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CHAPTER

NINE

REMI

“How are you sleeping?” Dr. Ravi asks me Thursday afternoon.

Almost a week has passed since they cornered me in the woods.

Since he trapped me in the bathroom.

And I haven’t seen him again.

I glance down at my lap, my fingers curled into fists over my thighs, the sleeves of my hoodie pulled down to my palms. “Fine,” I lie.

I haven’t gotten more than a couple of hours a night since I saw him.

I can still feel his hand on my face.

My throat feels constricted, and pressure builds behind my eyes. Those memories in that basement in my head are threatening to flood the whole house once more.

You’re not going to ruin me again, Cortland.

I won’t let you do that.

I haven’t heard anything about him around campus, which isn’t saying much.

Considering I only regularly speak to Sloane and Van, it’s not like people would be dying to tell me.

Besides, I was never named in the news. A small blessing as a “victim,” even though, in the end, I didn’t get the justice of being that.

I met up with my cousin and my roommate after I had a breakdown in the bathroom when Cortland walked out. I took more shots. Got wasted and puked when Sloane helped walk me back to the dorm as she told me all about Asa.

Maybe she won’t invite me to any more parties.

“Really?” Dr. Ravi counters, and I shift my gaze to her brown eyes.

I have my mother’s eyes.

Sometimes I feel the ten years of memories I had with her are slipping away, no matter how tightly I try to hold onto them. Funny, because those chained-up memories in the basement of my mind have no problem rattling around when I don’t want them to. But Mom, she fades without my consent.

I still remember her eyes though. If I close mine, I can see hers. I can see them when she was high, too. The pinched look of her face as her addiction got worse.

The fighting.

Silas and I never got along, even though Mom married him when I was three. But when she spiralled, lost her job as a teacher and her grip on that slippery slope of addiction, my relationship with Silas deteriorated.

After she passed, I made myself small. Holed up in my room, staying with Sloane, or visiting the graveyard.

Most of the time I spent with my mom was at the cemetery where she’s buried in Aben. Heroin laced with Fentanyl put her in that grave. That was after the years of pills. First they were prescribed to her, then they were stolen or bought.

I shift in my seat as Dr. Ravi’s eyes stay on mine. “Really,” I say, but my voice is hoarse. I know she knows I’m a liar.

She pushes her glasses down the bridge of her nose, sets them on the desk between us and rubs her temples, like she’s tired or frustrated or just sick of my mess.

“Remi,” she says kindly, but I hear the exhaustion in that one word as she drops her hand.

“If you’re not sleeping well, you know there are medications we can temporarily?—”

“I’m not taking pills,” I interrupt, sitting up straighter and crossing my arms over my chest. I glance at my backpack at my feet, wanting to get up and walk out. But I like Dr. Ravi. I know she wants to help.

She holds up a hand as if to calm me, and I glance at the window behind her back and see the sun sinking behind the mountain range that edges campus.

I’m not in a hurry to get back to the dorm. Sloane has a night class, and the way those scissors have been beckoning, well, my arm itches just thinking about it. I’ve got four fresh cuts from yesterday morning as I pretended to oversleep, and Sloane had to leave before me to get to class.

Dr. Ravi has asked if I’ve “engaged in self-harm.”

But this is my little secret. Like those memories in the basement.

“It could be for a few weeks,” she insists, folding her arms and fixing me with a look. I know there are shadows beneath my eyes. I know I never really sleep that well because of the nightmares, but I don’t want to take medicine. It’s not that I’m against pharmaceuticals in general.

It’s that I’m worried about the numbness I felt in the aftermath of that night. For months.

It was like throwing a rock into a well and it just never hits the bottom.

I felt nothing. Heard nothing. I was nothing.

“Just until you get on a better schedule and?—”

“My schedule is fine.” I’m in bed at a reasonable hour every night. I don’t consume caffeine four hours before I lie down. I turn off my electronics. I do everything right.

But when I close my eyes, those memories burst free and I’m right back there.

At their mercy.

And Chase…

He doesn’t go here. He came to intimidate me. That’s all. I know. I checked his social media. Still at ECU with Brinklin.

I bite my tongue, refusing to let Chase out of the basement. He can haunt me at night, but he’s not getting my daylight hours, too.

Dr. Ravi nods, and I see in the way she shrugs her shoulders she’s giving in, despite the fact that she definitely doesn’t want to. “Okay,” she finally says. Then she stares at me for a second, an unreadable expression on her face.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I wonder if she knows he’s back, the way she asked me about having her number. But I don’t dare ask.

