Page 105 of Ballistic

The number flashing on the screen didn’t look familiar, and I frowned, staring down at it. Setting the pills onto the nightstand, I traded them for the phone and answered.

“Detective Wolfe, it’s Dawn Richardson. You met with me a couple weeks back.”

‘The hell?

I cleared my throat and sat up on the bed. “Yeah, yeah, I remember you. How are you?”

“You left me your number in the event I remembered anything else, and … well. It’s not something I remembered. More something I wasn’t completely truthful about.”

“’S’okay, it’s, uh … all water under the bridge now. We got our man.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I just thought … I’d pass along something else. In the event you find it useful.”

What the hell could it hurt at that point? I’d reached rock bottom. Nicoleta was gone, and so was my mind. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“You asked me who commissioned that video. I lied to you when I said I didn’t know. For years, I suffered anxiety attacks, and when I started college, with all the pressure and expectations, they became somewhat overwhelming.”

I had no idea where the hell she was going with her story, but as I spun the green pills against the table, I kept listening, hoping it would all come to light.

“I failed one of my classes, and my father withdrew my funds. I’m ashamed to say, I responded rather impulsively and stupidly by trying to overdose on my medication, which landed me in the psych ward under the care of Doctor Michael Emberle.”

The blood in my veins turned cold. Ice fucking cold.

I nabbed the second burner from the drawer beside me and put Dawn on speakerphone, recording her every word.

“Doctor Emberle seemed nice and helpful at first, but at some point, our sessions took a … strange turn. He insisted on meeting me more than usual, and … our sessions became sexual escapades. I was young and somewhat naïve at the time, so when he approached me about a secret fetish he had, it … well, it was strange, of course, but he offered to pay for my entire schooling. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. All I had to do was agree to let two men have sex with me on camera. Make it appear that I was being raped. So I did. I thought it was for him. I didn’t think it’d land on some website, or be doctored with the murder of some young woman. At the end, he asked me to make a statement. That I was fine throughout the filming and that I’d volunteered to do it.”

Motherfucker. I knew there was something about the shady bastard that had my skin crawling the moment I’d set foot in his office.

“Two weeks ago, he showed up at my office,” Dawn continued. “He told me it’d leaked again. He warned me not to say anything to anyone about it. I need for this to go away. Do you understand?”

“I do. I’ll follow up on Doctor Emberle. I promise to do what I can to keep this video from circulating.”

“Thank you, Detective. I’m sorry I lied.”

I clicked off the recorder and bit back the urge to break into that fucking hospital and strangle Doctor Emberle with my bare hands. “I’m sorry I lied, too. I’m not a detective.”

“I know.” The phone clicked with the end of the call, and I set it back on the nightstand.

Would be a long night ahead of me. A few calls to make over the next few hours.

Because first thing in the morning, I planned to pay Doctor Emberle a visit.

40

Nicoleta

My mind was a broken clock whose hands spun out of control. The pills made me quiet. The pale, blue walls made me calm—a gift from Doctor Emberle, as the nurse who’d wheeled me in had informed me, between bouts of sedation. Leather restraints had become something of an accessory for me, as they strapped me to the bed that lay smack in the middle of the room, with only one chair, upon which Doctor Emberle had often enjoyed watching me squirm and struggle in my binds.

I chuckled at the thought of leaving the place, wearing the cuffs like bracelets, along with the fancy white gown that showed my pantiless ass from behind. A fashion statement for women who’d gotten the shitty end of the stick.

Three days, and I’d already been poked and prodded, drugged and restrained. I’d been placed in solitary for special monitoring for my extreme behavioral issues and occasional fits. Whatever drugs they’d given me kept me in a semi-lucid state—awake, but not really giving a shit about anything. I felt trapped inside a body too weak to move.

The door clicked, but failed to peel my attention from the swirls of paint on the wall, as I imagined the painter twisting his wrist with every stroke of the brush. It somehow reminded me of Dax, though my memories seemed choppy. Faint. As if I’d begun to forget him.

“Lethe and Menosyne,” I whispered.

“Ah, you remembered.”