Authors: Vicki Hinze
“It’s safe.” He emptied his hands and slapped them together, dusting off lingering bits of padding. “I won’t hurt you again, Sara.”
She watched his body language, his eyes. No rage. Weariness, but no rage. He was in control and, from appearances, lucid, though that certainly contrasted with his actions—unless he’d had a breakthrough, and he was working out resentment.
Daring to hope, she stepped inside. The door closed behind her. “I thought maybe we could do some relaxation exercises. When I’m
. . .
restless, they help me a lot.”
He nodded, definitely not of a mind to talk.
Sara sat on the floor, motioned to him, and Joe sat down across from her. Their knees brushed. “Okay, first we’re going to breathe.”
“I’m already breathing.”
“I know, Joe. But you’re not breathing like this.”
His back to the camera, he dropped his voice to a whisper William wouldn’t be able to detect. “My name isn’t Joe.”
Knowing their every move and word was under scrutiny—and William would break his neck getting to Fontaine with anything overheard or done—Sara leaned toward Joe, putting his broad back between her and the camera, and then whispered at his chest. “I know, Jarrod. But it’s important to both of us that no one else knows.”
His clear eyes glittered. “How important?”
“Vital.”
He nodded.
She lifted his chin and her voice. “Now, position your head like this. A little tilt upward.” She dropped her voice again, her hands cupping his chin and nape. His five o’clock shadow grated against her palm. She loved the feel of it, and hated loving the feel of it. “They can’t find out that I know who you are.” She let her gaze meet his, felt his warm breath on her face. “If they do, then we both become threats to them.”
Understanding flickered in his eyes, and he blinked slow and hard to let her know he understood.
Sara smiled. “Now, straighten your back and put your hands like this”—she laced her fingers, demonstrating—“in your lap.”
Joe mimicked her and gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. Her heart thudded, and guilt swamped her. She tamped both, hoping to keep both tamped, and began teaching him the breathing techniques.
Either he was a record-breaking fast learner, or he already knew them. She couldn’t tell which, and his Foster-like expression didn’t give anything away. She hated it, but she had a hard time seeing past Joe’s looks. He was more than attractive. Black hair, dove-gray eyes, a strong chin, and broad forehead. The tiny lines in his face told her he had worried more than he had laughed, though he had done some of that, too. Accepting it as another thing they had in common, she experienced a desire to change that ratio so he laughed more. From their therapy sessions, she had compiled quite a list of things they had in common. They liked the same music, the same TV programs, the same books. They both hated strawberries with a passion and loved banana-nut bread. He didn’t like putting food in his mouth that was laced with preservatives he couldn’t pronounce, and Sara had a serious penchant for junk food, but aside from that, they shared a lot of common ground.
She reached for his neck.
His hand snaked out and clamped down on her wrist.
Startled, Sara stopped, darted her gaze to his steely eyes. “I—I was just going to check your pulse rate.”
The look in his eyes softened, and his mouth relaxed. “Okay,” he said, letting go of her stinging wrist.
“I’m sorry, I forgot.” She flattened her fingertips at his carotid. “Next time, before I touch you, I’ll tell you first.”
“Thank you.” He stared at her without a trace of wariness, then blinked, telling her he was performing for William.
She blinked back, thinking this little signal between them could be helpful. “That’s much better.” She lifted her fingertips from his throbbing pulse. “Do you feel calmer?”
“Yes.” He stared at the strewn mess of padding, as if he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there, and then at the wall.
“Joe, why did you destroy the coffin and the chair?”
He didn’t look back at her, but his voice lowered to a wisp of sound. “Red haze.”
“What is that?” She waited, but he didn’t answer, so she asked again. “Joe, what is the red haze?”
He frowned and swiveled his gaze to hers. She saw his frustration in his eyes, in the tight drawn line of his mouth, in the rigidity of his shoulders; his frustration, and his fear. “I don’t know.”
“It’ll come,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about it now, and don’t rush it.”
“I don’t push. I’m patient. I don’t like the rage.”
“Neither do I.” She studied him. The ripping of the wall pad hadn’t been the rage. “Joe,” she whispered, knowing he had been working through resentment. “What did you remember?”
“Not now, Sara.”
Either he wasn’t ready to tell her, or felt he couldn’t tell her here. “Let’s do some more relaxation exercises.” She changed her position, lying flat on the floor, nose and toes up, and then waited for him to mimic her. When she felt his body heat along her side, she ordered her hormones to go dormant. They ignored her.
“Okay,” she said. “Pick one word that makes you feel calm and tranquil. Then focus on your breathing like before and whisper the word inside your mind over and over. Only one word. If your mind drifts, bring it back, focusing just on your one word.”
He began, silent but moving his lips.
He’d chosen her name.
Sheer pleasure seeped through her. Guilt absorbed it, but it persisted, and a satisfied warmth spread deep, arousing a heat that wasn’t satisfied. Realizing she was staring at his mouth and feeling an intense urge to kiss him, she virtually kicked herself and closed her eyes. She couldn’t do this. She’d made herself a promise. One that was important to both of them. Focusing on her breathing, she chose her word—Jarrod—hoping for an exorcism. Repeating it, she felt her mind drift and the tension ebb from her body. She grew calmer, quieter, more and more relaxed. More and more drowsy
. . .
