Kane shifts away from me on the bench, deliberately putting distance between us. “Amy, there’s a well-documented psychological condition called Stockholm Syndrome.”
Before he’s even finished speaking, I’m shaking my head.No, no, no.
“Hear me out,” he says grimly. “Please.”
“You’re wasting your breath,” I mutter.
“If a kidnapper displays kindness or compassion toward his captives—”
“That’s not what this is.”
His voice hardens, at himself, not me. “It doesn’t erase the terror he caused first. And it sure as hell doesn’t earn him forgiveness.” His forehead furrows, a conflicted look on his face. “But they can become emotionallyattached to him. It’s a dependency brought about by survival. You’ve been isolated, fearing for your life, completely dependent on me. What you’re feeling is the kind of traumatic bonding that sometimes happens between a captor and his captive.”
“You’re wrong,” I say emphatically. “These past few days here at the sanctuary I haven’t felt like a hostage. Not really. And it’s during my timeherethat I’ve started falling for you.”
There’s a hard set to Kane’s mouth. “Amy, I’m attracted to you and my feelings for you run deeper than they should, but there’s no rosy future for us.” His voice roughens. “There can’t be.”
63
HEATHER
––––––––
Wednesday, July 21
My right hand curls into a fist as I reread the sacrifice order taped to the door. Glen comes to a stop next to me, his pores sweating last night’s curry. I breathe through my mouth and prepare myself for a bout of sarcasm.
He doesn’t disappoint. “Looks like you’ll be saying goodbye to your friends sooner than you thought.”
Oh, the effort it takes to hold back the anger rushing through my veins. I can’t mess up now and give it all away. “Do you know why they brought it forward?”
Glen shrugs.Who knows, his shrug says.Who cares.
I dig my fingernails into my palms.Breathe.
Some of the devastation I’m feeling must show on my face because he extends a reluctant olive branch. “Maybe the sponsor wants the study results earlier. It happens,” he says, and strolls away.
I knew this day would come. I thought I was prepared for it, but why suddenly do my ribs feel too tight and my heart feel like it’s being squeezed out of my chest?
Whirling away, I walk at a fast clip to the bathroom and throw up my lunch in the toilet. I rinse out my mouth with cold water and splash the back of my neck.
My reflection stares back at me.
What are you going to do?
Justin’s warning at our first meeting plays in my head.You liberate the animals and they’ll just be replaced with another batch. It’s better if we force SolomiChem to stop the experiments altogether.
His advice is sensible, I know it is, but Justin hasn’t met Turbo. He hasn’t interacted with him. He hasn’t made promises to him he shouldn’t have.
The rest of the day I operate on autopilot, feeding the animals, cleaning out their cages, and helping with dosing. Later that afternoon, another high-dose dog from the chemopreventive study dies. Glen removes the body and I disinfect the cage.
After finishing, I check on Turbo. He isn’t doing too well, lying on his side, his breathing rapid and shallow. When he sees me, his head lifts feebly and he makes little whimpering noises. Seeing him like that, I know what I have to do.
#
Later that afternoon, my phone beeps with a text message.
Justin:Picking you up after work and taking you to dinner.
