Chapter 21
I sat in a chair next to the bed, staring at Daniel as he slept.
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. I hadn’t looked away since I’d washed my feet and come in here, ready to wake him. Ready to hit play on the recording that might finally clarify things.
Then it struck me.
All of it.
Cynthia.
The pig figurines.
The police and Tara staring at me in the basement—and nothing but a solid wall.
The monster who hurt women.
The nightmare about the scar from my dad.
My thoughts spun faster by the second.
Doubt hit first, then panic, tight and cold in my chest.
What if everybody was right and Cynthia wasn’t real?
What if I’d made her up? What if she was some twisted way my brain was trying to survive everything I’d gone through?
Or worse, what if this wasn’t trauma-induced psychosis at all? What if I was just straight-up schizophrenic? It usually showed up in your twenties or early thirties, especially for women. That was exactly where I was. Right now.
Then came the worst thought of all. The big twist: Cynthia was connected to almost every major trauma in my life.
So what if I didn’t just hallucinate her?
What if I fucking was her?
My stomach twisted. I dropped my head into my hands.
“Fuck.”
Did I have some kind of dissociative identity disorder? Like in that movie Split, where the guy turns into all these different people after surviving childhood trauma. Talks like them. Dresses like them. Even becomes an elderly woman.
I almost laughed out loud, picturing myself down there as Cynthia, pacing around that dark basement, talking in her voice, and then answering like I was Emily again.
And if Daniel didn’t hear a voice on that recording, if it was just me talking to empty air, that would be it. He’d have no choice. He’d have to send me to a mental hospital. How could he not?
Anna would support it.
And the psychiatrist too.
Especially once they learned I’d stopped taking my meds without telling anyone.
So I just sat there. Quiet. Still. Like some wide-eyed psycho waiting for the walls to start melting. Staring at my husband, one finger hovered above the screen on my phone. I just sat there, not pressing play.
My mind swung back and forth as if I were a gambler betting everything—house, car, maybe even my sanity—on one last desperate card. Play it or leave it.
Before I knew it, I was talking myself out of playing the recording for Daniel. I should wait until Thursday, play it for Anna instead.
She couldn’t tell Daniel anything. HIPAA laws. Every patient’s right to privacy—unless I was about to hurt myself or someone else.
But then . . .
A wave of nausea rose sharply in my throat, almost choking me.
If I were Cynthia, I had hurt someone.
Rasc—
“What are you doing?”
Daniel’s voice cut in gently. He blinked a few times, smiling up at me like he’d just emerged from a dream. Maybe he’d forgotten our daily fights for the moment. Or maybe he’d forgiven them.
I blinked, realizing it was light out. Dark gray clouds pressed against the sky, announcing a shift in the weather.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly and stood up. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you watched me sleep?” He was still smiling, teasing in a soft, sleepy voice.
I managed to smile back, even as everything inside me spun like a tornado. When he reached for my hand, I let him take it. He tugged and pulled me down onto the bed so that I fell right on top of him.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he whispered.
“Me neither.”
A brief silence hung in the air between us. The bedroom carried the faint trace of his expensive aftershave. My heart was racing.
“Then let’s leave,” he said. “We can just pack up and go back to our lives.”
For a second, I agreed. It sounded easy. Safe.
Running again suddenly felt like the best idea in the world.
But then I pictured that basement. Me talking to Cynthia as if she were real, then answering as if I were myself again.
The image made me sick. Physically sick.
Not because I thought people with schizophrenia or dissociative identity disorder were bad or less human, but because of what it could mean for me.
A psychiatric hospital. Losing Daniel. Watching my life slip through my fingers.
And worst of all, hurting an innocent animal.
But then, even if we left, things wouldn’t just go back to normal. There was either a woman living in that basement by choice, or a woman living inside my head.
Either way, it wasn’t okay.
“What if we stay another week or two?” I offered. “Then we reevaluate. I just . . . need a little more time here.”
He pushed himself upright, his shoulders lifting as if a weight had come off them. Relief washed over his face.
“You’re finally willing to leave the Breakers?”
It would buy me time to dig a little deeper. And I said we’d reevaluate in a week or two. This wasn’t a blood oath. But yeah, after last night, I was open to running again.
So I nodded.
He kissed me—passionately, like he meant it. It was the kind of kiss we used to share before the days turned sour and every conversation became a fight.
Then he stood up. “I’ll make breakfast,” he said, stretching as he walked toward the bathroom.
“Where’s Tara?” I called after him.
“She took the week off,” Daniel shouted from inside.
“Good for her,” I called back, trying to sound happy. But, of course, my mind twisted immediately. Was it because of me? Was she afraid of the psychotic person?
“Eggs. Sausage. Fruit. And I think I saw English muffin dough in the freezer,” Daniel said as he stepped out briefly, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. “Would that please Her Ladyship?”
I smiled. “I’ll go ahead and make some coffee.”
“Don’t you dare!” he mumbled through a mouthful of foam, pointing his toothbrush at me like a warning. “Breakfast in bed!”
Then he disappeared again. Water started running. I listened to it for a moment before dropping a bomb.
“I think I’ll call my mom today.”
The faucet cut off. A pause. Then he stepped out, still smiling.
“That . . . sounds like a great idea. It might bring you some closure. Let me know if you want me there.” He leaned in, kissed my cheek, and headed toward the stairs. “You wait here. That’s an order from the man of the house.”
He was joking, playing it cool, acting like his whole body hadn’t gone tense the moment I’d mentioned calling my mom. But really, how else was he supposed to react? We were all exhausted, worn thin by drama and tears. Maybe being positive—even fake-positive—was all any of us could manage right now.
I watched him leave, then stared at my phone.
I should play the recording.
But I couldn’t. Not yet. I was too scared. What if I heard only my voice on both sides? Talking like two completely different people?
That would be horror. Pure, cold horror.
And if the woman was real, there was no rush. She was free to leave. Nobody hurt her. I decided to wait and play the recording to Anna first. She would be able to help me navigate my new crisis unfolding in front of me. A split personality, with textbook psychotic episodes.
From under the blanket, Mochi chirped, announcing that he was awake.
I walked over and lifted the edge of the blanket. His little eyes blinked up at me, wide and shiny.
“If I open your cage and let you fly around freely, do you promise to go back in when I ask?”
We’d been here long enough. He knew the rooms by now. He’d earned a little more freedom. I’d stay with him all day, keeping him away from the dogs—and myself away too. Just in case I did to Rascal what I feared most.
“I promise,” Mochi said in his robotic voice.
I opened the cage, and he climbed onto my hand, light and warm. I kissed the top of his little head and carried him into the dressing room with me.
“I love you, Mochi. You know that, right?”
“I love you,” he answered. “I love you.”