe in such things, do you?”
“No.”I lied again.
“Good. We deal in reality here.”
He finally opened the folder, scanning pages he’d clearly already memorized.
“Tell me about your marriage.”
“It was normal,”I said.
“Normal.”He repeated the word like he was tasting it. “Such an interesting choice. You know what I find fascinating, Zahra? How women like you—intelligent, capable women—can normalize years of pain. It’s actually quite remarkable.”
The compliment felt like an insult. My vision blurred at the edges, and suddenly I wasn’t in his office anymore. I was back in my house, Theo’s hands around my throat, squeezing until the world went gray.
