Hearing no automatic denials from the colonel sitting next to me or the man guarding my only escape route, I wondered if my concern that I was losing my mind should be upgraded from possibility to fact. The colonel had someone watching me, and although Bishop’s big body blocked a lot, I caught a glimpse of the familiar baseball cap from earlier. So yeah, Baseball Cap was watching me, which explained my sense of being stalked, but he wasn’t working for the bad guys, which eased some of my paranoia but not all of it. I still had no explanation for the voices and the nightmares.
I opened my mouth to add to my little revelation, but their lack of response froze my vocal cords. Finding the words to explain the craziness spinning through my mind was nearly impossible. Doubts rushed in, making me wonder what I thought I was doing. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. Perhaps I should consider checking myself in to a mental-health facility and taking the damn drugs the therapist kept trying to push on me. At least, then, the numbness I couldn’t seem to shake would have a legit reason for existing.
“Megan.”
Hearing my name in that rough rasp, I felt some of the paralyzing pressure ease. I looked up and met the gaze of the man who’d brought me out of hell and somehow managed to become my talisman. Bishop. My therapist would probably have a field day when I told her about the weird sensation of knowing Bishop way more than I actually did—that having him there made me feel safe and steadied my world. I latched onto his calm steadiness and strange familiarity as I realized that although neither the colonel nor Bishop had denied my insanity claim, they weren’t reaching to phone the men in white coats either. This could be a good thing.
“I need to understand,” I said.
“Understand what?” the colonel asked.
Her question unlocked a flood of thoughts and words. They tumbled out one after another. “Why me?” I couldn’t hide my scalding anger. Before they could answer, I said, “I don’t know why they chose me. I don’t know anything—not really. Not anything important. I push… pushed papers, arranged schedules, made appointments, filed reports. It makes no sense why they took me or why they held me for six months.” I rubbed my forehead because that wasn’t exactly true—I had an idea of why. I just didn’t want to admit it.
Implacable and calm, Delacourt called me out. “You know the truth about what we do.”
Yeah, I did. No matter how safe my previous job had seemed, there was no escaping the fact there were still risks involved. Security clearances weren’t for giggles. I held her gaze. “So I know the teams are psychic. What good does that do anyone?”
“You’re an access point.” The hard edge in Bishop’s voice sent shivers down my spine. I turned to him as he continued. “You had access to the colonel, her office, and all our records. The chance that you saw or heard something was probably high enough for them to risk taking you. Add in the fact you’re basically a civilian with no training in surviving interrogation, and you become the weakest point. Hell, if they couldn’t get to our team, they could use you against your brother and his team.”
It hurt to hear him refer to me as the weakest point, even if his words were somewhat true. But the pieces of his theory weren’t fitting together. “If I was leverage, then why didn’t they contact him? Why keep me for six months?” Anxiety crawled through me as my suspicions grew. I met his eyes, and something about this man gave me the strength to voice my insidious fears. “I think they did something to me.”
Over the last few weeks, my confidence in my own perceptions had eroded, and despite my best intentions, I couldn’t say any more. Suffocating pressure returned with a vengeance, bringing the sickening feeling of standing outside of myself as I fell apart. Everything around me was nothing more than a desperate dream. A frantic warning to wake up reverberated through my mind. The tightness in my chest grew as panic set its claws deep and dragged me toward the hazy blackness edging my vision.
Something heavy and warm pressed against the back of my neck, and I followed its lead, bending forward. The touch, rough and solid against my chilled skin, was so unexpected it almost hurt. It gave me something real to focus on.
“Breathe, Megan.” Bishop’s deep voice accompanied a soothing stroke along my spine, anchoring me. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Sucking in much-needed air, I opened my eyes, only to be caught by the velvet darkness of his gaze. Staring into those eyes, I couldn’t have stopped my whispered confession if I’d tried. “There’s something wrong with me.”
His face darkened. “Then we’ll fix it.”
“Promise?” The stupid question escaped before I could lock it down.
“Yeah.”