“Sara?”
Feeling someone’s touch on her shoulder, she dragged her eyes open. They were dry and gritty. She blinked to focus and saw Joe, staring into her face. Befuddled, she frowned.
“You fell asleep.” He gently brushed her hair back from her face.
Heat swam up her neck, and Sara sat up. “Sorry.”
“No. You demonstrated relaxing very well.” A smile tugged at the corner of Joe’s mouth. “But do you always snore?”
Her face went hot, but Sara chuckled. “Only when I’m really tired.” She shoved her hair back and looked at him, still sprawled on his side beside her. “How did you do?”
“Well enough for you to go back to bed now.”
“No more upset?”
“No.” He blinked. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“Why did you do it?” She glanced at the wall-pad bits scattered around.
“Later.” He tugged at his ear and helped her to her feet. “Go now and get some rest.”
He didn’t want what he had to tell her overheard. She smiled from the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Joe.”
He didn’t answer.
She looked back over her shoulder at him. He lay staring at the white wall exposed by the ripped padding and, as she watched, his expression went from clear and calm to baffled, and then blank. “Joe?”
He didn’t look her way. “Where are my crayons? I need my crayons.”
He needed color. She got the box from the floor, near the sketch pad. He’d been lucid a lot longer this time. That was good progress. Still, she fought the depression of seeing him slip away from her.
“Here they are, Joe.” She passed the crayons over.
Joe didn’t blink. This wasn’t a performance for William.
Disappointed, Sara requested to be let out and then walked to the door, trying to figure out why Joe had slipped back into the netherland.
Something had to trigger the regression. But what?
Out at the station, Sara circled the Plexiglas barrier and paused at the monitors. Joe lay curled in a ball on the floor. He didn’t look distressed. Actually, he appeared calm and at ease.
Yet he clutched at the box of crayons.
If she could figure out the trigger, then she could help him. It wasn’t just that the ripped-out wall pad exposed the white wall. If that section of the wall bothered him, he would just look away from it, too. Joe looked away from the camera because it made him uncomfortable. But was it being watched that bothered him, or the camera itself? Which was the trigger?
She had no idea. All she really knew for certain is that none of her PTSD-diagnosed patients suffered from PTSD. Not even Joe. But they were somehow connected. Perhaps through some kind of betrayal and maybe, whatever it was about, this “I wept.”
What
had happened to them?
Look for more common bonds. Things all of them share.
She gritted her teeth, swearing she would, if only she could get some privacy and access to a computer.
She detoured by the second-floor station. Beth wasn’t there, but Koloski was. Sara wouldn’t gain access on this attempt, either.
Bitter, she took the elevator down to her quarters and then crawled into bed. Tomorrow, she thought, punching her pillow, she would gain access to those files—even if she had to lock Beth in the med room to get it.
Sara fell back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Damn it, all she wanted was the truth. It wasn’t as if she were begging for a fistful of miracles—though she certainly wouldn’t snub her nose at them. She just wanted
. . .
the truth.
The truth.
Sara awakened shortly after seven, starved for it. And with two goals plaguing her mind. One, to get a grip on her unprofessional feelings for Joe, so she could start sleeping and stop choking on guilt; and two, to get privacy and access to a computer. She
would get
a look at her patients’ admission records.
Today.
She stretched and tossed back the covers. The chill air raised goose bumps on her bare legs, and she tugged at the tail of her T-shirt. First order of business, the truth. It was time she deciphered who was giving it to her, and who was putting it to her. She made a pit stop in the bath and craned her neck at the mirror. Her bruises were fading from deep purple to green and yellow. While chugging down a cup of piping hot coffee, she dragged on jeans, a creamy top, and her flowered lab coat. And since Jack Foster had pulled her into this nightmare, she’d start with him.
Fifteen minutes later, she stood at the nurses’ station, watching Shank restock the med room with bandages, syringes, and bottles of sterile saline. She shut and locked the med room door, and then dropped the keys into her pocket. Sara smiled. “Good morning.”
“If what I read in William’s notes was right, it’s more like an extension of yesterday for you.” Shank gave her the once-over, looking worried. “Up really late with Joe?”
“A little early.” Sara pulled her patients’ charts and tracked their progress.
“Sara, be careful, okay? They didn’t get in this shape in a day, and they can’t get out of it in one. Don’t burn yourself out, trying to make the impossible happen.”
“I won’t,” Sara promised. Long hours, hellish schedules, and interrupted sleep had been ordinary for her. She had gone where she was needed, when she was needed. Private practice had spoiled her to working regular hours. Outside of Braxton, that couldn’t be the case for Shank, though. Not with what Foster had said.
Remembering his warning, Sara knew she shouldn’t probe that topic with Shank, but she had to do it. His credibility had been breached before, and now again. He had instructed her to call him from a store where he knew the phone was out of order, at 9 P.M. when he knew Braxton would be locked down at 9 P.M., and he had refused to promise her when all this was over, she would walk out of Braxton alive. After thinking on it, she understood. He was testing her. He’d always tested her about David. He knew she was impatient, and he deliberately pushed her hot buttons. She thought she just might hate him for that.