No… It can’t be Oliver. I mean, it could technically be him; Oliver could have been an intern at the time, or even another patient who took advantage of the situation, like Dr. Ambrose did. Then again, Oliver is probably too young to be my father.
I rub the note with my thumb; the ink smudges, a black smear marking the page. My shoulders sink, and my lungs flatten, each breath harder than the last.
It could be the arousal on my fingers smearing the ink.
Or there’s a chance Benji stole an older copy of the file, and twenty-five years later, this newer file has enough wet ink to smear.
Or…it could be a new note.
If it’s a note Dr. Ambrose wrote recently, then he may be using it to manipulate me. Tapping into my need to belong.
Why would he do that? Why would he go through all of this effort just to manipulate me?
As I pant, I realize my fingers are in my pussy again. Damn it. Why does this turn me on?
The file is in front of me, but I’m not reading it. His jagged letters transform into images of him: his M-shaped hairline; the ponytail at the back of his neck; the dirt under his fingernails; the calluses on his palms; the scars on his long, brutal cock; his sallow skin; his full, hungry eyes staring down at me like I’m the only thing that will satisfy him.
My fingers roll over my bundle of nerves, soothing the ache between my legs. I hate how my body reacts to this, knowing the potential, knowing it’s wrong to get off on this. He’s the most messed-up person I’ve ever met, and the idea he’s been waiting for me all of these years digs a hole inside of me.
I should be horrified by the prospect he knew I’d return to the asylum, but my brain zeroes in on our eternal ties. He shouldn’t want me, but he does. And I shouldn’t want him, but I?—
I—
You don’t know how wrong it is to want me, he had said.
My gut aches, and yet tendrils of pleasure unfurl between my legs, pushing me toward the highest peak. The acid tube is under my hip, hidden by my ass, ready for me to thrust it into his face, but the idea of doing that seems crazy now. How can I potentially blind and kill him when I don’t have my answers yet? When I don’t know if he’s my father? When I don’t know why he would want me?
My mother is dead and my foster parents kicked me out, but there’s something comforting about the fact my father always wanted me to come back to him eventually. He may be a sick fuck who likes torturing me with his piss and fist, but damn it, he wants me in his life. He wants to cure me.
And I’m not alone anymore. I have him.
Suddenly, it’s so damn clear why he would write something like that, and I hate myself for not thinking of it sooner.
He wrote the note so I wouldn’t want to hurt him.
And I’m falling for it.
I throw the folder. The papers slide across the floor.
“I have to kill him,” I mumble.
I stand and find the shower hose. I try untwisting the metal head. At first, it’s stuck, but eventually, it loosens, and I’m able to pull it off of the hose. It weighs the same as a bowling ball, which is more than enough to do some damage. I put it down in the tub underneath me, and I sit. Killing a mother is enough for any child to want to kill their own father.
But what if he did it for a good reason? What if there’s more to the story?
I scream and scream, and rip my hair out of my head, and dig my nails into my scalp. I can’t stop these messed-up thoughts from clouding my judgment. He has to die!
The door at the top of the stairs opens. My breathing hitches. A person comes bounding down in a few quick steps. The looming figure comes into view.
Dr. Ambrose is here.
Chapter 15
Violet
Dr. Ambrose stands in front of the bathtub. I wrap my arms over my chest. Heat cascades through my blood vessels; his attention warms me as he studies my every move, like I’m an organism under a microscope. A thing he knows he created.
I have to do this, I think. I have to.
