Page 67 of Relapse

Blair’s grip tightens slightly on the couch pillow.

I keep going anyway.

“If you’d stayed gone, he would’ve assumed you died after the hospital. That would’ve been the end of it.”

Her eyes flick toward me slowly.

“But now he knows you’re alive,” I say flatly. “Which means eventually he’ll come for you again.”

The color drains slightly from her face despite how hard she tries hiding it.

Noir steps in quieter.

Blair looks away first.

Bad sign.

“He knows you matter to us, little relapse,” I mutter.

That lands harder than everything else.

I see it immediately in the way her expression shifts.

Tiny.

But there.

Because suddenly this stops sounding like paranoia.

Stops sounding like control.

And starts sounding exactly like what it really is.

Fear.

She pushes up off the couch and starts pacing barefoot across the concrete floors while ocean wind drifts through the balcony doors.

Restless energy practically vibrates off her now.

I notice immediately.

So does Noir.

The twitchiness.

The pacing.

The way she keeps rubbing at her fingers absentmindedly.

Withdrawal.

Not full physical withdrawal yet.

But the craving’s there.

Building.

“Great, so I’m just stuck in this is prison,” she announces.