My reflection in the glass steals my attention. My shirt hangs open, buttons undone, black lace bra exposed. Panic flares in my chest, and I take a step back to fix it just as footsteps come closer down the hall.
My fingers are shaking as I erase every sign that Zayne Mercer had his hands on me.
My glasses sit crooked on my nose. My hair is tangled, wild. He did this to me. He pulled apart the version of myself I keep hidden and left it on display.
The guards reach me. One asks if I am okay, his voice cautious. The other peers through the window, cuffs already loose in his grip, ready in case Mercer moves.
The lights cut out again.
This time, when the door opens, I run.
I run deeper into the hallway, shoes slipping against the floor as I move, breath tearing from my chest until the reception desk finally comes into view.
I stop there, pressing my back to the wall.
My lungs burn. I try to slow my breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I count. Three. Four. Five. The numbers do nothing. My thoughts race faster than my pulse, spiraling out of reach.
Detective Mara sees me.
She crosses the room quickly, her hand settling on my shoulder. The contact makes me flinch.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “What happened?”
I swallow hard and straighten, forcing my body back into place. “The lights went off. I got scared. That’s all.”
The lie slides out too easily.
She studies my face, her eyes searching. “There were some power outbursts,” she says. “You shouldn’t worry. The door locks automatically when it happens. No one can get out.”
I clear my throat. “I was in the room with him.”
Her gaze sharpens. She takes me in, from my uneven breathing to the way my hands curl into fists at my sides. “Did he do anything?”
“No.” My voice rises before I can stop it. “No.” This time, I force it steadily. “I just got scared. That’s all.”
“You can tell me,” she says. Her hand finds my shoulder again, gentle but insistent.
I step away.
“I’ll send you the reports tonight,” I say.
She hesitates, then nods. “We got the results from the victim you found in the woods. The coroner says she’s been there for weeks. The rain and cold preserved the body.”
“So it’s him,” I ask. “Right before he was arrested.”
“Without a doubt.”
I nod and smooth my hair back into place, then walk past her toward the reception desk. I can still feel her watching me from the corner of my vision.
One of the nurses stands behind the desk, flipping through folders.
“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile.
She frowns at the computer screen, tapping the keyboard with growing frustration. The screen stays dark. She sighs and startsscribbling notes on a pad instead. When she finally looks up, her expression softens.
“Can I help you, Dr. Beckett?”
“Yes. I want to schedule therapy for Mr. Mercer, along with the treatments he needs, before we continue questioning.”
