Chapter 20 Sydney
Sydney
Two Weeks Later
Rufus curls in a puddle of sunlight in the library, his orange tail flicking as he picks up on the tension in the room.
The brunette forty-something woman who wants me to talk about my feelings pisses me off. According to her, I’m irritable because my emotions are “dysregulated.” According to me, she’s a terrible psychiatrist and should find another profession.
How did I not notice before today how creepy her eyes are?
Seated in the armchair catty-corner to mine, she speaks with a concerned smile. “Are you taking the medications Dr. Granthy and I prescribed?”
I shift on the huge ottoman located in front of the big green chair and run my fingers over the velvet ridges in the upholstery. “Not yet.”
“But you’re hiding them?”
“No one n-needs to know where they are. S-someone could tamper.” After my awful three-day migraine passed, I looked up the meds they prescribed online.
They appeared to be legitimate. So I ordered equipment to check for tampering.
When I was confident the medications were safe and appropriately prescribed, I hid them in the drawer with the fingerprint lock.
I started therapy sessions at that time, as well, but I have a viscerally negative reaction to the idea of putting more drugs in my body. I won’t even take the multivitamin. I also know I’m making that choice based on fear, not logic. It doesn’t matter.
“Hyper-vigilance is an understandable trauma response, but it’s important to recognize that what you’re feeling isn’t based on the reality of danger in present circumstances. Being open with your family and medical support staff can help. We’re all here for you.”
“Not hap-happening until the person who helped Markov kidnap me . . . is caught.” If I can stay calm, I can speak clearly. But the more stressed I feel, the harder it gets to express myself. And the harder it becomes to express myself, the more stressed I feel.
She leans forward, her feet flat on the floor, and braces her forearms on her fawn-colored dress pants, her hands loosely clasped together. “Your captor is dead. The authorities have closed the investigation into your kidnapping.”
I shrug. “I don’t b-believe he was working alone.”
“Have you remembered something from your captivity to back up that theory?”
I give a minute shake of my head and twist the fabric of my black pants at the knees. “No. Henry agrees, though. He brought the b-bag with the clothes I was wearing. It could help me remember.”
I suspect I wanted it because I once used the belt on it as a comfort object. I haven’t managed to force myself to open the bag yet, though. I asked my husband to take it away.
Dr. Frankhouser takes in a slow breath. “You were drugged during that time. It’s no more likely for you to remember it than a person would remember undergoing surgery.
But your body may remember the trauma you experienced, even when your mind doesn’t.
The dress isn’t likely to bring back any useful information, but it could set you back into the state your husband found you in.
I understand your desire to remember. But it’s far more important to focus on the issues you’re facing in your life now. ”
“I don’t want to open the bag.” It’s weird. I don’t want to open that bag. It’s true. But her insistence that I shouldn’t irks me.
“Good.” She nods before shifting gears. “Last time we met, you told me you planned to try eating independently. How did that go?”
“I changed my mind.”
“When you were a captive, being wary of your food was necessary. It may have even kept you alive. You did a great job. But, now that you’ve returned to safety, those coping mechanisms no longer apply. They’ve become a burden.”
She leaves an awkwardly long pause after her statement. It wasn’t a question, and I don’t know how to fill the silence. Finally, I settle for a shrug.
“Who in your home do you suspect of tampering with your food?” she asks.
She refuses to let me get away with another shrug and waits for me to answer.
“I can’t think of a-anyone,” I finally admit.
“Could that be because no one here would do it?”
I nod just to get her to shut up.
“Can you think of ways you could eliminate the need for Gabriel to test the food for you?”
“If it came in unopened c-cans. I could make my own s-soup.”
“That’s a good start.” Dr. Frankhouser reaches into the brown leather messenger bag she carried into the room with her when she arrived.
Smiling, she produces a chocolate chip cookie in a sealed plastic wrapper and places it on the end table between us. “Would you be willing to try that?”
My gaze skips away from her. “I’ll w-work on it on my own. Later.”
She leans toward me. “Can you look at me, Sydney?”
I make reluctant eye contact.
“You’re safe at home. No one can get to you behind these walls. The cookie is in a factory-sealed package.”
