Chapter 16
Kenzi
Dr. Hanson sets a thin binder on the table between us. Its edges are worn, and tabs jut out in neat rows.
“This,” she says, her voice gentle, “is Laurel Radley’s journal. Confiscated during her arrest. Portions of it were admitted as evidence, and I’ve been given access through the court. It’s not everything, but…” Her voice dips. “It mentions you.”
Ice floods my veins. “Me?”
She opens to a page marked with a yellow tab. The handwriting slants sharp and impatient, black ink bleeding through thin paper. Dr. Hanson turns the book so I can see.
The theater was our classroom. Kenzi was always my most promising student. She learned to perform perfectly.
The words blur, and my stomach heaves. I shove the journal away so hard it skids across the table and crashes to the floor. “No!” The shout rips my throat raw. “I wasn’t her student… I wasn’t…”
I curl into myself, rocking. My hands fly to my face, pressing against my eyes until I see stars. I hum under my breath, the way I used to, which kept me from falling apart on stage.
Dr. Hanson crouches down, retrieves the journal, sets it aside. “Kenzi, breathe. You’re safe here. I won’t let them hurt you.”
But her words can’t quiet the scream echoing inside me. Laurel made me her puppet.
The phrase clings like oil. And beneath it, another memory. Laurel’s smile as she passed a white spool into my hands. My cue. My turn to make someone else break.
My rocking slows, breath shuddering out of me. “She’s right.” Shame sticks thick in my mouth. “I performed every time she told me to.”
Dr. Hanson’s eyes are steady, her voice calm. “Yes. Because you were trained to. Conditioned. You had no choice. That doesn’t make you guilty. It makes you a victim of their script.”
“Script?” My voice is tight.
She nods. “Dr. Radley’s original design for programming. He called it a ‘script.’ Laurel followed it. Built on it. Used it to control you.”
I press my shaking hands to the table, grounding myself in its solid weight. “Then I have to see it. All of it. Every page, every piece. If I don’t, I’ll never know what was mine and what was theirs.”
Dr. Hanson studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “All right. I’ll help you uncover it. But we’ll take it piece by piece. We’ll process it together. No more blindfolds, no more stage lights. Only the truth.”
A shiver runs through me, equal parts fear and relief. I don’t know whether I’m strong enough.
But I know I can’t stay their puppet anymore.
I feel the tears and wipe them off my cheeks with the heel of my hand, though they keep coming anyway. “I can’t hide from it anymore. Not if I want to keep Fenna safe. If I don’t know what they put inside me, I can’t stop it from spilling out onto her.”
Dr. Hanson folds her hands on the table, voice low and deliberate. “Then we’ll move forward. But we do it carefully. Controlled sessions, grounding techniques at the ready. We pace it. If we tear the walls down too fast, it could overwhelm you. I don’t want to fracture you further.”
I hug myself, my nails digging into my arms. “What if I remember something so terrible I can’t come back from it?”
She meets my gaze, unwavering. “Then we’ll face it together. But hiding from the truth won’t make it disappear. It will only keep you trapped. And we’re going to pull you from this. You’re going to walk away, able to put all of this behind you.”
The words settle heavy in my chest. They make sense but also terrify me. Still… she’s right. Every memory I shove away claws back through cracks in the walls. Better to open the door than wait for it to explode.
I turn toward the window. The glass reflects my face in the dim light, pale and hollow-eyed. But behind me, and within me, I see her. Me as a child, the one who clutched a bear with one eye, who stood trembling under stage lights, waiting for her cue.
My body trembles. “The performance isn’t over,” I whisper to my reflection. “It never ended. And I’m still following someone else’s script.”
However, I will break free. I’ll write my own ending.