17. Chapter 17
I chew on the end of a Twizzler as I stare at the blank canvas before me. Pans still on the stove in the background from the dinner Imogen and I had shared. The scent of spaghetti filling the space around me alongside the faintest hint of her left over perfume remains.
Sighing, I push to my feet. Making quick work of packing the spaghetti into the fridge and spraying freshener, as if the smell is what’s stopping me from actually painting. Then I plop back down onto my worn, leather-topped stool and go back to ruminating in silence.
I reach for another Twizzler, pausing when my line of sight settles on the charm at my wrist. Observing the way it swings and catches the warm glow of the lights overhead. Lifting my arm, I twist the charm between my fingers, thumb brushing over the tiny etched details.
I’ve touched this thing a hundred times since Pitch, and no matter how many times I stare at it—the answer to it doesn’t just materialize.
I lean back on the stool and close my eyes, letting the conversation from both the man at the bar and the session with Alex replay in my head.
Alex’s voice had been steady and calm in comparison to the other man.
The way he’d listened without flinching when I told him what Plague had done.
With an utterly strange lack of judgement.
You met him where he was.
The words slide into place and my eyes open.
The other guy’s face flashes into my mind and how pale he had been. The way his hands shook around his glass or his voice tightened when he said Plague liked taking him apart.
Like therapy.
I sit forward abruptly, breath hitching.
Therapy.
Alex’s words echo in my head now, stacking one atop the other.
People like that don’t respond to resistance. They respond to participation.
My stomach twists and I drop my gaze to the charm, rolling it between my fingers, slower this time. The metal warm from my skin.
Plague had known exactly what to ask and where to press. He hadn’t forced anything, he’d only offered options. Framed everything as a choice.
I push to my feet and shake my head.
This is absurd, I am now connecting dots that make little to no sense.
You were already open.
I pause, my chest tightening.
Just keep opening up for me.
It’s chance that their words mirror each other. I go to pacing the length of the bus, back to talking to myself.
“Stop, you’re reaching.”
But my brain doesn’t stop, it accelerates through it.
I think about how Alex had acted about Pitch and how he’d carefully navigated the topic. He wasn’t even shocked or curious in the way someone hearing about it for the first time should be.
I press my hands to the counter and lean forward, telling myself to cool all the way down. It’s not possible, I would have known. I heard his voice, even modulated, I would know. I wipe at my mouth and turn to glare at the mirror, pointing at myself. “Stop it, you’re projecting.”
You can sit or stand, your choice.
I laugh once, breathless. “No.”
But the words ring hollow and I can’t stop the comparison, can’t stop the lilt of tones. The calm way both men dissect everything. I am so reaching—right?
I flop back onto the bench and place my palms flat down to the table, forcing myself to slow down and do this properly. To not jump to conclusions like a lunatic.
Okay, Sadie. Line it up. One thing at a time.
Plague is described as methodical and structured. Alex is all of those things.
Coincidence.
Plague enjoys influence more than pain. Alex talks about influence like it’s a natural concept.
Could also be a coincidence.
Plague frames pain as data. Alex framed my trauma as data points we can work with.
Oh my god, I am going insane. This is beyond rational at this point.
But the instinct is there, it’s growing larger and larger with each very weak connection.
His fucking words though, the way they echoed outside of that room with just a slight difference. But it doesn’t feel like an accident. It was the exact word Plague had used when he pressed me into that mirror and told me to keep opening for him.
A cold wave washes through me and my thoughts start racing now, connections snapping together faster and faster. How Alex knew about Pitch culture without me explaining. How he didn’t ask what Plague looked like or pushed for information. How he never asked me how I got out.
Because he already knew.
I feel dizzy and I press my palm flat to the table, breathing hard.
The invite from the guy Imogen had been dating was from the same clinic Alexander works in. Could it all just be a weird coincidence, or am I dead on the money?
I feel insane.
But what if Plague had followed me out of Pitch? What if he had set the perfect trap and the free therapy was a part of his fucked up game?
My knee is full on bouncing now, damn near shaking the bus as I exhale pained.
My hands shake as I scroll to the patient portal app, fingers fumbling as I log in.
There is only one way to know for sure, and if I don’t put it out there then I will just stress about it.
It’s either a yes and I know, or a no and we have to move on awkwardly.
I find Alex’s name and click on it, pulling up the messenger that I’ve never once used.
What if it is him, though?
Rage surges up from the deep, hot and wild enough to cut through the worry. If it is, then he sat across from me and listened. He asked me about my mother, and Heath, and Peter. About Plague.
What if I never escaped Pitch, just found it in a different form?
“You fucking bastard,” I snarl, and my fingers slam into the keyboard. I don’t even care if I’m wrong at this point, if I’m drawing conclusions that make no sense to anyone but me. It’s too close to home and my gut has never steered me wrong, and right now it’s screaming at me.
Sadie: I see you, Plague.
Four words is all he gets.
I hit send and the message delivers instantly.
Then I wait for the fallout.