Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Ellie
The cold wakes me.
At first, I don’t know where I am. My bare legs are stiff with chill, and the thin cotton of my nightgown does nothing against
the bite of early morning air.
I blink against the darkness, my breath fogging in front of me. Tile under my skin. Railings. The city sprawled below, a grid
of blurred, blinking lights.
I’m outside. On the balcony.
My body jerks, heart slamming against my ribs. I scramble upright too fast, the wrought iron rail digging into the small of
my back. My feet are freezing against the tile. My hair is damp with sweat—or maybe dew.
I clutch my arms around myself, spinning in a slow, horrified circle.
How did I get out here?
The last thing I remember is brushing my teeth, climbing into bed, turning off the lamp. Jack was still working late in his
home office, the low hum of his voice carrying down the hall from his endless phone calls.
I didn’t have wine. I wasn’t dreaming.
And yet here I am.
The balcony table has been moved—pushed up against the railing like a step stool. The chair is angled strangely, pulled far
back against the wall.
I stare at it, throat dry. I didn’t move that table. I’m certain of it.
The sliding door behind me rattles open, making me jump. Jack stands there, backlit by the warm glow of the apartment, looking
more annoyed than alarmed.
“Jesus, Ellie.” He steps onto the balcony barefoot, wearing sweatpants and an old Columbia Law sweatshirt. “What the hell
are you doing out here?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. He moves toward me, taking off his sweatshirt and draping it over my shoulders like
I’m a child.
“You’re freezing.” He rubs my arms briskly, guiding me back toward the open door. “You had another episode, didn’t you?”
“No—” My voice comes out hoarse, rough with cold and confusion. “I don’t—I didn’t—”
“Come on.” His tone shifts, low and pitying. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m broken.
Like I’m the problem.
He steers me inside, closing the balcony door behind us. The warmth of the apartment feels suffocating.
“I told you this would happen,” Jack says as he leads me to the couch. He crouches in front of me, smoothing hair back from
my face with a careful hand. “You’re under too much pressure. Work. All the sleepwalking and late nights. It’s too much for
you, El.”
I stare past him, back at the balcony, at the table pushed to the railing, the chair shoved back awkwardly.
I didn’t move them. I didn’t climb up there. Someone moved them. Someone wanted them like that.
“Maybe you should call your therapist in the morning,” Jack says gently. “Maybe you should go back on something. Just for
a little while. Until you feel more like yourself again.”
I nod, but my skin is crawling. Not from the cold anymore. From something worse.
Jack thinks he’s winning. He thinks he’s got me convinced that my mind is turning against me.
But he’s wrong.
Later that afternoon Dr. Miriam Kessler sits across from me in a cream armchair, her legs crossed elegantly, a leather notebook
balanced on one knee. She’s beautiful in that polished, clinical way—tailored navy slacks, crisp white blouse, not a hair
out of place. Even her smile feels rehearsed.
“The best in Manhattan,” Jack had promised me, pressing the business card into my hand with the quiet urgency of someone offering a lifeline.
“You'll love her. She understands complicated things.”
Complicated things.
Like psychotic breaks. Like neglect. Like being gaslit until you don’t know which way is up.
I smooth my palms over my jeans and clear my throat. “I’m not sure where to start.”
Dr. Kessler smiles encouragingly. “Start anywhere you like, Ellie. There’s no wrong place to begin.”
I stare at the pristine surface of her desk, at the gleaming crystal paperweight that pins down a stack of empty notecards. I pick a thread on my shirt carefully.
“I woke up outside on my balcony the other night,” I say. “I don’t remember going out there. I was barefoot. Freezing.”
Dr. Kessler nods, jotting something down. “Sleepwalking episodes can be common during periods of extreme stress.”
I hesitate. “Yes. But . . .”
“But what?” Her pen is poised, ready.
“It’s not just that,” I say slowly. “Things move around in my apartment. Furniture. Objects. Little things. And I—” I falter,
ashamed of the words even as they fall out of me. “I think someone might be doing it on purpose.”
She tilts her head slightly, a movement so deliberate it feels staged. “You think someone’s breaking into your apartment?”
“Maybe.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “Or . . . maybe not breaking in. Maybe someone with access.”
“Your husband?” she asks gently.
A warning prickles under my skin. The way she said it—not curious.
Leading.
I shift in my seat. “I don’t know. I don’t want to believe that.”
“But you suspect it.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question.
I press my lips together. “I just . . . sometimes I feel like I’m being watched.”
Dr. Kessler’s gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly.
“Ellie, you’ve mentioned the core trauma of your mother’s passing.” Her voice remains carefully neutral. “Sometimes trauma
can create . . . false memories. Paranoia. Our minds try to shield us from painful truths by rewriting them.”
False memories. Paranoia.
There it is.
The words hit me harder than a slap.
I stare at her, my mouth dry.
Jack said almost the same thing. After I started digging into the inconsistencies about my mother’s death.
You’re remembering wrong, El. It’s the grief. It twists things.
I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, trying to keep my voice steady. “I remember seeing her being taken away. Men in white
coats. She screamed at me not to believe him.”
Dr. Kessler leans forward slightly, pen tapping once against her notebook. “Memories from childhood, especially traumatic
ones, can be notoriously unreliable. It’s possible you misinterpreted what you saw. Or that your father tried to shield you
from the full truth for your own protection.”
I feel myself slipping, the ground tilting under me.
Is she right? Am I losing it?
“I know what I saw,” I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
She offers a sympathetic smile. “Of course you believe you do. But Ellie, let’s consider: if your father truly wanted to hurt
you—or your mother—why would he have cared for you all these years? Why would he have kept you safe, made sure you had the
best education, the best life?”
Because it made him look good. Because it kept up appearances. Because control is easier when the prisoner thinks the warden
loves them.
I bite down on the words.
“Have you considered,” Dr. Kessler continues smoothly, “that your grief, combined with recent stressors, might be distorting
your perception of those around you?”
A chill slips down my spine.
“Who recommended you to Jack?” I ask suddenly.
Her smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes flicker—just for a second. “We have mutual friends in the city. A lot of successful men and women come through my practice.”
Mutual friends. Successful men. Like my father. Like Jack.
I stand up too quickly, the room tilting for a moment.
“Ellie,” Dr. Kessler says carefully, “we’re just starting to unpack a lot of deep-seated issues. I hope you’ll trust the process.
Sometimes healing can feel like betrayal to the wounded mind.”
I nod like I’m agreeing. Like I’m grateful. But inside, something hardens. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust any of them. Jack
didn’t send me to be helped. He sent me to be silenced.
And whatever they’re trying to bury—I’m going to dig it up.