The faint scent of Lancôme Miracle—one of my signature scents that I’ve worn since my sophomore year at college—fills the room, only serving to strengthen my resolve.
This whole thing is absurd.
Beyond disturbing.
My head throbs, and I check the marble and quartz clock on the wall.
It’s twenty past two already. How have I been sitting here this long? And where the hell is she? Did the receptionist tip her off?
The room begins to spin, the walls seemingly closing in on me.
Nothing made sense before, but somehow over the course of the past twenty minutes, I’ve just leveled up to a whole other realm of insanity.
I cross and recross my legs.
I gaze out the window for a moment, to the smattering of passing cars on an otherwise empty afternoon street.
Digging my nails into my thigh, I sit up straight and check the clock once more.
It’s only been three more minutes, but it feels like it’s been another hour. The knots in my stomach are almost urging me to go. To pack up. To abort this mission because something is obviously amiss.
The receptionist said “Brienne” would be with me shortly. And no professional in their right mind makes a new client wait almost a half hour to be seen.
I clear my throat and reach for my bag, digging out my phone to help keep me occupied while I wait. I’m hopeful that a distraction might quell the nerves and nausea that are digging their claws in me deeper by the second.
I swipe the screen and tap in my passcode, bringing the apps to life. And then I tap my messages—the last one to Niall, specifically, where I told him I’d be out running errands today and asked if he needed anything. I was trying to show him that I’m okay. That I can function in the world like a normal person. I worry the recent episodes might have him pitying me again, and the last thing I want to do is take two steps back.
Also, he didn’t install the security cameras over the weekend like he promised. But it wasn’t his fault—he was paged into work Sunday, and when he came home, he seemed exhausted so I didn’t press it. I’m hoping if I offer to do him some favors today, he might be reminded of the one he offered to do for me . . .
My message to him shows as read. He read it a minute after I sent it, but he didn’t reply. Which is fine because he’s busy. He has patients and appointments. He can’t always stop what he’s doing.
The rest of my messages are ancient. Nonexistent. No one texts me anymore. Just Niall and, on the ultrarare occasion, Enid.
I place my phone back in my bag and plant my feet flat on the floor.
I’m not going anywhere, not until I talk to this audacious lunatic.
Pressing my lips together—an old nervous habit of mine—I stare straight ahead and wait.
And wait . . .
Until a figure in the doorway fills my periphery.
I swear in a fraction of a second, as I turn my gaze in that direction, my heart comes to a full stop.
Because it isn’t her.
It isn’t her at all.
“Kate? What the hell are you doing here?” Niall’s hands press against the doorjamb, though I can’t tell if I’m blocked in or blocked from getting out. He’s breathless, eyes wild and almost animalistic.
“Kate?” I ask. He stands before me, chest rising and falling as though he sprinted straight from the hospital to the Regency building. He must be so worked up, he doesn’t realize he’s just called me by his wife’s name.
“We have to go,” he says. “Now.”
I’m not sure why, but I find myself laughing. Maybe it’s the way he’s acting, like a character from some cut-rate prime-time drama, or the fact that there’s nothing left for me to do at this point but to find humor in what my life has become by this moment.
Niall dives toward me, his slender fingers wrapping around my wrist, and I barely have time to reach for my bag. We’re barreling down the hall of the Opal Green agency, headed toward the lobby, when I realize I’ve yet to see another soul. Not even the receptionist.
Is everyone in hiding?
“What the hell is going on?” I ask him when we burst beyond the glass doors. “And how did you know I was here?”
He doesn’t bother with the elevator, opting to lead me to the stairs instead, and we’re practically running down them.
“Please, Niall, slow down,” I say, my heels clicking against the cement steps. The humor I’d found in this situation a mere instant ago has vanished.
He slows but only slightly, and his grip on my wrist is as firm as ever, like he isn’t letting me go.
By the time we reach the sidewalk beyond the building, I spot his silver Volvo parked in a nonparking zone, the hazard lights flashing.
He gets the passenger door for me, almost shutting it on my feet as I climb in, and before I have a chance to fasten my seat belt, he’s already jumping in beside me.
I’ve never seen him this frantic.
Cool sweat blankets my body as he maneuvers into the traffic and careens between two cars before blowing through a yellow light.
“Will you please just tell me what the hell is going on?” My tone is sharp, startling, and unfamiliar to even myself.
His knuckles are white, hands taut on the wheel, and his jaw sets.
“I don’t know how I missed this.” He shakes his head, eyes focused on the traffic, and it feels like he’s talking to himself. “I don’t know how I missed the signs. They were all there. I should have known. I should have seen this coming.”
“What are you talking about?”
Niall’s chest is still rising and falling as though he’s finished a marathon. Or like he’s in the middle of a panic attack. And for the first time in months, I find myself scared.
No.
Terrified.
Only I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m terrified of.
And that might be the most terrifying thing of all.
Niall’s already unbuckling his seat belt by the time we fly into the driveway. He’s so distracted, he almost forgets to shift into park, the car lurching toward the garage door until he slams on the brakes.
I steady my trembling hands in my lap. My eyes sting, wet and hot. My entire world is crumbling beneath me, and I haven’t the slightest clue how or why, just that everything that was a few hours ago no longer is.
I follow him in through the back door, and he tosses his keys on the counter, careless and unlike him. And then he turns to me with an unfamiliar, almost panicked look in his eyes.
“You’re scaring me.” My small voice breaks.
He forces a breath from his nostrils before dragging his hand through his hair.
“Have a seat in the dining room,” he finally says. His expression is bordering on crestfallen, the way I imagine he looks when he’s about to deliver the worst kind of news to his patients. “I’ll meet you there in a minute. And I’ll tell you everything.”
CHAPTER 20
There’s dust on the dining room table. The grandfather clock chimes from the hallway, three times. Niall’s footsteps on the second floor are heavy, hurried. Closet doors and desk drawers open and close. Papers rustle. More footsteps follow. It’s almost as if he’s ransacking the upstairs.
Finally, he returns, taking the chair beside me, placing a shoebox, a photo album, and a stack of papers between us. Without saying a word, he watches me, studies me like I’m some subject in his laboratory.