Ellie #3
“About his connection to your father.” She studies my face intently. “About why, of all the psychologists in the system, he specifically engineered his placement with you.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“My father died of a heart attack seven years ago. Killian was in prison until recently.”
“He was,” Grace raises an elegant eyebrow. “Funny how convenient that timeline is, isn’t it?”
Keep your mouth shut, she’s fishing. I won’t give her the reaction she wants.
“Your father’s research on Project Ghost,” she continues, her voice softer now. “Killian’s obsession with you. Don’t you think it’s remarkable he knew exactly how to get assigned to you? That he understood your vulnerabilities so intimately from the very beginning?”
She pauses, watching me process.
“Some men spend years researching their targets, Eleanor. Learning everything about them. Their histories. Their losses. Their grief.” Her smile is cold. “And some men have more personal reasons for that kind of knowledge.”
She reaches out, her cool fingers brushing against my cheek in a mockery of comfort. I resist the urge to flinch away.
Why would he go to such lengths? What would make a man that obsessed with one specific woman? The answer to why is the part he'll never volunteer.
The doubt burrows in. I can feel it happening, but I can’t stop it, like watching someone plant a bomb in your skull in slow motion.
“When you see him again—if you see him again—ask him why, of every psychologist in the program, he made sure it was you." Grace rises gracefully. "Not the system, Eleanor. Him. Ask him that."
She moves toward the door, then pauses. “Or don’t ask. Sometimes ignorance is easier than the truth.”
She leaves me with those poisonous thoughts, closing the door gently behind her.
Her words loop in my head, each repetition digging deeper.
Killian knew my father? He researched me before we ever met? He manipulated his way into my care? Why? The word 'engineered' burrows under my skin. Not a clerical error. Not a stroke of luck. Two parts of my life that I thought were worlds apart are suddenly colliding, and the crash is deafening.
What if he’s been playing me from the beginning?
No, I know Killian. I know what we have?
Don’t I?
I thought he saw me. What if he only ever saw through me?
He always knew exactly what to say. I thought that meant he understood me. Maybe it just meant he'd done his research.
I press my palms into my eye sockets until the pressure aches. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Coaching my lungs to expand. Forcing my brain to rationalise. Willing my stupid heart to slow.
Evening brings a doctor. He’s thin, with icy cold hands and pale blue eyes that look right through me. He checks my vitals and draws blood as if he’s servicing a machine.
"She's stable," he reports to Grace. "Blood pressure is slightly low, understandable given the circumstances."
Type B detachment. He's not uncomfortable with what's happening here, he's bored by it.
"Thank you, Dr. Blake," Grace nods once, and the doctor leaves without another word, as if I'm not even there.
"Tomorrow we'll continue our conversations.
I expect more forthcoming answers about your father's research and Killian's network.
The alternative to cooperation becomes less pleasant with each passing day. "
She places a framed photograph on the nightstand as she leaves. My father. The image is of him leaning against his desk in his office at the research facility, one I've never seen before. He looks young. His expression is serious, but his eyes are kind. Happy, even.
The kindness in his eyes is exactly what I remember. Having it here, next to this bed, feels like she’s spitting on his grave. She’s showing me that she knew him in ways I never did. She’s leaving him here to watch me break. It’s the most cruel thing she’s done yet.
After she leaves, Stefan brings dinner. He sets the tray on the desk, his movements jerky.
"Reed’s back on the rotation tomorrow," he whispers.
His eyes are darting toward the camera in the corner.
"Mrs. Ross gave him special instructions if you don't cooperate tonight.
Write something, Eleanor. Anything. Just don't let it be nothing. "
He leaves before I can answer.
I stare at the closed door. I don't know if Stefan’s warning was a kindness or just a way to ease his own conscience. Maybe he’s not an ally. Maybe he's covering his own ass if something happens to me.
Either way, I can’t trust it. I can’t trust anyone here.
I turn the pen around in my fingers before I start writing. I build a maze of half-truths and dead ends. Small rebellions, but they're the only things I have left that Grace hasn't poisoned.
I write until the ink smears under my hand. I don't know if I believe in Killian anymore, but I have to believe he’s alive. Not because I love him. I’m not sure I even know what that means. I just need to survive until he finds me.
And if Grace was telling the truth about my father...
I close the journal, that thought too painful to pursue. One psychological battle at a time.