Déjà vu crawls down my spine. “I d-don’t like your tone.”
A light furrow touches her brow. “What tone?”
Too coaxing. Too nice and reasonable. It’s fake. When I don’t do what she wants, violence follows. Not from her, but from him.
I cross my arms over my stomach.
“Everything you’re feeling is completely understandable, but your trauma doesn’t have to define you. You can conquer your fear. It starts one small step at a time.”
I rock in place, wishing I had my red sash to hold. “You’re trying to m-manipulate me. I don’t like it.”
She straightens. “That’s not my intent. Let’s try some of the relaxation techniques we spoke about. The goal is to be gentle with yourself, rather than pick at a mental scab. To give yourself time to heal.”
My pulse races. “No. You t-tried to make me eat.”
“I asked if you’d be willing to eat. I wouldn’t force you. Can you do the breathing exercises we practiced? Deep breath in.”
“No.” I should have recorded this session or asked my husband to stay.
Brown eyes. Brown eyes that coaxed, then demanded. She has the same eyes as someone who let Markov hurt me. She speaks the same way, as if she wants something from me I won’t ever give.
“You tried to make me eat. You’re a g-gas—” The word gaslighter gets stuck between my brain and mouth.
She puts the evil cookie back in her bag. “I would never do that. I’m here to help you.”
I lurch to my feet and run for the door, but when I get there, there’s no way out. She locked me in. Again.
I claw at the green-painted metal, my nails tearing. “McRae! Minion!”
I’m not alone this time. I can’t be alone again.
The woman approaches. “You’re in your home. The door opens with the handle.”
I waver on my feet, and the doctor yanks me away just as my husband and Dave bust into the room like a couple of SWAT guys in a movie.
“What do you need, Syd?” Dave positions himself between me and the psychiatrist, and my husband stands beside me, steadying me as his body partially covers mine.
Frankhouser cranes around Dave.
“Are you okay?” McRae examines me.
I shake my head.
“Under the circumstances, I don’t believe it’s wise to encourage her to refer to you and the staff as minions—”
“It’s called having a sense of humor. You should try it,” McRae says.
Frankhouser speaks to me in a soothing tone, like I’m a particularly dense toddler. “People don’t have minions. You’re not a villain in a comic book. This is your husband and a staff member.”
“I know,” I say. It’s a nickname. A joke turned into a habit.
My husband squeezes my hand. “Don’t listen, sunshine. You have several minions.” He glares at Frankhouser. “I’ll hire more if you want them.”
“I’m 100 percent your minion, Syd,” Dave says reassuringly.
“This isn’t funny.” Color floods up the doctor’s neck. “It’s clear she remains a danger to herself and others. I recommend hospitalization in a facility where—”
“No.” I shake my head. I’m not dangerous. But my mouth won’t form those words.
“I can’t condone her remaining here. You both sustained injuries when she required restraint to prevent her from further self-harm.
I’d hoped home care would be enough, but it’s clear she’s unwilling to participate in her own treatment,” the psychiatrist says, her tone calm and professional as she attempts to destroy what’s left of my life.
My husband goes solid as a block of ice beside me. “She didn’t attack me that night. I explained it was an accident. She was frustrated because her hair was difficult to manage.”
“An accident which occurred while you attempted to prevent her from harming herself. Hospitalization has its drawbacks under the circumstances, but Sydney needs medication and to be in a controlled environment until she’s stabilized. It isn’t punishment. It’s treatment.”
Clutching my husband’s hand, I tug until he turns to look at me. Panic flutters, but I manage to whisper, “No. No. No.”
He lifts my left arm where the reddened skin on my wrist stands as a stark accusation. “What happened?” he asks gently.
Stress traps the words on my tongue, my mouth refusing to unhinge my jaw and speak, not even to save my life.
“She was beating on and scratching the door when I heard you coming. I pulled her out of the way, so she didn’t get hit in the face with it,” Dr. Frankhouser says.
Heart pounding, I examine my own hands, then the door. She’s not lying. I hadn’t seen the wooden door. I’d been pounding on a green one made of steel.
“Gabriel, you know how important it can be to begin the healing process in a controlled environment,” Dr. Frankhouser says.
