Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
My brain tries to grab at straws it can’t reach. “I need my medicine,” I gasp. “Please.”
“We are going to hold off on any medication until we see the frequency of your switches.”
“My switches?” My chest hurts. Stress leaning on my chest until I fear it will break.
“Your switches into other personalities. We can’t understand them until we observe them.”
“Other personalities?” So it is true. I need Layana. Need to explain…
BLACK.
Chapter 58
I’ve woken up in fucking old lady luxury. Lee shifts in the bed, his gaze moving over ornate wallpaper, his mind trying to place where he is. How drunk he got to take home a senior citizen and end up in her bed. Moving his head slowly to the left, he comes face to face with an old bald man. He blinks, the man staring at him like dissection is planned. He tries to sit up and realizes that his hands won’t move, a hard jerk of wrist doing nothing but alerting him to the fact that his arms are sore, like he has struggled for hours.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls.
The man smiles, a patient gesture. “Let’s get your name first. Then I’ll tell you mine.”
“Lee.”
“Lee what?”
Lee frowns, not sure what he is getting at. “Lee Let-Me-The-Fuck-Up-Before-I-Kick-Your-Fucking-Ass.”
Baldy has the guts to laugh. “Oh, that Lee. Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Finzlesk.”
“Am I under arrest?” Wouldn’t be the first time he’s woken up in a jail cell. Though most jail cells don’t have hardwood floors, twelve-foot ceilings, and framed art.
“No. I’d just like to ask you some questions.”
“How’d I get here?”
“Is that a question you often ask yourself?”
He stares at him. “Answer the fucking question.”
“You grew violent; you were sedated. We restrained you so that you wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”
“I hurt someone?”
“Not too badly.” The man smiles at a time when a smile seems off. Looking through his answer, Lee tries to figure it out. His head hurts. He closes his eyes.
“Whose house is this?”
“A woman named Jillian Sharp. Do you recognize that name?”
“No.” Sharp. “Is she related to Brant Sharp?”
“Yes.”
Yes. So helpful. Baldy’s bedside manner sucks. So he had hurt someone in the house of someone related to Brant Sharp. Maybe he’d finally snapped. Tracked down that rich fuck and kicked his ass. Fought for the woman he doesn’t really deserve the likes of.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Screw this asshole. Who ties someone down, wants to examine their head, and won’t provide any information of their own? He stares at the ceiling.
“Lee? What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Fuck you. Give me my phone call.”
It is the last thing he says. Hours come and go, Baldy sticks by his bedside, and Lee keeps his mouth closed. Ignores every question that comes. At some point, the windows dark, the hour unknown, the man stands with a sigh. Setting down the blank notepad, he opens his bag, removes an item, and approaches the bed.
Lee jerks at the hot prick of metal, turning a furious face to the doctor, his arms jerking, muscles pulling at the unforgiving restraints. “What was that, you fuck—”
BLACK.
Chapter 59
It has been two days. Brant won’t answer his cell, neither will Lee. Funny how, even now, I still think of them as separate individuals. I drove to Jillian’s yesterday. Stood on her front step and stared into her eyes. Her pupils red, her face as strained as my own. We both love him; I understand that. Understand that she has dealt with this for decades longer than me. I understand that she is upset with me for breaking the balance, for shoving the truth into his face despite the consequences. I may be responsible for losing him. I may have tipped the scale and caused his psyche to crash. Fall to a depth that it is unable to rise from. I could have, in my moment of confession, lost the man I love.
It is an unthinkable thought, but one I must consider.
She didn’t know where he was either. He hasn’t called her, hasn’t responded to her texts. She didn’t say it, but I could feel the blame. This was what she warned me of, and her face clearly stated her opinion of me. For the first time, I feel I deserved her scorn.
We agreed not to call the police. To wait and hope for him to surface. She is monitoring his credit cards and bank accounts. Sooner or later, he should use one.
I returned home afterwards. Paced every floor of our home and prayed into the wee hours of morning.
At 4 AM, I wake with an idea. Toss and turn over it before my brain functions enough to iron out a plan. I consider and discard Don, then call Marcus. “Where are you?”
“In bed. It’s the middle of the night.”
“I’m coming to you. Text me your address.”