Her eyes flick to the side, but her mouth hardens. "Dr. Musli—" she says, but he cuts her off.
"Dr. Musli is no longer here. I am in charge of these patients now, and what I say goes. Are we understood?"
She nods quickly and leaves the room, closing and locking the door on her way out.
I'm left alone with the doctor, who finally looks back to me, his face softening, his eyes taking in my disheveled state. "I apologize for all of this. You should have been given better treatment upon arrival.” His eyes flick to my gown. “Not to mention better clothing. Please, feel free to use my private bathroom and freshen up before our session begins. You’ll find an extra change of clothes inside."
He gestures to a door across the room, and I don't give it a second thought. I dash over and lock myself in. It's simple. A toilet, a shower, and a sink. Perched on the counter beside the sink is a pair of leggings and a thick sweater that’s way too big for me.
I use the toilet, sighing in relief as my bladder empties, then study myself in the mirror above the sink. My hair is a nest of tangles. My face is sallow and pale. My eyes have pronounced bags under them, and the doctor was right; thanks to Nurse Bitch, my cheek is beginning to bruise.
After dressing in the clothes provided, I splash cold water on my face and rinse out my mouth as best I can, then stare at the door that will lead me back to the doctor.
He seems nice, and it feels good to be out of that threadbare gown, but I know nothing about this place, and so I keep my guard up as I return to his office and take a seat across from him.
There's a glass of water and a cup of herbal tea waiting for me. I eye them suspiciously, worried about being drugged, but if I don't stay hydrated, I know I won't last long.
"Please, help yourself. You must be thirsty."
I take the water first and drink until the glass is empty. My head clears a bit, and my mouth and throat feel less desert-like. "Thank you," I say, though it's hard to express gratitude for anything in this hell.
But as I study the man before me, as I listen to his voice, I can't help but feel a familiarity. Have I met him before? I definitely feel like I would remember that.
"Miss D'LeLune, I'm Dr. Livingstone. Do you know why you've been brought here?"
"Livingstone?" I ask, surprised.
He nods.
"Are you related to the L Livingstone who painted those?" I ask, nodding to the wall.
His lips twitch into a small—almost shy—grin. "You could say that," he says. "I'm Logan Livingstone. The artist."
This is almost as much of a shock as my being here at all. Because the man before me can't be more than thirty—if that—and these paintings look at least 100 years old, based on the aged and weathered frame and canvas. "When did you paint them?" I ask.
"When I was younger," he says. "Is there a reason you're deflecting the questions onto me? I know it can be hard to talk about one’s own pain and trauma, but I promise you that I'm here to help."
"Is that why I woke up in a dungeon cell and am being held against my will? So you can help me?" I ask, using my words as whips.
He flinches at my tone. “Your stay with us will include accommodations of the simplest nature to ensure safety. Your shower time will have to be chaperoned, and you’ll have to earn the right to personal items like hairbrushes and shoes. These rules are reserved for patients who need some time alone to reflect on their choices. Or for those who are a danger to themselves and others."
"So the twins? Declan and Dean? Are they reflecting or a danger?" I ask.
"They aren't what we are here to discuss," he says.
"They may not be who you're here to discuss, but I don't have any intention of sharing my personal life with a stranger who aided, or at least is abetting, in my kidnapping." I lean back and cross my arms over my chest.
"How do you think you got here?" he asks.
"I just told you, I was kidnapped."
Dr. Livingstone leans forward, his ocean eyes studying me intently. "Do you not remember, Miss D'LeLune?"
"Just Celeste," I say. "And remember what?"
"You called us. Just before you got home and attempted to take your own life, you called our hotline number and told us what you were about to do. You asked us for help. I got the call and came myself, only to find you bleeding out in the bathtub."
Vaguely, I recall a male voice reassuring me as I was pulled from the bloody water. But that doesn't explain the rest.
"I brought you here to save you from yourself."
I narrow my eyes at him, my heart thudding aggressively against my ribs and a headache forming behind my eyes. His words don’t make sense. I didn't call anyone that night. I remember it clearly. The visions. The plan. The feel of the blade against my skin.
"You're lying," I say. "I didn't call you. I didn’t call anyone."
He gives me the look of one who feels sorrow for someone crazy, and it pisses me off.
Until he pulls out his cell phone and hits play. I hear what sounds like my own voice coming out of the speaker.
"Help. Someone help me. My name is Celeste, and I'm about to hurt myself. Stop me before it's too late."
He pauses the recording and waits for me to say something.
Only no words come, because I never made that call, but I know whose voice that is.
It sounds like me. And if you didn't know the difference, you'd think it was me.
But it's not my voice.
That voice belongs to my sister.
My twin sister who died six months ago.
Estelle.
3
When I still refuse to respond to his question about the phone call, Dr. Livingstone tucks his cell back into his pocket and leans back, studying me.
“Why don’t we start with the basics,” he says. “Where did you grow up?”
I hesitate, wondering if I should answer anything he asks. But I know if I don’t cooperate at least to a degree, it won’t go well for me here. Nurse Schmidt already delivered that message.
“California,” I finally say, conceding to this game reluctantly. “But I’m guessing that thick file you’re carrying on me already told you that.” I nod at the manila folder lying on the desk behind him.
His smile is fast and reveals rows of straight white teeth that make him somehow both handsome and terrifying, all at the same time. Before I can begin to fathom what exactly scares me about such an attractive smile, it’s gone, along with the predatory glint.
“All right. According to the file, you’re an art student studying in Paris. Your father was American. Killed in a car accident twelve years ago. Your mother was French. She committed suicide ten years ago after a lifetime of mental health struggles. Before that, she was a painter. Explains your interest in art and what you’re doing at the Sorbonne. The family history could also explain your own treatment these last few months. Care to fill in the rest of the blanks yourself?”
I’m actually wondering how he filled in so much already. Did he somehow get my school files? Search my flat? Talk to my friends? But instead of asking, I put on a mask of confusion.