I don’t want to talk about him. Think about him. I want to pretend he doesn’t exist.

I glance at the clock adjacent the window and see our session is coming to a close. We discussed my creative writing assignment this semester. A memoir on a pivotal moment, and I told her I was definitely not writing about that moment.

We went over Sloane and casually discussed Asa. Sloane made out with him last Friday. While I was cornered against a wall in the bathroom.

I mentioned Van and Dr. Ravi asked if I was smoking pot, so I changed that subject fast.

Which, I don’t. Not very often anyway.

But maybe I should do it a little more. Might help me sleep.

Then I hear the detectives in my head, questioning my habits.

It’s like in order to be believed, I had to be blameless.

I reach down and swipe up my bag, slinging it over one shoulder as I scoot to the edge of my chair. “I’ll see you next week,” I say without waiting to be dismissed, standing and circling my fingers around the phone in my hoodie pocket.

Then I’m on my hands and knees again.

My stomach churns.

Get back in the basement.

I force a smile at Dr. Ravi, who’s watching me curiously.

“All right, Remi,” she says, brushing back a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear that fell from her bun. “If you need me between now and then,” she nods to the door, “you know where to find me.”

“Yep,” I tell her. “Have a good rest of the week.” Then I head to the door, snatch it open and step out into the narrow hallway on the second floor of the student service’s building, letting the door fall closed behind me.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, leaning against the wall a second.

Telling myself the lie I need to believe. He’s not really here.

I haven’t actually seen him going into classes. Chase confirmed he was here with his little pep talk in the woods, but maybe it’s a sick prank. Maybe he dropped out of school.

I couldn’t find him on social media, and I didn’t work up the nerve to check the football roster, or look at stats for the game last weekend.

I open my eyes and force one foot in front of the other, walking down the empty hallway. I hear a voice as I get to the main room on the second floor reserved for student transfers.

It’s the receptionist speaking in a loud, overeager tone like she’s kissing someone’s ass. I roll my eyes, adjusting my bag over my shoulder and walking through the open area, skirting around the little couch and table set for people waiting.

But when I throw a glance over at the counter, my heart leaps to my throat.

I stop as Cortland’s gray eyes connect with my own.

He has one hand on the counter, sliding over some papers the receptionist is pushing toward him, and his other is gripping his black backpack, the same as I am.

A slow smile curves his lips, that piercing tugging upward.

My stomach flips.

He takes the papers in his hand and turns fully to face me.

I start walking again, my pulse erratic as I head for the stairwell, but he doesn't come after me.

I feel a moment’s relief, but my gaze drops to what he’s wearing.

A black hoodie.

With an orange tiger print.

And the words “Ely University Football” printed across it.

A reminder that I can only lie to myself for so long.

I tear my eyes away from it and nearly break out into a run toward the doors that lead to the stairs. I crash through them, letting the heavy door fall closed behind me as I race down the steps, glancing up at the top to make sure he isn’t following me.

But I don’t slow down until I’m out of the student service’s building and crossing the street to my dorm, my pulse flying too fast in my chest, pressure building behind my eyes.

My fingers tighten around my phone as I run up the stairwell. When I get my key card from the side pocket of my backpack, it takes me three tries to unlock the door to get into my dorm because my hands are trembling so bad.

I race down the hall to my dorm, unlock it and throw down my bag. The room is empty and I flick on the lights, running my hands over my braids as I cross the floor to my desk, edged up against Sloane’s.

She’s still in her night class.

I snatch the scissors from my cup holder without thinking, shoving up the sleeve of my hoodie.

I close my eyes tight as I splay the scissors, holding the blade to my inner forearm.

And I dig it in deeper than usual, savoring in the sting.

It’s not enough.

I do it again, and again, and again, until it really starts to hurt, going over the same wound each time.

He’s here.

He’s here.

Nothing even happened to him.

He broke me into pieces, and he stayed whole.

I dig the scissors in one more time before I drop them, my breath leaving me in a rush as my eyes fly open. I stare down at my bleeding arm, feeling nearly euphoric.

Release.

And that’s what I need.

I need him to release me.

I bury my head in my hands, leaning back against my bed, feeling my pulse beating in my arm.

Tears sting my eyes and the back of my throat burns but I don’t give in.

Not anymore, Cortland.

I’m not crying over you anymore.

I’d take that vast pit of emptiness I had in the aftermath over the tears. The tears feel like a weakness. The numbness feels like nothing at all. And sometimes, nothing felt like being strong.

I drop my hands, a low scream stuck in my throat as I look at my bleeding arm.

Does this make me strong now, too?