Chapter 6 Embrace It
Embrace It
Emily's Search History: do you legally have to report a missing person?
Emily
My head pounds when I wake. The events of yesterday play in my head on a loop like a broken record.
A finger.
Tom’s finger.
What the fuck do I do with that?
My phone vibrates.
Carina: Lunch today?
Seeing her name is like a balm. Carina. She’ll know what to do.
Emily: How about breakfast?
Her response is immediate.
Carina: See you in an hour.
I roll out of bed, groaning when I see the bags under my eyes. My sleep was shoddy—filled with images of Tom and a mysterious masked man watching me.
There isn’t much time to make myself presentable, but I do my best, smoothing out my hair, wiggling into my pencil skirt and blouse.
By the time I get to the cafe, I’m sweating from the tube. I’m also late.
My eyes sweep the room, landing on Carina. Her pink hair is a beacon, impossible to miss. She gives me a tentative wave, her nervous smile like a question—worried I might turn and walk the other way.
Instead, I walk straight to her, wrapping her in a tight hug.
We settle into seats once we’ve ordered, hot drinks and sandwiches laid out in front of us.
“I’m really glad you agreed to meet me,” Carina says, her voice soft, uncertain.
Carina is an old patient of mine—one of my first. She came to me scared, alone, trying to piece herself back together after years of abuse and trauma.
“I told you I would,” I remind her gently. We’ve kept in touch over the years, even though she’s no longer officially my patient.
“I know, I just…” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “after… you know… I wasn’t sure if you’d changed your mind.”
Carina is my biggest regret as a therapist. My one true shame.
But it’s not her fault I failed her. Which is why I’ve kept her secret.
“I don’t blame you for what happened,” I say quietly. “It’s my fault I didn’t see how much anger you still carried.”
She shakes her head, eyes shimmering with tears.
Our texts have become more sporadic since the incident.
“You have no idea how much you helped me.”
I’m not naive enough to believe that what I witnessed at her father’s mansion was the first time something like that happened. I fear Carina has more skeletons than I’ll ever know.
But right now, strangely, there’s something comforting about that.
Something that makes me open up to her, knowing she won’t judge me. Knowing she’ll be able to help.
By the time I finish recounting everything—including the box with the severed finger—her mouth hangs open in disbelief.
“Holy shit,” she breathes. “That’s wild.” She leans in. “Do you think you’re in danger?”
I pause.
“No… I don’t think they want to hurt me.”
Even as the words leave my lips, I hear how ridiculous they sound.
Here I am, claiming I’m not naive—while simultaneously defending the stalker who sent me a body part as a gift.
“What are you going to do about it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I should probably have told the police, right?”
Carina tilts her head, considering. “Maybe… but I mean, Nate stalked me a little in the beginning.” She laughs. “Actually, he probably still does.”
She pulls out her phone and starts typing.
Not thirty seconds later, Nate appears at our table, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
“Hi, princess,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss her. Then he turns to me. “Hey, Emily. Long time.”
“It has been. I hear you’re still treating her right.”
He grins. “Always. You haven’t RSVP’d to the wedding. You coming?”
“Yes. Wouldn’t miss it. Sorry, I completely forgot to reply.”
“Good!” He winks, then adds with a chuckle, “I’ll leave you to your girl talk. Time to return to my hiding spot.”
He strolls off, and I turn back to Carina.
“You don’t mind that he followed you?”
“Mind?” Carina snorts. “I love it.”
I raise a brow. “Are you sure you don’t need to come back to therapy?”
She waves me off. “I could probably use a lifetime of therapy. But no, I’m good.”
I sip my coffee, hesitating. “Did Nate ever… send you presents? Like my stalker?”
Carina visibly shivers. “God, no. But now I’m kind of annoyed he doesn’t.” She grins. “Something to bring up later.”
We chat about lighter topics for the rest of breakfast, and by the time I get to the office, I’m genuinely glad I went. It felt good to get out, to break the monotony that’s settled over my life since moving back to England.
The police are waiting at the reception desk when I arrive. They’re in plain clothes—clearly detectives—but the badges hanging around their necks give them away. That, and there’s just something unmistakable about police officers.
My hands tremble at my sides.
Blowing out a breath, I straighten my spine and walk towards my office with confidence.
“Miss Morgan?” one of them calls just as I’m about to pass.
Damn it.
I turn, keeping a polite smile firmly in place. “Yes. I’m Doctor Morgan.”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your colleague, Doctor Moore—I’m sure you’ve heard he’s missing.”