I knew better, but it didn’t stop me from holding tight to his reassurance. Why did I have to fall apart in front of him, of all people? I shoved the humiliation back into its warped cage. That useless panic attack proved I was right—the voices and nightmares weren’t going away. In fact, they were getting worse, almost as if someone or something was determined to drive me insane. That sounded paranoid even in the privacy of my own mind, but I couldn’t shake my conviction. Whether or not anyone ever believed me, I knew something bad had happened, and the memory of it was buried deep.
My stomach pitched as a new fear rose, one I hadn’t considered: what if I was a danger to those around me? I’d be damned if I’d put my friends and family at risk. Maybe I should consider checking myself in to a mental health facility, even if it meant being locked away for the rest of my life. It wasn’t the best life goal to have, but it was better than nothing.
Having an option, no matter how drastic, eased the encroaching panic. I took a deep breath, then another until my pulse was no longer a deafening beat in my ears. With the air moving steadily through my chest, I managed a nod, letting Bishop know I was okay. Well, as okay as I could get nowadays.
The hand at my neck lifted, but the one on my back stayed. From his crouched position in front of me, he studied me. Not sure what he was looking for, I waited.
Finally, he asked, “You good?”
“Yes, thank you.” My stilted politeness was wince worthy.
The seconds stretched before he moved. Then, instead of getting up and walking away, he caught both of my wrists, his thumbs brushing over my skin until they rested on my pulse. “You think they did something to you?” He turned my earlier statement into a question, getting us back on track.
This time, I managed to nod and not freak out.
“Megan.” In all the years I’d worked for the colonel, I’d never heard her speak so carefully. This didn’t bode well. “You told the doctors you couldn’t remember anything. Has that changed?”
Yes and no, but that answer won’t work. “Maybe.” My answer came out hesitant. Bishop gently squeezed my wrist, regaining my attention, and I tried to explain it to him. “Flashes here and there that don’t make sense, but I know something’s not right. With me, I mean.”
The colonel’s hand landed on my shoulder. Before I could stop, I jerked back, pulling against Bishop’s hold and recoiling from the colonel. Her hand fell away.
Not cool, Megan. I turned my head with difficulty, because of the stiff muscles in my neck, and managed to face her, bracing for her reaction.
Instead of reproaching me, she spoke with wary compassion. “That’s normal—”
“For PTSD patients,” I said. “I know. My therapist mentioned it.” There was nowhere for my frustration to go. This was the reaction I’d expected, so why was I so damn disappointed? “This isn’t me feeling guilty for what happened or blaming myself.” At least, I hope not.
Before I’d splintered into unrecognizable fragments, I was blessed with a relatively normal life. My childhood, minus the unusual quirks of my siblings, was trauma free. I was happy with my accomplishments, satisfied with my chosen path, and relatively whole. My dreams were pretty straightforward, not the nightmares that plagued me now.
Turning away from the resigned compassion in my former boss’s face, I stared at my lap, where Bishop’s fingers covered the thin white scars. An image wavered for a moment then reformed. Bright-red blood seeped under his fingers to drip to my knees, and the hellish whisper, with its final solution, was back, taunting and cruel.
Before my emerging nightmare could strengthen, Bishop’s voice cut through it. “Those flashes—are they always the same?”
His question snapped me back to the here and now. Swallowing hard to ease my dry mouth, I answered, “Not exactly.”
“How not exactly?”
“Sometimes, I’m back in that cell, in that chair, and he won’t stop asking me.” I tried to tug my hands free, but Bishop wouldn’t let go.
“Asking you what?”
“To give him what he wants.”
Bishop’s jaw tightened. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said ‘sometimes.’”
I managed a nod, trying my hardest not to get angry at his persistence. It had been my choice, my choice, to walk in here and ask for help. The reminder tempered my irritation but did nothing for the tension locking my muscles in place.
“And the other times?”
