Chapter Fifteen
In which there are no bad dreams.
Alastair…
I watch Sorcha pace the steps in her room from the French doors leading to the terrace to her bathroom. Her lips move as she counts.
One… two… three…
Every third or fourth rotation, she flips off one of the cameras stationed in her room; one installed over the door, another in a vent on the wall, and the third, placed in a light fixture over the bed.
After an hour or so, she slumps in front of the doors, staring longingly out at the rare sunshine and the flowers on the terrace. She’s been confined to her room for three days without anything to occupy her except her thoughts. I’ve noticed both Eileen and Callum staring at me disapprovingly when they pass by her door.
Yes, she is locked in her room as punishment. However, they seem to have conveniently forgotten just how bad it could get for sweet little Sorcha if she managed to escape. I know that Zhang has eyes on my penthouse. Her chances of getting a message to her brothers before she was captured again are slim.
Eyes still on my monitor, I place a call to an old friend.
“Hello, darling. How are you?” Monica’s voice is velvet, sultry, and sweet. We’d fucked a few times as stress relief, as she called it, but we’ve always been better as friends.
“I’m well, and you?” I ask, watching Sorcha get up and start pacing again.
“Lovely. I know, Alastair, that you are not one for social niceties. Why are you calling me?”
Another reason I’m fond of Monica. As a psychologist, she prefers to get right to the point. “I need your help,” I admit. “I have a house guest with aggressive PTSD. She has nightmares almost nightly, and she’s gone catatonic as well.”
“Ah.” I can hear the click of her nails drumming on her desk. “Give me a bit of background.”
“She was kidnapped when she was young,” I say, avoiding the most current abduction. “I don’t believe she was raped, but these bastards… twelve years old would mean nothing to them.”
“You are not one to stand and watch a woman suffer… unless she deserves it,” she observes. “How have you tried to help her thus far?”
“I talked her down from a panic attack, and that went well,” I say. “When she shut down, she was in the tub and she didn’t move for fifteen minutes. I ran a warm cloth over her face and arms, trying to rouse her. When she regained awareness, she didn’t seem to notice that any time had passed.”
“I suspect that was disassociation,” she says thoughtfully. “Pallor? Eyes still open but not focused?”
“Yes, very pale, almost grey skin. Cold.”
“You did the right thing there,” she approves, “gentle stimulation, a quiet voice, nothing loud or jarring. When shecomes back, so to speak, don’t pepper her with questions. Give her time to recover and answer any questions that she might have calmly.
“As for the nightmares, they can often increase in frequency before subsiding again. She needs to feel safe and secure where she is. Ironically, someone with PTSD will suffer flashbacks when they are in a safe place. The brain knows how to shut down and protect itself in moments of high stress. She may be processing the trauma now that she’s away from it.”
Frowning, I think about what she’s said.
“How do I help her during a flashback?”
“Just what you’ve been doing. Speaking calmly and slowly, reassure her that she’s safe and protected. You can bring her back into the present by gently reminding her who you are, and where she is. Try to get her to look around the room and describe the elements with her senses, just as you did with the panic attack. Don’t be afraid to repeat that she’s safe until she hears it.”
That’s the problem,I think,is Sorcha safe here?I shrug. Safer than anywhere else.
“Thank you for the advice, darling.”
“You’re welcome, of course,” she says, “and if you want me to meet with her, and she’s willing, I’m happy to do so.”
“I know that your waiting list is… what? Two years long? That’s very kind.”
“Sadly, I initially thought you’d called for a pleasurable evening, but I suspect you won’t be doing that again.” Monica has a teasing lilt to her voice, though I hear the faint undertone of disappointment.
“We’re not together, this girl and I,” I say sharply. “I’m… just a friend.”
