Page 27

“Hey, Lo,” I say, going in for a hug.

I embrace her long and hard. She laughs, patting my back with her hand a couple of times to let me know she’s had enough. Some things never change, and I’d honestly have it no other way.

“So, this is the place, huh?” I ask, looking around. “It’s amazing.”

“Yep, it sure is,” she says, motioning me to an empty love seat near a window on the left. “This is a communal area. There are several rooms for therapy and other sessions throughout the building.” She points toward the open door and hallway. “We can sit in on the next one if you’d like?” She stands, glancing down at her watch.

“Yeah, sure. I’d enjoy that,” I say, following as she heads for the door.

We walk out into the hall and further down, stopping at a door on the left. Sloane walks in, taking an open seat on the floor where a circle of people is forming. I take a seat beside her, watching as others file into the room and fill in the spots around us.

Once the circle is full, a woman who appears to be about my and Sloane’s age walks in. Immediately, her aura pulls me in. She’s wearing long, flowy pants and a loose tank top. She’s barefoot, and the sight instantly brings a smile to my face. She steps around the circle occupants and takes a seat in the middle, cross-legged. Her long, strawberry blonde hair falls in waves down to her mid-back, a bright red bandana styled into a headband pulling it from her face.

“Welcome,” she bellows out, her strong but calming voice filling every space of the room as it skitters along my spine.

The way she commands the room is effortless, like she’s done it a million times. Everyone gives her their full attention, not needing more than a single word from her. Sloane gives me a sideways glance, and I shake my head once to tell her that now is not the time for her skepticism. After all, she brought me here. Sloane stares at the side of my head, willing me to turn toward her. I don’t, and the woman starts speaking again, pulling our attention right back to her enigmatic presence.

“Thank you all for joining me today. And for the newcomers, my name is Emery. Who would like to get us started?” she asks, scanning the faces of those in the circle.

When Emery’s eyes meet mine, I catch a glimpse of the beautiful hazel colors swirling within them. The soft hues bring out the freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose. She’s stunning in a way that feels soft and warm, like sunshine that coaxes flowers to bloom without even trying. Her gaze lands on a woman to her right who looks like she’s trying hard as hell to be swallowed by the floor beneath her. I wince, knowing exactly what’s in store for the poor girl.

“There is beauty in discomfort, Cordelia. Why don’t you go first?” Emery says to the woman, whose eyes widen in disbelief. “It’s okay, Cordelia. This is a safe space. You can share what’s bothering you. We will guide you through it.”

Cordelia hesitates, glancing around nervously at the faces staring back at her. For a moment, I think she might get up and make a run for it. But then, she begins speaking, her voice nearly a whisper when it breaks the silence.

“I-I’m afraid,” Cordelia mumbles, staring down at the floor in front of her.

Her long black hair hangs down the sides of her face, nearly concealing her from view. Sloane and I exchange a curious glance.

“Go on, Cordelia. Open your mind to us,” Emery says softly, her voice like a warm caress. Damn, she’s good at this.

Cordelia glances up at Emery for a brief second, and I see a flicker of hope in her dark eyes before she trains her gaze back to the floor. She fidgets with her fingers in her lap as she begins to speak again.

“The voices in my head grow louder. The music box implanted something inside of my mind, and … and my doctors think that I’m crazy.” Cordelia looks up at Emery, eyes wide with panic. “They think that I’m schizophrenic, Emery. You have to tell them. You have to tell them that I’m not imagining this. Please.”

My eyes widen, and my pulse accelerates at Cordelia’s words. Music box? Is it possible that Cordelia received a note similar to mine? I’m internally panicking as I take in the mental state of Cordelia, wondering if I’m to suffer the same fate.

A tremble takes over Cordelia’s form as tears stream down her face. She wraps her arms around herself and begins to rock back and forth in place. She’s panting, muttering incomprehensible words. She looks absolutely mental, and it’s no wonder the doctors misdiagnosed her. But that isn’t right, is it? I believe her. I know she’s not crazy, but that doesn’t stop my own apprehension from surfacing at record speed.

I glance over at Emery, tracking her calm expression. Her aura exudes peace and harmony. I focus on it as I tilt my head to study her, feeling more at ease in her presence. Her entire being screams Libra, and it makes all the sense in the world why she’d choose this profession.

A loud whimper from Cordelia pulls my attention back to her. I watch as she jumps from the ground and runs to a corner of the room, cowering into it like she’s being chased by something. Sloane reaches out and grips my arm, watching in horror as Cordelia starts to scream and cover her ears.

“GO AWAY. I DON’T WANT TO DO IT. LEAVE ME ALONE,” Cordelia screams, cradling her head beneath her arms.

Emery stands and goes to Cordelia, wrapping her arms around her and pulling her up and into an embrace. Emery speaks softly into Cordelia’s ear, walking her toward the door to the hallway.

As they leave the room, I overhear Emery say, “I believe you, Cordelia. I believe you. Shh, sweetheart. Shh.”

Sloane turns to stare at me, eyes wide. “What in the hell?” she whispers.

“I-I don’t know. That was really weird.”

I’m still reeling from what Cordelia said. My mind is in overdrive, considering what this could mean for me. Maybe whatever the music box intended to do didn’t affect me like it did Cordelia. Or maybe her doctors are right, and she isn’t well.

My intuition tells me that Cordelia is telling the truth and that she isn’t schizophrenic. I have a gut feeling that we received the same note and the same music box, and that revelation is making my skin crawl.

“Sorry about that, guys. We will need to cut this session short, I’m afraid,” Emery says, strolling back into the room to dismiss us. “I will be conducting a private session with Ms. Cordelia. I do hope that you understand and forgive me for this change of schedule.”