Yeah, this is where it’s bound to get tricky. Part of my rehabilitation was mandatory therapy appointments. As I’d told the colonel, I was highly aware of the symptoms associated with post-traumatic stress disorder. Hell, no one would let me forget about my diagnosis. I tried sharing my worries with the therapist, but she was a broken record of well-meaning but useless advice and prescriptions. I even tried talking to Keelie about it, figuring my little sister’s work with trauma survivors would make her a good sounding board. Unfortunately, every time I tried, I froze, the words trapped by my fear of seeing pity and terror in my sister’s face. My continued silence carved a chasm between us that broke my heart, but I couldn’t seem to find a way to fix it.
I couldn’t seem to fix anything lately. I wanted so badly to reach through the emotional wall between my family and me, but something held me back. I seriously considered making it all stop in the most final of ways so I could finally escape that smothering sense of terror and grief. The decision to come to the colonel, the one person who might be able to help me—or in the worst-case scenario, stop me—was my last option for regaining my sanity. When Bishop had stepped out of her office, I took it as a sign that I was doing the right thing.
Lifting my chin, I met Bishop’s eyes, my mind jumping from thought to thought like a hummingbird on crack before landing on something my dad once told me: Sometimes the only way is through.
It was time to suck it up and wade through. Setting my jaw, I reigned in my crazy and licked my lips. “In one nightmare, I’m at a desk, in front of a computer, and I’m… happy.” And satisfied because no one will ever guess. “In another, I’m in a house overlooking mountains, standing at a window with a drink. There’s a news channel on behind me, chattering about another massacre in a conflicted area, and I raise the glass like I’m toasting someone, but no one’s there. The last one…” My throat closed. Even knowing I needed to share this one, I really didn’t want to. Bishop’s gaze didn’t waver, and I forged ahead. “There’s a girl. She’s crying, begging.” Her voice hoarse from endless screams, and her pleas emerging like tortured whispers. “And I… I make her stop.”
“How?” Bishop asked softly.
Unable to hold his gaze, I looked to my lap, my fingers curling and uncurling in his hold. “I kill her.” The three words reignited the memory of perverse pleasure at the sensation of her slender neck under my hands, my fingers squeezing, choking. Her harsh sobs, the rake of her nails against my hands—all of it causing a twisted hunger that left me covered in filth. My stomach cramped. A tremor ran through me as my newly acquired shell gained another crack. “That’s not me.” That can’t be me because if it is… My brain stumbled to a halt, horror rising in a choking wave.
“Megan.”
The pressure on my wrists disappeared. Freed from the restraint, I jerked back, lurching to my feet, trying to outrun the monster inside of me. Something caught me, trapped me. A white noise of terror shoved reality aside, leaving behind a desperate need to escape.
“Megan, stop it.”
The sharp command pierced my panic, acting like a whip. On its heels was the whispery echo of the taunts I’d endured, and I forced my body to still. I sucked in air as if finishing a marathon and realized Bishop’s arms were wrapped around me, one at my waist, the other holding my arms tight against my chest. His hold made me loosen the threads of the sadistic web until the colonel’s office reshaped around me.
“You’re safe, Megan. Safe.”
The rumble of Bishop’s voice next to my ear cut through the nightmare, leaving me weak and shaky as my adrenaline levels eased down. Held tight in his arms, I could not collapse into a pitiful pile at his feet. Using his support and verbal reassurances, I concentrated on pulling my shit together.
“That’s it. Just breathe with me. You’re doing great.”
I followed his lead until my pulse leveled out and my legs remembered how to hold me. “I’m okay.” It came out rough but clear.
“You are,” Bishop agreed, his low voice vibrating against my spine. “You survived. You didn’t break.”
Startled to hear my own personal mantra aloud, I tilted my head back as much as possible against his chest to find him staring down at me. “Not yet.” My denial was automatic but true. “These things I’m seeing… they aren’t me.”
A dark and dangerous look slipped across his face. “No, they aren’t.”
The surety of his answer gave me something to hold on to. What I wanted to say next would sound crazy. If I’d grown up with different siblings or had another kind of work life, I might have gratefully embraced the white-jacket diagnosis and taken their damn pills. But I knew that despite the fact I was boringly normal, there were others who had extraordinary, and sometimes frightening, abilities—people who could do amazingly good or evil things.
Unable to look away, I whispered, “It’s him.”