“Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying.” Tristen tapped a finger against the novel. “Grandfather gave me this on his deathbed. He called it both ‘our hellish genealogy’ and ‘the horrible map of our future.’”
I drew back slightly, not liking what he said or the ominous tone of his voice. He clearly wasn’t joking. “Why a map, Tristen? What does that mean?”
“According to my grandfather, all of the Hyde men—down through the generations—are corrupted by the formula that your ancestor first drank, creating my lineage. Grandfather swore that we all—just like the first Mr. Hyde—eventually succumb to our darker natures and commit terrible acts.” His brown eyes clouded over. “At first we aren’t even aware of what we do. But eventually, try as we might to control the beast inside . . .”
As Tristen trailed off, I felt my eyes widening and fought the urge to stand up and run away. It was crazy. Tristen . . . He couldn’t be evil. He’d held me, comforted me. We’d just shared that moment . . . And his eyes. They were so warm and beautiful. I didn’t want him to be evil. Or crazy. But I found my gaze drifting to the dark mark under his left eye. “You don’t really think you . . . ?”
“Yes,” Tristen confirmed. “What happened with Todd—that wasn’t me. And I’ve started to dream, as Grandfather promised. Nightmares, which are growing more vivid.”
“Nightmares.” I kept staring at the bruise under his eye and my voice sounded squeaky as I asked, “What kind of nightmares?”
All at once Tristen was no longer explaining; he was confessing. Spilling secrets that I think he just couldn’t bear anymore. His eyes were miserable. “I . . . this thing inside of me,” he said. “In my dreams it attempts to kill a girl . . . and likes it. Relishes the slaughter.”
I jumped out of the chair, terrified. “Tristen!” I had to get away. He was crazy. But he caught my wrist, and I stared down at his hand. “Let go . . . please!”
“Jill,” he said quietly, soothing me. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. It’s not you that the beast I harbor wants. The dream is very specific.”
My eyes were still locked on Tristen’s hand, but I sat back down, not sure what else I could do. He was too strong to break away from. “What do you want from me?” I asked, voice still shaky. Although I already guessed the answer, I asked again, “Why are you here?”
“I want to perform the experiments documented in this box.” He nodded to the desk, still clasping my wrist. His grip was strong, but not harsh. “And I want you to help me. You are the only person I would trust to be in the lab when I start drinking the solutions. You would know how to counteract toxins if necessary.”
I shook my head, too horrified and petrified to be flattered. “You can’t drink the formulas . . .”
Tristen raised the novel, which he still held in one hand. “The book is very clear. The formula both creates—and banishes—the beast. That is how Jekyll changed back and forth—by drinking it.”
The “monster.” The “beast.” It was insane. What Tristen was saying was completely insane. “I won’t help you,” I said. “I can’t.” My gaze darted to the box. “I won’t let you have the papers. You need counseling . . .”
“I am the son of the world’s best psychotherapist,” Tristen advised me, boring into my eyes. “I don’t need to lie on a couch. I need to work in a lab. We need to work. Together.”
“Tristen, no.” How could his gaze seem so clear when he was obviously delusional?
“Jill.” He locked his eyes to mine. His compelling, warm, intelligent, seemingly sane eyes. “The nightmares are coming more frequently and vividly. I fear the monster inside of me is gaining power. I’ve already lost control to it too many times.”
My eyes snapped wider. “What? Not just with Todd?”
Tristen closed off to me then. The confession was over. But I’d seen the flash of surprise and self-reproach in his eyes and knew that he’d revealed more than he’d intended. “I am still in control,” he said, ignoring my question. “But I don’t know for how long. The dream about the girl—I awake sometimes not sure if it was real. What if the beast inside of me finally wrests control not only of my brain but of my body, and makes the nightmare reality?”
“Tristen . . .” I twisted against his grip. “Please. This is crazy.”
He squeezed my wrist more tightly, but it was a strangely calming touch, as if he was trying to focus me and force me to listen carefully when he announced, very clearly and gravely, “If you don’t help me, Jill, and if I can’t cure myself, I will kill myself before the beast acts upon its nastiest impulses.”
Tristen released my wrist then, like he knew that I wouldn’t run away . . . which I didn’t do. I just sat there, staring at him. And shaking.
I didn’t know if I believed any of what he had just said about a beast lurking inside of him thanks to a formula created over one hundred years ago. But looking into his eyes, meeting his unwavering gaze, I did believe in that moment that he would commit suicide before he really hurt someone else. Me, or somebody like Todd Flick, or the girl in his dream, whoever she was.
Still, I found myself saying, “Tristen . . . I don’t think so.”
He thumped his novel down next to my family’s box of documents, putting them close together and turning from me to observe them both. “Your father and my grandfather believed the same thing,” he said quietly. Ominously. “The past and the future for me—they seem to be commingling here, Jill.”
When he looked to me again, his gaze was commanding but his voice was imploring. “I am asking you to help me. And in return I will help you develop a
