Chapter Thirty-Five

“Thanks. That water is cold as a deep freeze. Can’t feel my fingers,” Nina told Rory as she walked into the kitchen wrapped tightly in the blanket he’d left for her out on the shore. Her teeth were chattering, her lips blue. “Something sure smells great. What’re you making? I’m starving.”

From the sound of it, Joey was back.

He shook his head in sympathy. She always seemed to be the unfortunate alter destined to suffer the discomforts the others had caused.

“Scrambled eggs, whole-wheat muffins, toast, and coffee,” he answered.

“Great. Give me a sec. I’m gonna take a hot shower first.”

His, “Take your time,” bounced off the walls of the already empty kitchen.

He stirred the eggs resolutely. They had to talk, and he planned to do so over breakfast whether she liked it or not. There were still things he needed to know about her condition. Like whether or not her split personality had been the reason for her institutionalization, or if the treatment and medication that quack Lopez had given her caused it. How had she ended up at Prima Vista in the first place? Had she signed up voluntarily in order to go off radar, or had she been forced?

And then there was the issue of Creed.

Rory had a sinking feeling Nina knew more than she was letting on about their pursuer, and what Creed was after, but for some reason wasn’t sharing that information. He’d have to get her to talk, somehow.

Luckily, it was Joey he was dealing with.

Lena would simply tell him to fuck off in no uncertain terms. Octavia would just be evasive, not wanting him to worry. And Thyra… Well, she was likely to ignore his questions entirely and barrage him with sexual innuendo and outrageous flirting. That thought alone exhausted him.

By the time Joey returned, he had set the table. She’d dressed in loose cotton slacks in a chocolate color and a white button-down shirt he recognized as his own. She’d tied it at her narrow waist, leaving most of the buttons open.

The breezy look suited her. Catching his glance at the shirt, she said, “Oh, yeah. I borrowed it. I hope you don’t mind?” Pulling out a chair, she sat down. “The lake was so cold that it made my skin feel stiff and tight. I needed something loose.”

That sounded plausible enough, despite how her every movement gave him a glimpse of the valley between her breasts. Had that been her intention?

“I don’t mind.” He dismissed the shirt, and the attractive feminine shape in it, with some effort.

With a deep breath of appreciation, she didn’t waste time and dug in, only to immediately moan her pleasure at tasting his spicy eggs.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“Sure. Shoot,” she returned around a mouthful of egg and toast. “This is great. You’re an excellent cook, O’Donnell.”

He accepted her compliment with a short nod, holding onto his line of thought. “What do you remember from when you were first brought to the hospital?”

She paused mid-chew, meeting his eyes across the table. Very slowly and meticulously, she swallowed the food and reached for the orange juice he’d prepared for her. “Not a lot. Why?”

Pushing aside his untouched breakfast, he propped his elbows on the table. “I would like to know why you were at Prima Vista. Don’t you?”

“Not particularly. Why is it important? I’m out now, aren’t I?”

“Have you never wondered why you ended up there in the first place?” he pressed, watching for any telling signs in her guarded expression. There were none.

Or were there…?

The shrug she gave was careless, her damp hair falling lightly across one eye. “All I remember is that one morning I woke up strapped to a hospital bed and drugged to the gills.”

He persisted. “What about your treatment? Can you tell me something about that?”

Wiping toast crumbs from the corner of her lips, she said, “Which one? We’ve got drugs. Electroshock. Solitary. Cold. Heat. Sleep deprivation. And my personal favorite, dehydration. You name it, and they tried it. They were creative like that.” A humorless smile curved her lips in cold contempt. She got up and paced to the counter. Tension hummed through her body, showing in every precise movement.

The subject was harder for her than she liked to let on.

He could relate.

“Why don’t you start with the drugs and work your way down from there?” he suggested, not unkindly, as he flipped to the first page of his notepad.

By the sink, she picked up the nutritional supplements Octavia had set out the night before and, with a resigned sigh, returned to her chair.

For the next few minutes she gave him a detailed list of the drugs she’d been given. The list contained a disturbing amount of hallucinogens, depressants, stimulants—and way too many in-between.

That she was even coherent after all that—let alone remembered the names of the drugs—was nothing short of a miracle. Not to mention that her body’d had to endure adrenaline shots, tranquillizers, and whatever else crazy Lopez had managed to get his hands on.

“Next came the electroshock therapy. That was fun,” she told him, working her way through her handful of vitamins.

Another ten minutes passed as she recounted the first daily, then weekly, ECT sessions intended to suppress her “violent” behavior, where the drugs had failed.

Rory had some pointed questions on the matter, but, for the most part, she had no trouble relating the incidents.

“Little did they know that it only pissed Lena off even more,” she said drily. “Well…maybe they did know,” she added after a moment’s thought, her brows furrowing. “She did attack one of the nurses several months ago. It earned me a two-hour session with The Machine. And several weeks of solitary, mind you. But it was worth it. The guy was a real asshole.”

Rory didn’t remember coming across anything about a nurse. Lopez must have swept the incident under the rug and not recorded it.

Big shock.

Her stories went on until noon, leaving Rory sick to his stomach. She told of the games they had played with her mind, how several times she had been led to believe that she had been released or had escaped, only to brutally destroy that hope, time and again. He had to admire her ability to make it through all that and stay relatively sane. Her strength was amazing. Despite what they had thrown at her, she was still here, able to tell of it.

That demanded a vast amount of respect.

Exhausted and husky from talking so long, Joey finally excused herself and went to her room for a nap.

For several minutes he sat at the table, leafing through his notes. It was almost as if the bastards had wanted to break her. Using, for all intents and purposes, modern-day torture.

But what was their motivation? Why do this to a highly capable field agent? To anyone? What was behind such cruelty? What did they hope to accomplish? Was this, her split personalities, the goal?

Somehow, he doubted it. The personalities were too obtrusive, too uncooperative to be of any use to anyone.

And then there was the question of Creed. Where did he fit into all this?

So many unanswered questions.

With a frustrated exhale, Rory dug into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and hit speed-dial.

It was picked up on the first ring. “Creighton here.”

“It’s O’Donnell. We need to talk.”