Brow furrowed, my husband pushes my hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear, his expression conflicted. “Do you have a lot of flashbacks?”
He won’t believe you. The self-inflicted bruise on my temple and the faded green and yellow mark on my husband’s jaw taunt me. “Not dangerous. Just . . . the d-doctor has her eyes. She t-talks like someone who helped Markov. If she s-stays away . . . I’ll be good.”
I can’t go somewhere they’ll lock me in. Somewhere with hospital beds and people forcing me to take pills I don’t want. Somewhere without McRae. I’ll die first. I’ll kill first.
The man whose first name I can never remember looks torn. “You had a memory from your captivity?”
Taking a deep breath, then blowing it out slowly, I work to calm down so I can speak. “A woman. Had brown eyes. She made me eat. Her voice s-sounded the same.” I indicate Frankhouser. “The same tone. Same Brooklyn accent. The door was green. Metal. Scratches in the paint. My blood on it. Dirty.”
My husband brushes his fingers lightly over the bruise on my temple. “You’re right. The door was green.”
“Don’t make me go. Please,” I whisper.
Heart sinking, I catch my breath when he swallows hard and closes his eyes.
Then he opens them and speaks to the doctor. “It’s her decision.”
“If you hadn’t said that, I’d have taken her away from both of you myself,” Dave rumbles.
“The last thing she needs is to be locked up again,” McRae says. “I’ll keep her safe at home.”
Relief blooms, but fear still lurks beneath the surface. As long as the doctor is here, this isn’t over.
“Sydney, if Nikolai Markov attempted to create a compulsion in you to harm your husband, the wrong flashback at the wrong time could have serious consequences for both of you. The Trahypnofen would have left you wide open to suggestion,” Dr. Frankhouser says.
Your name is Sydney Walsh McRae. He’ll never give up on you. You don’t know anything else.
Oh. My. God.
“I know my wife. There’s no brainwashing on earth strong enough to make her want to hurt me.”
I squeeze McRae’s hand and pray he’s right.
“It doesn’t have to be violence. It could be as simple as sharing confidential information about you or your family to the wrong people,” the doctor says.
He and his brother spoke of killing Markov so casually the day I overheard his conversation. Not the first time either of them have killed someone. If he was in the military or a police officer, it would make sense. But he’s a CEO.
McRae lets go of my hand and wraps his arm around my waist. “If that’s your concern, she’s better off here than surrounded by strangers.
She’ll heal faster at home than sending her somewhere that will make her feel like she’s still a prisoner.
We have security 24/7 and access to medical care within minutes.
If necessary, I’ll move the psychiatric nurse into the house,” McRae says.
The doctor picks up her messenger bag, her posture resigned. “As long as you’re aware you’re acting against medical advice.”
When the doctor finally leaves and Dave follows to escort her to the gate, I collapse onto the chair.
McRae wanders to the desk, then leans against it, his head hanging low as he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for that.”
“You—” have nothing to be sorry for. The words won’t come, and I have too many I need to say. Right now, my own inability to speak enrages me. If I did this to myself, I should be able to turn it the hell off.
I shake my head, take a deep breath, and try again. “I’m sorry. You did nothing wrong. Your family . . . will want me . . . to stay away from you.”
“They’re your family too, not just mine. And not one of them would do anything differently than I just did.”
I grew up knowing my place. I was extraneous. Disposable. It doesn’t make sense to keep me around under the circumstances.
“I’m grateful for your loyalty, but I don’t understand it,” I say slowly.
“Loyalty is the bare minimum.” He approaches, crouching in front of me, and lifts his hand. “May I?”
I nod, the motion jerky and filled with tension.
His palm comes to rest on the side of my neck, his fingers curling around my nape, under my hair, warm and strong as his thumb skates over my cheekbone. “I know what you heard and remembered scared you.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper.
His lips quirk with a cocksure smile. “If you think you’re bad, I’m badder.”
“Badder isn’t a word.”
My husband is the good guy here. If he’s a government operative or part of some black ops organization, I don’t want to know. Not if there’s a single chance the doctor could be right about me, and what I’m capable of. McRae needs to keep his secrets safe from me.
“I have to go away. I have to protect you,” I say.