Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Just the sight of the police officer’s uniform through the glass pane in the front door sent my mother into hysterics.
Dr. Vorbusch was gone.
I blinked, slowly returning to reality in the library. I brushed a tear off my face, wanting to push away the sadness of the memory.
“Was it your father’s death?” Ryan’s voice startled me upright off the couch. He hovered in the doorway, watching and setting me on edge.
“Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Why was I so anxious to get my memories back again?
He had dinner brought in. I watched him devour his food and drink a glass of wine and listened to him talk about his work while I’d been in my session with Dr. Vorbusch. I didn’t touch a bite of my food. Just the smell of it made my stomach churn.
I wanted to ask about my past, but my head ached whenever a question began to form, and he seemed either oblivious or purposefully unwilling to share information with me. Frustration built to a level I couldn’t handle, and as soon as the meal was over, I shuffled to my room.
My body felt like it was made of lead.
Falling asleep had been easy, given how emotionally drained I felt. But sleep itself was not easy. I had a violent nightmare of being chased by an invisible gunman in a parking garage.
The dream wasn’t real, but the terror I felt when I woke? It was gripping, and sweat clung to my skin.
My subconscious issued an order I couldn’t disobey. Go to him. He will make you feel safe.
I climbed out of my bed like a robot carrying out the command. My bare feet were silent on the carpet outside the door to his room. Should I knock? I had no idea what I would say if he answered. Should I tell him about my nightmare?
No. I could be quiet. Maybe I could stay for a while, satisfy the voice in my head, and slip out without him knowing I had been there.
In the soft moonlight, there was the outline of his body on one side of the bed, covered only to the waist with the sheet. Cautious steps carried me to the empty side, where I carefully grabbed the covers and slid beneath them. I did my best not to disturb him, holding my breath, while his remained slow and steady.
Just when I thought I’d been successful, he burst into action.
He climbed on top of me, making a cry tear from my throat, but then his rough hands closed around my neck, and my scream gurgled into nothing.
42
LAUREL
Ryan’s fingers pressed down, tightening, cutting off my air supply. My eyes went wide with pain and my vision tunneled, the edges turning black.
Oh, fuck. I couldn’t breathe!
I latched my hands onto his wrists to try to get him to let go, and when that didn’t work, I clawed at him. It didn’t change anything—he didn’t seem to mind the way my fingernails scratched and left tracks of red, irritated skin in their wake. His expression was dark and murderous and determined.
As the fight began to slip away from me, a memory flashed in my mind.
It was of my legs kicking underneath me as a man with piercing eyes held me this same way, squeezing the life from my body.
I came out of the memory to stare up at Ryan, their faces blurring together.
He blinked, and his expression quickly filled with horror. He suddenly realized who I was and what he was doing, and the tension in his hands was gone. It let air pour back into my lungs, but he kept hold of me, preventing me from scrambling away.
“Get off of me!” I croaked.
“I’m sorry.” He shifted so he was no longer on top of my body but wouldn’t release me. “Jesus, Laurel. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
I writhed, trying to break free, but he was too strong. “Yes . . . but what the fuck?”
“I heard you come in,” his voice was full of shame, “and I thought you were trying to kill me.”
My heart was still pounding, so it took a long moment to process what he meant. He was always on alert, always worried for his life. The cameraman in the square showed he wasn’t paranoid without reason, either.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” I said quietly.
I shook in his arms, and he tightened his hold, pulling me against him like he wanted to offer comfort. “What were you trying to do?”
“I didn’t want to be alone.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” When I tried to get up again, he wouldn’t allow it. “Stay. Please.”
He sounded rattled, and I hoped it was his desperate tone that got me to stay, and not the voice in my head that commanded it.
His hand caressed up and down my arm, in a gesture that was either absentminded or meant to be soothing.