Then, I sit on the closed toilet lid and let myself break.
The sobs come quietly at first, then harder, until I’m shaking with the force of them. I press a towel to my face to muffle the sounds, not wanting to give whoever’s monitoring the audio feeds the satisfaction of hearing me fall apart.
I cry for the freedom I just lost. For the boys who tried to save me and couldn’t. For Evangeline, who probably sat in a room like this once, making plans that ended with her body in the catacombs.
I cry until there’s nothing left. Until the tears dry up and I’m hollow and raw and strangely clear-headed.
Okay,I think, wiping my face with the towel.Okay. You’re not dead yet. You’re not Evangeline. You still have options, even if they’re all terrible.
ONE MONTH LATER
There’s a knock at my door moments before one of my newly appointed guards opens the bedroom door. “It’s time for your session,” he says, not even pretending to make eye contact before walking away, leaving the door open.
In Chase’s office down the hall, there’s a laptop waiting on his desk.
“Sit,” the guard instructs.
I sit. Moments later, the screen flickers on and Dr. Lena Menken appears on the screen. She’s forty-ish, with a sleek brunette bob and glasses with clear frames.
“Good morning, Mara,” she says warmly, eyes scanning my posture before my face. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
Like I had a choice.
“Good morning,” I murmur.
Her background is blurred, probably some clinic in Georgetown or maybe a fake office filter. Doesn’t matter. She flips through something off-screen. “I understand we’ve had a... turbulent few months.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Guess you could say that.”
She launches into soft probing questions. How am I sleeping? Do I feel safe? Any intrusive thoughts? Am I adjusting well to the increased attention? I answer all of her questions from the well-rehearsed script inside my head.
The entire time, I feel watched. Not just by her, or the guards, but I know Chase has cameras everywhere.
Dr. Menken taps something on her keyboard. “I’ll recommend continuing weekly sessions through the end of inauguration. After that, we can reevaluate. Would video callslike this work for you, or would you prefer something in person?”
I shrug. “This is fine.”
Maybe I should probe her again about the medications that she prescribed me. Last time I asked her she acted like I was crazy, saying that she hadn’t prescribed me anything.
But every morning, I’m given a tiny white pill with my breakfast. I’ve never swallowed one; I’ve been tucking them under my tongue and spitting them into a cloth napkin like a magician’s trick.
Whatever it is they’re trying to fix, it’s not broken.
The session ends with her soft voice promising continued support—whatever I need,blah blah. The screen goes black.
I don’t move for a full minute.
Let them think I’m docile.
Let them keep feeding me lies.
Eventually, I’ll make them choke on it.
Before I can get up and lock myself back in my bedroom, Chase walks in, shirtless, a towel slung around his neck, fresh from his morning workout. His chest glistens faintly with sweat, his hair damp and tousled. Regardless of my distaste for him, he isn’t bad to look at. He smiles when he sees me still at his desk.
“Therapy go well?” he asks, grabbing a glass from the minibar and filling it with water.
“Fine,” I say, eyes fixed on the screen that’s already gone black.
