progress. The human mind can be rewired, new pathways of experience forged. Exposure therapy works—it is just as powerful as the compulsions. You need to believe this, Devina.”
With a shaking hand, the demon wiped the sweat from her brow. Then, gathering herself inside her fitted overalls of human flesh, she nodded.
The couchlike woman was right. What Devina had been doing up to this point was not working. She was getting worse, and the stakes were only getting higher.
After all, not only was she losing…she was also in love with the enemy.
Not that she liked to remind herself of it.
“You don’t have to believe that this is going to work, Devina. You just have to believe in the results. This is hard, but you can do it. I have faith in you.”
Devina locked onto the human’s eyes and envied the therapist’s conviction. Hell, with that kind of confidence, you were either delusional…or standing on the concrete floor of experience and training.
There had been a time when Devina had been that sure of herself.
She needed that to come back.
Jim Heron had proven to be so much more than a worthy opponent and a good fuck. And she couldn’t let him keep this upper-hand thing going. Losing wasn’t an option, and as soon as this session was over, she had to return to work with a clear head uncluttered by any bullshit.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back into the soft chair, put her hands on the padded arms, and dug her nails into the velvety fabric.
“How are you feeling?” the therapist asked.
“Like one way or another I’m going to beat this.”
Chapter Four
“Just tell me if he’s alive.”
As Mels spoke up, the ER nurse at her bedside gave that one a total pass. Sticking out a pen, the woman said, “If you’ll sign these discharge papers, I’ll give you your prescriptions—”
Screw the Bic routine. “I need to know if the man lived.”
“I can’t divulge anyone’s condition. HIPAA. Sign this so you can be discharged.”
Subtext:
Cursing quietly, Mels scribbled on the line, took the two slips of paper and the copy that was hers, and then Nurse Ratched went on to terrorize the next patient.
What a night. The good news was at least the police had called it an accident, recognizing that she hadn’t been negligent or under the influence. But there were still problems…
Glancing down at her ticket to leave, she scanned the notes. Mild concussion. Neck strain. Follow up with her primary care in a week, or earlier if double vision, nausea, dizziness, worsening headache presented.
Her car was probably totaled.
There was no way that man was alive.
With a groan, she sat up from the pillows, and her bandaged head registered the vertical shift with a ballerina spin. As she gave things time to settle, she eyed her clothes on the orange plastic chair across the way. She’d gotten to keep her camisole, bra and her slacks on during her examinations. Blouse, jacket, and coat were just waiting to be put back into service.
She hadn’t called her mother.
The family had already been through one automobile accident—and in that case, the person who hadn’t lived through things had been her father.
So, yeah, she’d just texted and said she was going out with friends and would be home late. The last thing she needed was her mother upset and insisting on picking her up, especially given what she wanted to do now.
Mels took the whole getting-dressed effort slowly, although the foot drag wasn’t just about being a good little patient. Evidently her shot at being a crash-test dummy wasn’t the kind of thing you could brush off. She felt ancient and decrepit—and oddly terrified.
To have killed someone was…unfathomable.
Shoving the paperwork into her pocketbook, she pushed aside the pea green curtain and faced off at a crapload of managed chaos: People in scrubs and white coats were ping-ponging around, jumping into rooms, jumping out of them, giving orders, taking them.
Considering she’d already been in one collision tonight, she was careful not to get in anyone’s way as she headed for the exit.
Which she didn’t use.
The waiting room out in front was filled with various versions of the halt and lame, including one guy with a black eye and a badly bandaged hand that was bleeding. Looking up at her, he nodded, like they were bonding over the fact that she’d gotten into a bar fight, too.
At the front desk, she propped herself at the counter and waited to get noticed. When a man came over, she smiled like nothing was a big deal. “Can you tell me what room the John Doe from that car accident is in?”
“Hey, I know you. You’re a reporter.”
“Yeah.” She dug into her bag, got out her laminated press pass, and flashed the thing like it was an FBI badge. “Can you help me?”
“Sure.” He started tapping on the keyboard. “He’s been moved to an inpatient room. Six sixty-six. Take the elevators over there, and follow the signs.”
“Thanks.” She knocked on the counter: He was still breathing, at least. “I appreciate it.”
“You know, you don’t look so hot,” the nurse said, making a circle around one of his eyes.
“Rough night.”
“Clearly.”
The ride up to the sixth floor was an exercise in data processing that her brain flunked badly. Unsteady to begin with, the ascent gave her middle ear a workout that left her hanging on the rail that went around at hip level. Good idea to put one there; then again, they’d probably had a lot of woozy people on this thing. And the fact that the panels were matte gray metal was another bene. She hadn’t seen what she looked like, but given her reception down in Reception, the air bag she’d tried to eat hadn’t done her complexion any good.
The ding was Disney-cheerful, but the doors opened slowly, as if they were exhausted.
Doing as she’d been told, she followed the signs and found the right place, entering a long, broad hall that was marked by countless oversized doors. Things were quieter up here, although no one looked over from the nursing station as she approached. Just as well—she didn’t want to run the risk of someone asking questions, not liking the answers, and shutting her down.
The room was nearly at the end of the corridor, and she half-expected there to be a cop sitting outside of it. There was nothing and nobody. Just another door with a buff-colored number plate on its jamb, and a laminated face that approximated pine.
Pushing on the toggle, she leaned inside. In the dim light, she could see the foot of the bed, a window on the far wall, and a TV mounted by the ceiling. Beeping sounds and the smell of Lysol proved it wasn’t a hotel room—not that she needed help on that one.
She cleared her throat. “Hello?”
When there was no reply, she stepped in and left the door slightly ajar. Walking past the bathroom, she stopped when she got a full view of the patient.
Bringing her hands up, she covered her mouth as her jaw dropped. “Oh…dear God.”
Up above the utility garage, in the cramped studio apartment he’d been renting, Jim Heron couldn’t sleep.
