Page 41 of The Reckoning
“Yes, Mom,” I say, working to keep my tone light and casual. “It’s me.”
“Where have you been?” The relief in her voice quickly gives way to controlled anger. “I’ve been calling and texting for days. Your professors called because you’ve missed classes. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
The guilt hits harder than expected. For all our complicated history, for all the lies and manipulation, she is still my mother. Still the woman who held me through countless doctor’s appointments, who sat by my hospital bed, who built her life around my supposed fragility.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. “My phone died, and I’ve been caught up in a research project. Lost track of time.”
“Lost track of—” She cuts herself off, and I can practically see her counting to ten the way she does when trying to maintain composure. “Lilian, that is completely unacceptable. You know the rules. You know why we have protocols in place.”
The protocols. The check-ins. The constant monitoring that has defined my existence since childhood. All supposedly for my protection and health. All built on a foundation of lies I’m only beginning to understand.
“I know,” I say, falling back into old patterns despite myself. “I should have called. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it this time.” Her voice hardens, taking on the tone that brooks no argument. “I want you to come home. Today. Dr. Winters is coming by this afternoon to check you over.”
My blood runs cold at the mention of the family doctor—the man who’s overseen my “condition” for years, who administers my medications, who keeps meticulous records that I now suspect contain more fiction than fact.
“I can’t today,” I say, scrambling for an excuse. “I have a…presentation. For Professor Hendricks’s class.”
“I’ve already spoken with your professors.” The smug certainty in her voice makes my stomach drop. “They’ve been informed of your medical emergency and have granted extensions on all assignments.”
Of course she has. Mother has always been thorough in her control, always ten steps ahead of any attempted rebellion.
Across the table, Arson’s expression darkens, clearly reading the distress on my face. Aries moves closer, his hand coming to rest on the back of my chair—not quite touching me, but close enough that I can feel his presence like a physical weight.
“What time?” I ask, knowing I’m beaten, at least in this round.
“Four o’clock,” she says, triumph evident in her tone. “Don’t be late. And Lilian? I expect a full explanation when you arrive.”
The line goes dead before I can respond. I set the phone down carefully, as if it might explode if handled too roughly.
“Well?” Aries prompts when I remain silent.
“She wants me to come home today,” I say, still staring at the phone. “The family doctor is coming to check me over. Apparently, it’s a medical emergency.”
“You’re not going,” Arson states flatly, no room for discussion in his tone.
“I have to,” I counter, finally looking up at him. “If I don’t show up, she’ll call in the cavalry. Private investigators, police, whatever it takes. She’ll find me, and by extension, both of you.”
“Let her try,” he scoffs, but there’s uncertainty beneath the bravado. He knows as well as I do that Patricia Hayes doesn’t make empty threats or halfhearted attempts. When she wants something found, it gets found.
“It’s not just that,” I continue, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the morning warmth. “The doctor she mentioned—Dr. Winters—he’s been overseeing my ‘condition’ for years. Prescribing medications I’m not sure I need, running tests with results I never see.”
“The same doctor who diagnosed your heart condition in the first place?” Aries asks, his hand finally settling on my shoulder, a warm weight that steadies me.
I nod, swallowing hard against the lump forming in my throat. “The same one who’s been working with the Hayes Enterprises.”
The implications hang heavy in the air between us. If my suspicions are correct, if the files I found in the attic are to be believed, then my entire medical history could be fabricated. My heart condition exaggerated or even entirely invented as some kind of control mechanism.
Or worse—as some kind of experiment.
“What time did she say?” Aries asks, his voice taking on that measured quality that means he’s already forming a plan.
“Four o’clock,” I reply.
He nods, exchanging a look with Arson that contains more communication than they’ve managed in weeks of captivity and confrontation.
“That gives us time to prepare,” he says. “To figure out what they might be planning and how to counter it.”
