Page 52 of Love What's Left
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.
