17. Ellie #3
“Oh yes,” Grace says, reading the shock I can’t quite hide. “We know all about Dr. Hart. Such a tragedy. A psychologist investigating patterns in violent deaths, and then becoming a victim of one himself.”
The room tilts slightly. Breathe. Just breathe. In and out until the panic subsides. Don’t let her see how badly this is landing.
“Is that why you followed in his footsteps, Dr. Hart?” Her head tilts. “To understand what he was searching for when he died? To finish his work?”
Seven years. Seven years of burying myself in research about trauma and violence. Seven years of telling myself I was helping people, that I was making the world safer, that I was honoring his memory.
Was I really continuing his investigation without knowing it?
“I became a psychologist because I believe in rehabilitation,” I say, but the words sound hollow even to me.
Grace’s smile says she doesn’t believe me either.
The urge to tell her to go fuck herself is almost overwhelming. To scream that she has no right to speak my father’s name, to demand answers about his research and his death and the seven years of questions that have haunted me.
But anger is a luxury I can’t afford right now. Information is survival.
“What time is dinner?” I ask, and I’m proud that my voice stays steady.
Grace looks pleased, like I’ve passed some kind of test. “Eight o’clock.
I’ll have clothes delivered before then.
” She starts toward the door, then pauses.
"One piece of advice, Dr. Hart. My husband values honesty.
I wouldn't recommend attempting to deceive him.
He has a particular talent for detecting lies, and he finds them... personally offensive."
"I'll keep that in mind," I say neutrally.
"See that you do." Her hand rests on the door handle. "Cooperation makes everything so much more pleasant for everyone involved. Those who understand the opportunity being offered to them tend to fare much better than those who resist out of misplaced principle."
"What opportunity would that be?" I ask.
"To be part of something transformative.
" Her eyes gleam with genuine enthusiasm.
"My husband has built a network that extends into every level of power in this country.
Those who serve his interests find doors opening for them.
Those who stand in his way..." She shrugs elegantly.
"Well, you're an intelligent woman. I'm sure you can extrapolate. "
"And which category does Killian fall into?" I ask.
A flash of anger crosses her face before she composes herself.
“Killian Blackthorn was a special case. He was more than an employee; he was an investment. One my husband isn’t prepared to write off entirely, despite his... recent choices.”
“And me?” I push, sensing I might actually get an answer. “What does Julian want with me?”
Grace studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “That’s a conversation for dinner, Dr. Hart. Julian will explain everything.” She walks toward the door. “I will say this, you’re far more interesting to my husband than you realize. And not just because of Killian.”
The way she says it sends a chill through me. Not because of Killian. Meaning I matter for some other reason. Some reason I don’t understand.
“What does that mean?”
Grace stops at the door, one hand on the frame. “It means tonight will be full of surprises. For both of us. Eight o’clock, Dr. Hart. Don’t keep Julian waiting. I suggest you rest. Gather your strength. Tonight will be mentally taxing, and Julian appreciates sharp minds."
The door locks behind her with a definitive electronic click.
I stand there frozen. Could be seconds. Could be a full minute. Thoughts spinning while my body stays locked in place.
Strategic. I need to be strategic. Gather information. Play along. Wait for an opening that might never come.
My hand moves to my upper arm automatically. To the spot where Killian had installed a tracking device a week or so ago, over my protests that it was paranoid and excessive.
Except my fingers find only a tender wound beneath my sleeve.
Gone.
Of course it’s fucking gone. They would have found it within minutes of capturing me. Scanned me, stripped me, removed any hope of rescue while I was unconscious and helpless.
Killian doesn’t know where I am. No one does.
The thought makes it hard to breathe.
I move to the bed before my legs give out. The thin mattress offers no comfort, but at least it’s something solid beneath me.
No one is coming.
If I’m getting out of this, it’s on me. My intelligence. My training. Whatever I can learn about Julian Ross and his perfectly polished wife, who wields psychology like a scalpel.
I close my eyes. Focus on the basics. Oxygen in. Carbon dioxide out. Stay present. Stay alive.
Killian taught me more than therapy ever did. He showed me how predators think. How to wait. How to recognize the moment when your opponent gets overconfident and gives you an opening.
I just need to stay alive long enough to find that moment.
And then maybe, just maybe, I can get the fuck out of here.