Of course. The man gets the Doctor title, but not me. I mentally roll my eyes. Then immediately feel like shit, because he’s missing and most likely murdered by someone who sent me his finger as a present.
“Of course. Please, follow me.” I don’t wait for their reply as I march them into my office, away from prying eyes and ears.
I take a seat behind my desk while the two detectives settle on the patient couch. My fingers twitch nervously in my lap, but I force myself to keep still.
“We’ve been reviewing Doctor Moore’s movements before his disappearance, and it’s come to our attention that you were out to dinner with him on Friday evening.”
My lungs work overtime to keep oxygen flowing.
Fucking CCTV. Why did I assume no one would know?
I gulp. “Yes. We went to Le Haute.”
“What was the nature of the dinner?”
I lick my dry lips. “Two colleagues discussing work.”
“So it wasn’t for pleasure?”
“We’re just colleagues who went out for a meal. There was nothing else to it.”
They share a look, scribbling notes.
“And how did the evening end?”
“It was a short dinner,” I say—truthfully. “He walked me back to my flat, and that was it.”
“How was his behaviour that evening?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he nervous? Jittery? Anything to suggest he might have run away?”
My knee bounces beneath the desk. “I wouldn’t know. He seemed fine while we were out.”
“Have you had any contact from him since that night?”
Other than his severed finger? “No.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s what no means, officer.” Shit. I didn’t mean to sound so sharp.
They rise to their feet. “Thank you, Miss—” I glower “—Doctor Morgan. We’ll be in touch if we need any further information. Please let us know if you hear from him.”
“Of course,” I grit out.
The moment they leave, I slump against the desk.
Fuck.
That was my chance. This is professional suicide if it’s ever found out. I should have told them about the finger. But I’m terrified they’ll somehow think I’m involved. How am I supposed to explain it?
There’s also another, more secret part of me, that’s addicted to the idea of being the object of someone’s gaze. I don’t know who it is. I don’t even really know why they sent me the finger. But the text that accompanied it, the possession, it ignited something in me.
No. It’s better this way. Tom is dead—of that I’m almost certain—and the chances of them finding him, or his body, are slim. Why involve myself?
He was a cheating bastard anyway.
I’m a monster for thinking it.
Eli
I watch her through the hidden lens, my heart thudding as she slumps against her desk.
She doesn’t know about this camera either—the one in her plant pot she often forgets to water.
Her fingers tremble as she tries to process the lies to just told the police.
I won’t have them looking at her. I won’t have their cold, suspicious eyes anywhere near my Angel. Not scrubbing the CCTV was a rookie mistake. One I shouldn’t have made. I'm not used to this. Getting involved. I stick to the shadows where no one is watching.
I pull out my phone and hit Karl’s number. He answers on the second ring, the background noise of the tattoo shop humming through the line.
“I need a favour.”
“Hello to you too.”
“Karl,” I grit out, my jaw clenched hard.
“What can I do?”
“Thomas Moore.” I scrub my hand down my face, debating how much to tell him. “I need you to falsify a trail.”
There’s a moment of silence. “What did you do?”
“Better you don’t know,” I sigh. “Just make it look like he disappeared with one of his mistresses.”
“On it,” he grunts. “I’ve got a lad who’s a genius with digital footprints. By tomorrow, the Met will think he’s done a runner to escape his wife.”
“Make it airtight,” I command, my eyes fixed on Emily has she stands, smoothing her skirt.
“Consider it done. I look after my own.”
I end the call, a dark satisfaction settling in my chest. I will be her shield. No one touches what’s mine—not even the law.
Emily
No more body parts have arrived, something I’m eternally grateful for, though Tom is still missing. I can only assume I’m correct and that he’s dead.
Stepping out of my office with a forced air of confidence, my heels click-clack on the hardwood beneath me like usual.
The image I wear at work, like armour, is a far cry from the me I am inside now.
My skirts are too tight, emphasising more of my hideous shape than I’d like.
At least I don’t look like a stuffed sausage like I did on Friday in that too-small dress.
This outfit, at least, has a modicum of breathability.
Eli’s face lights up when he sees me, and my breath stutters. He’s devastatingly attractive.
I worry my crush on him is something that should probably require therapy of its own.
This isn't attraction; it’s textbook countertransference. I'm projecting a need for strength onto a patient who presents as a 'Protector' archetype. If I can just categorise this feeling, I can kill it.
He’s a stalker, for Christ's sake.
Oh.
He’s a stalker.
Could he—?