13. Fractured Trust #3
My vision dims as Maeve barks orders at the officers hauling me to the sedan.
My head rolls onto somebody’s shoulder, giving me one last look at the estate while they stuff me into the car like unwanted luggage.
The house just stands there, all proud against the scorched grounds, with smoke still twisting from spots here and there.
And then, just for a split second, something shifts behind one of the upstairs windows. A shadow. Watching me. Waiting.
I float to consciousness like a drowning victim rising through murky water, disoriented, desperate for air, limbs heavy and unresponsive.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and I try to lift my hand to shield my face, only to discover I can’t.
Soft restraints tether my wrists to the narrow cot where I lie.
Panic surges, temporarily burning through the sedative still clouding my brain.
I test the restraints, not tight enough to cut off circulation but secure enough to prevent any meaningful movement.
Great. Perfect. Nothing says “having a normal Tuesday” quite like waking up tied to a hospital bed with no recollection of how you got there.
Except that’s a lie. It comes back in pieces, breaking through the drug fog: Maeve’s fingers on my cheeks, sunlight catching metal, the sound tearing from my throat as they dragged me away from my home.
My stomach twists, acid rising. Someone I trusted had me sedated and restrained like an animal, and called it protection.
I force my eyes fully open, taking inventory of my surroundings.
Not a hospital, Dr. Rao’s clinic. The small examination room with its outdated anatomical charts and perpetually wilting peace lily on the windowsill.
I remember sitting in this same room weeks ago, Dr. Rao’s fingers as she slid a folder across her desk.
“Private research,” she’d called it, eyes darting to the door as I leafed through yellowed newspaper clippings and handwritten case notes about the estate. “Not something I share lightly.”
Now her secrecy makes perfect sense—she wasn’t just sharing local history; she was testing whether I could be trusted with the truth.
Low voices filter through the partially closed door, Dr. Rao’s measured tones interwoven with Maeve’s sharper cadence. I strain to hear, fighting against whatever sedative still clouds my system.
“—showing classic signs of paranoid ideation,” Dr. Rao is saying, her clinical tone at odds with the woman I saw tenderly treating Rebecca in the underground chamber.
“The isolation of the estate, combined with her history of trauma following her parents’ deaths, creates fertile ground for delusional thinking. ”
“She mentioned someone named Silas,” Maeve responds, her voice tight with controlled concern. “Claimed he’s been living in the house, helping people ‘escape’ something. Is this the same delusion she had after the accident? The invisible friend who protected her?”
My breath catches painfully in my chest. I’d forgotten that, how after my parents died, eight-year-old me had created an imaginary guardian who watched over me at night. A coping mechanism, the therapists explained. A way to feel safe when my world had shattered.
“Similar patterns,” Dr. Rao confirms. “The mind often returns to comfortable delusions under stress. The fire likely triggered her previous trauma responses.”
I struggle against the restraints, frustration burning through the sedative fog. “I’m awake,” I call, my voice emerging as a hoarse croak rather than the forceful declaration I intended. “I can fucking hear you.”
Footsteps approach, and the door swings fully open.
Dr. Rao enters first, clipboard in hand, professional mask firmly in place.
No trace remains of the woman I saw underground, the one working alongside Silas to protect those in danger.
Behind her, Maeve looks exhausted beneath her perfect makeup, the shadows under her eyes suggesting she’s been here all night.
“Elara,” Dr. Rao says with practised warmth, moving to check the IV in my arm. “How are you feeling? Any dizziness or nausea?”
I jerk my wrists against the restraints, making the metal bed frame rattle. “Love the hospitality, Doc. What’s next on the menu, a straitjacket appetizer before the lobotomy main course? Or did you skip the medical ethics class where they covered ‘kidnapping’ as a no-no?”
“The restraints are precautionary,” she explains smoothly. “You were quite agitated when they brought you in. We were concerned you might hurt yourself.”
“I wasn’t ‘agitated,’” I snap. “I was trying to explain what’s happening at the estate. Silas is real. He’s been living there for decades, protecting people who need to escape Garrow’s influence. He helped me fight the fires.”
