Page 43 of Phantom
Relief floods my veins. Worst-case scenarios have been flying through my mind ever since Jaime said he had to count them. Seven is a lot, but it seems manageable.
Ever the silent shadow, Sabine sidesteps into the darkness, allowing Dr. Portia’s short frame to pass by. My brother follows behind her with her large medical bag hanging from his shoulder.
“Come in, but stay quiet,” I order in a hushed tone as my guests walk past me.
By the time I turn back to Sabine, my second-in-command has disappeared into the darkness, no doubt resecuring the tunnels. Normally, my security cameras and shadows operating outside the opera house are more than enough to prevent unwanted visitors, but I’d texted her right before bringing Scarlett to my home to ensure I had yet another safety measure in place.
Up until my meeting with Rand, I had no reason to think Scarlett wasn’t safe inside the Bordeaux Conservatory. Unfortunately, if anyone realizes just how much my obsession with Scarlett Day consumes me, my enemies would tear her apart to get to me.
The dim lamps inside my foyer barely illuminate the concern clouding Dr. Portia’s face. Ben’s frustration rolls off of him in waves. Even without good lighting, I can tell he’s pissed, but I’ll have to deal with him after I know Scarlett will be okay.
“Sol, where’re the goddamn lights? Not everyone has cave vision—” I flick the switch next to the door, setting the overhead lights ablaze. Ben winces as they flare throughout, revealing the small entryway and hallway leading to my kitchen, den, office, spare bathroom, and bedroom. “Shit, that’s bright after those dark tunnels. But, thanks—”
I lift my hand to silence him, making sure I can still hear Scarlett’s heavy, labored breaths. Each pause causes anxiety to spike my heart rate, but the fact that she’s breathing at all settles me a little bit.
I lower my hand, unveiling Ben’s frown. “Sol, what is going on? Why did I have to leave my family late at night?”
Ignoring him, I turn to the psychiatrist our family has had on standby for the past decade.
“There’s a woman in my bedroom—”
“Well that’s a first,” Ben huffs.
Dr. Portia’s eyes widen as she waits for me to continue. They both know how protective I am of my space and Ben at least knows that I’ve never entertained a woman in my quarters.
I push past their shock and extract a pill bottle from the bag Sabine and Jaime used to collect Scarlett’s medication.
“She took these…”
Dr. Portia dons her glasses before accepting the bottle. The wrinkles around her inquisitive dark-brown eyes crinkle further as she examines the label. “Epilepsy or bipolar disorder?”
“Bipolar type one.” I rattle off the medical reports I memorized after she was released from the hospital nearly a year ago. “History of psychosis and auditory hallucinations during severe manic episodes. She also experiences irritability, reckless tendencies, and alternating periods of depression. Episodes are made worse or triggered by lack of sleep, missed medications, and extreme stress.”
“Jesus, Sol, you sound like a goddamn medical infomercial,” Ben scolds but I just shrug. “I had no idea you were in this deep.”
Scarlett and her mental health have been my top priority ever since her father was murdered. I’d only been watching over her for a month prior to her hospitalization last year, but I realized then that my fascination with her ran deeper than mere infatuation. I thought it’d peaked at obsession, but the tangible grip she has on my chest is indescribable, completely different than any fixation I’ve had before.
“If she takes this, what seems to be the problem? Is she in the middle of an episode?” Dr. Portia asks.
“That’s the thing, I don’t think so. As far as I know, she’s been in remission for months, but tonight she took well over her prescribed dose.”
“Fuck.” Ben swipes his hand on his face, a habit I broke a long time ago thanks to my mask. Right now, though, my hands itch to do something—anything—to get the restless energy out.
“Do you know why?” Dr. Portia turns the bottle over. “And how many?”
“She claims she just wanted the panic to stop? She was coming down from a panic attack when she explained herself. I’m not sure how many she took. But her bottle is new and there are seven missing. I forced her to vomit them up because I wasn’t sure how toxic they could be at that level.”
“Hm… the issue date is from today. Has she been taking her medication as prescribed otherwise?”
I open my mouth to say yes, that I’ve made sure of it, but what about just last night? I’d arrived to her room late after getting held up at Masque so I missed most of her nightly routine, but she’d taken an older medication that makes her exhausted.
“I… I don’t know,” I finally admit, hating that I don’t have all the answers. “She mentioned last night that she lost her medication.”
Ben scowls at me the entire time I explain to the psychiatrist what it is Idoknow about Scarlett’s disorder. Dr. Portia, to her credit, keeps whatever judgments she likely has hidden behind her mask of practiced concern.
“I see…” she replies once I finish showing her Scarlett’s other bipolar prescriptions, vitamins, and allergy meds.
I’ve got to hand it to Sabine and Jaime, they were thorough. My poor little muse’s proverbial medicine cabinet is like a goddamn drugstore.
