Page 113 of Hide and Seek
I can’t help but laugh before immediately regretting it as pain shoots through my midsection. “Apparently I’m the real deal,” I tell her, shrugging it off as though it’s not a big deal. “At least that’s what GI Joe over here thinks.”
“Ugh, men,” she mutters. “But don’t worry about it too much. I had my own little menty B a few months back and wound up in this very bed. They gave me a few weeks off, some stress relievers, and after some mind-blowing sex, I was good as new.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I just need to get dicked down on a beach in Barcelona, and I’ll be good?”
“Sounds perfect to me.”
Amelia and I chat for a little while, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t push me for details about what went down to land me in a psych ward, and soon enough her pager sounds, dragging her away. “Ahh shit,” she mutters, scooping up what’s left of her lunch. “Gotta run, but if you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll check in.”
She barely has a chance to say goodbye before she’s racing out the door, needing to get all the way back down to the trauma center to do her thing.
The door has barely finished swinging closed behind her when somebody else gently pushes it back open, a soft knock sounding on the door frame as they enter.
My gaze snaps back to the door to find the head of psych striding into my room, a clipboard braced in her hand, and a too cheery smile on her face. Dr. Carzy, or as she’s better known among the residents, Dr. Crazy. She’s the best of the best, top of her field, and it’s an honor to have her looking over my case, but I can’t help but wonder why they feel they need to send in the big wigs. Am Ithatmessed up?
As if sensing that this is a private moment, Knight gets to his feet and offers me a small smile. “I’ll grab you some lunch.”
“Thanks.”
He disappears a moment later, leaving me alone with Dr. Carzy.
“Dr. Madden,” she says, making her way over to the end of the bed. “How’re you doing? It’s been a long time since I’ve had you on my service.”
I smile politely. There’s a good reason for that. I like to cut, and up here in the psych ward, we’re specifically encouraging people not to play with sharp objects. “Yeah, I’m doing my residency in forensic pathology, so when I’m not vacationing in the psych ward, I’m usually in the morgue.”
She immediately writes something down and it makes my stomach sink. “I see,” she says.
“That . . . uhhh, that was a joke,” I clarify, slightly panicked.
“Yes,” she says, offering another forced smile before shifting on her feet. “I wanted to let you know how this was going to go and what you can expect. You’ve been placed on a seventy-two-hour hold where we are monitoring the state of your mental health and whether you are a danger to yourself or to others.”
Seventy-two hours? More like a whole lifetime.
I shake my head. “I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I tell her. “So feel free to sign whatever forms you need to sign, and I’ll be on my way.”
Dr. Carzy watches me for a moment before her lips pull into a tight line. “Wishful thinking. However, I’ll be the judge of that,” she eventually says. “For today, we’ll mostly be monitoring you to make sure you don’t slip back into any of these psychotic episodes, and then you’ll meet with me again for a full psych evaluation to determine how your treatment plan will look moving forward.”
“You make it sound so serious.”
“It is serious, Dr. Madden. The brain, while beautifully powerful, is also very complex, and it’s in your best interest to care for it properly,” she explains before walking around the side of my bed and lowering herself into one of the chairs. “Now, I’ve heard reports on the events that have brought us here, but I’d like to hear your version of events.”
My eyes widen. “All of it?”
“Yes, right from the beginning. And please,” she adds. “Don’t hold anything back. In order for me to assess you sufficiently, I need to know exactly what we’re dealing with and what the nature of these episodes have been.”
Crap. If she didn’t think I was insane before, she’s about to have a very rapid change of heart.
Taking a breath, I prepare myself to tell this woman, this colleague, that my subconscious has somehow developed a murderous fear kink that appears in the form of a sexy-as-sin stalker in a satanic mask who rails me while I try not to scream.
Fun times.
Knowing that holding back isn’t going to do me any favors, I dive straight into it, giving her every sordid detail of my moments with my stalker, starting right at the very beginning from when it was just a feeling of being watched.
I tell her about the carvings in the bodies, the words left on the heart, the black roses, and the unfortunate sexual encounter at the club. I even pull up the side of my hospital gown and show her the letters carved into my skin, the very letters I somehow put there myself. I don’t skip a single detail, telling her how I allowed him to touch me, how I welcomed it, even provoked it at times. How when his hand closed around my throat, it excited me. How the pain on the blade carving into my skin was alleviated by the feel of his fingers on my clit, and how despite having the clear image of Laith’s dead body circling my mind, I never told him no.
“How long ago did this begin?” she asks. “Has it been slowly building for months, or is this all very recent?”
I shrug and try to remember exactly when the first shiver ran down my spine. “It started the day before my mom’s anniversary dinner, so about four weeks ago,” I tell her.