Dr. Rao makes a note on her clipboard, her expression neutral. “When did you first start seeing Silas?”
I let my head fall back against the pillow with a thud.
“Oh, for God’s sake, I didn’t ‘start seeing’ him like he’s some hallucination.
” My voice cracks as I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.
“He showed himself to me. On purpose. After I inherited the estate.” I enunciate each word like I’m explaining physics to a toddler.
“He’s been guarding it for years. Helping people escape.
” I fix my gaze directly on Dr. Rao, jaw tight.
“And you know this. I saw you with him, treating Rebecca in that underground chamber.”
Dr. Rao’s pen pauses before continuing its movement across the page. To anyone else, the hesitation would be invisible, but I catch it, that fractional moment of calculation.
“Elara believes I’m part of her delusion now,” she tells Maeve, her voice gentle with manufactured concern. “This is consistent with paranoid progression, incorporating anyone who challenges the narrative into the conspiracy framework.”
“I’m not delusional!” I yank against the restraints, achieving nothing but chafed wrists.
“Rebecca Winters saw Garrow conducting some kind of ritual sacrifice. You were treating her injuries. There’s an entire underground network helping people disappear from Garrow’s influence. The estate is part of it!”
Maeve moves closer to the bed, her hand cool against my forehead. “This is exactly what happened after the accident, Elara. You created elaborate scenarios where someone was protecting you, keeping you safe when you felt powerless.”
“This isn’t like that,” I insist, though doubt creeps in, poisonous and unwelcome.
Was I eight years old again, creating protectors from shadows because reality was too frightening to face alone?
No. I know what I saw. What I experienced.
“Dr. Rao, tell her the truth. You’re part of the network. You help people escape.”
“I help many people in my capacity as town doctor,” she responds, each word carefully chosen.
“Including those who need mental health intervention.” She turns to Maeve.
“She’s experiencing paranoid ideation consistent with prolonged isolation, possibly exacerbated by smoke inhalation and exhaustion. ”
And suddenly I understand with perfect clarity what’s happening.
Dr. Rao is sacrificing my credibility to protect the network.
By framing me as delusional, she ensures that anything I reveal about Silas, the underground chambers, or Rebecca will be dismissed as a hallucination.
It’s coldly logical, one person’s reputation versus the safety of countless vulnerable people who depend on the sanctuary remaining secret.
“You’re protecting them,” I whisper, the realization both reassuring and devastating. “By destroying my credibility.”
Something flickers in Dr. Rao’s eyes, regret, perhaps, or confirmation. She adjusts the IV drip slightly. “Your cousin has your best interests at heart, Elara. She’s already arranged for a psychiatric evaluation at County General.”
“You can’t do this,” I tell Maeve, a new desperation colouring my voice. “The estate—it’s mine. You can’t just have me locked up and take it.”
“No one’s taking anything,” Maeve soothes, though something in her expression suggests otherwise. “This is about getting you help, not the property.”
But I know better. Somewhere across town, Lyle Garrow sits at his mahogany desk, signing emergency property seizure papers with that gold fountain pen he’s always flaunting.
His thin lips curl as he checks the boxes: unstable structure, owner’s impaired judgment.
Three generations of Garrows have failed to acquire my estate.
The county’s convenient laws will finally deliver it to him, all perfectly legal when the owner is deemed incapacitated.
The sedative Dr. Rao has added to my IV begins to pull me under again. I struggle against it, desperate to maintain consciousness, to somehow make them understand. “Please,” I slur, the word stretching like taffy. “The house… protects… people…”
“Rest now,” Dr. Rao murmurs, her clinical demeanour softening just enough to reveal a flicker of genuine regret. “Some battles can’t be won through direct confrontation.”
Is it a message? A hint? My thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, coherence dissolving as the drug pulls me toward darkness.
The last thing I see before unconsciousness reclaims me is Maeve turning away, phone already in hand, no doubt calling the attorneys who will help her “protect” me from myself, and my estate from me.