Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
I bite my lip, my thoughts unraveling. He knows everything about me. Sharing my secrets with him and talking through the painful, triggering details has gone a long way in helping me manage the panic attacks. I haven’t had an episode since I started opening up to him.
But something feels off today, like a discordant note in a familiar melody.
His suggestion to separate from the three people who will stop at nothing to keep me safe…that doesn’t sit right. How could he even think I would do that? They’re my lifeline, my family, the mates to my soul.
But he’s right about one thing. I need to reclaim my purpose to feel alive again. Working at the hospital, helping others, it’s not just a job. It’s my calling.
If anyone is controlling me, it’s the stalker. This unknown entity hovers over me like a dark cloud, keeping me trapped on this island. My mental health, my happiness, are worth fighting for. If I need security guards to achieve that, so be it. I won’t be a prisoner in my own life anymore.
“You’ve been through so much.” His expression softens, and he reaches out to gently touch my cheek, his touch warm, lingering, and more intimate than it should be. “Such a strong, magnificent woman. I want to see you heal and be happy again.”
“You know what we haven’t talked about?” I pull back, eyes hard. “Your unprofessional touching. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry.” He drops his hand, looking wounded. “My only intention is to help you.”
Something in his tone sends another shiver through me. I want to believe him, to trust in his care and concern, but a growing part of me feels uneasy.
Maybe Monty was right. Maybe Doyle’s intentions aren’t benevolent.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say, “but I need our relationship to remain professional. It’s important for my healing.”
“You’re right. I overstepped.” He adopts a soothing tone. “I thought you might need comfort, knowing how hard today must be for you.”
“What?” My heart stops.
“You don’t remember?” Pity draws his features as he scoots forward. “A year ago today, you were abducted.”
Of course, I fucking remember. But I never told him the exact date.
“How do you know that?” I stand, backing away.
“You told me, Frankie.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or maybe I saw it in the news.”
I don’t remember ever mentioning it. My mind races, trying to recall if I slipped, but nothing comes to mind. Suspicion coils in my gut and encases my skin in ice.
“I think we should end the session.” Heart racing, I move toward the door. “In fact, I’ll no longer be requiring your treatment.”
“Your therapy isn’t complete.” He stands, his expression unreadable. “We’re making progress, but you still have things to work through.”
“I’ll do it on my own.” I grab the door handle, my palm slick with sweat as I wrench it open.
Monty leans against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets and blue eyes crashing into mine.
One look at me, and he shoves off the wall and storms forward. “What’s wrong?”
“Doyle’s leaving.” Hugging my waist, I step to the side to let the man pass. “For good.”
“If you change your mind,” he says, exchanging a glare with Monty before turning to me, “I’m only a phone call away.”
Sensing my discomfort, Monty shifts and puts his broad frame between us. “She won’t be making that call.” He raises his voice. “Jasper?”
Jasper steps from around the corner. “Sir?”
“Escort Dr. Whitaker off the island.”
“Right away, Mr. Novak.”
With Monty blocking my view, I don’t know if Doyle glances back as he departs. I don’t care. When the front door shuts behind him, I release a serrated breath.
“What happened?” Monty pivots, bending his knees and leveling his gaze with mine.
“Did you tell him what today is?”
“I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Was it in the news?”
“No.” He blinks. “Not that I’m aware of. We kept dates and timelines out of the narrative. But a thorough journalist could’ve gleaned the details and posted it somewhere.” His jaw flexes. “What did Doyle do?”
“He touched my face. I told him it was unprofessional, and he mentioned how today must be hard for me.” A swallow sticks in my throat. “He must’ve spent some time looking for that date. But for what purpose?”
“He’s at the top of the suspect list.”
“I figured.”
“He’s not coming back.”
“No. I fired him.”
“Wilson will continue to keep an eye on him.”
“He hasn’t found anything?”
“No. Nothing to incriminate him or connect him to the stalker. Doyle hasn’t taken a flight or left Sitka in the past year. But Wilson is still digging.”
“Thank you.” I tuck my hands in my pockets to stop myself from reaching for him. “For waiting out here, for always keeping me safe, and the letter…” I shift my weight. “Thank you for that.”
I woke this morning with a note on my nightstand, scrawled in his meticulous penmanship.