Page 24

TWENTY-FOUR

AMETHYST

The next morning, I wake up so horny I can’t even think straight. Sweat coats my skin and drenches the tangled sheets. My clit aches, feeling twice its usual size, and the pulse between my legs pounds in sync with my rapid heartbeat.

I’m in the throes of withdrawal. By now, Xero would have woken me with morning phone sex, ending with an explosive orgasm. But he’s no longer corporeal and my libido is fucked.

My fingers wander beneath the sheets, tracing a line down my belly in search of relief. When I reach my clit, it’s so sensitive that I gasp at the first touch.

Biting down on my bottom lip, I rub gentle circles over my swollen flesh. Sensation races across my nerves, and I flinch. The jerky movement rocks the four-poster with an almighty creak.

I freeze.

There’s no way I can stroke myself to orgasm within earshot of Mom. Or more importantly, Uncle Clive.

Sighing, I withdraw my hand. I slip my fingers beneath the pillow out of habit and trace the outline of another envelope. When I pull it out, there’s a note inside in Xero’s handwriting that says:

Your toes taste delicious when you sleep .

Xero.

P.S. So does your pussy.

My stomach plummets toward the wooden floorboards, and I choke on air.

Toes?

Memories from last night filter through my skull, each one tugging at the edges of my consciousness. With a shake of my head, I shove them away. Denial seems the best way to preserve my sanity. At least until I can tell the difference between hallucinations, reality, and erotic nightmares.

I arrive at Dr. Saint’s office at 7:25 AM, only to find it locked. The wide front window offers a view of the receptionist’s desk and waiting area, which are both empty. Maybe there’s no activity because I’m five minutes early? I refuse to believe my brain fabricated a fake appointment.

Leaning my back against the glass, I stare out into the street. At this time of the morning, it’s deserted, save for the occasional person opening their stores. On the other side of the road, a large man lumbers out of the Phoenix nightclub, locks the doors, and walks toward a black SUV. He glances in the direction of the Wonderland Fetish Store and then toward me. I dip my head, not wanting to make eye contact.

I’m trying to resist the urge to dismiss what happened last night as another hallucination, brought on by a) the trauma of finding an envelope filled with fingers and b) the appearance of Uncle Clive.

There’s an urban legend about a woman waking up in the middle of the night with a tongue licking her hand. Assuming it’s her dog, she pets it and falls asleep. The next morning, she wakes up to find her dog murdered along with a note in its blood that says, HUMANS CAN LICK TOO.

My brain must have conjured it up because the alternative can’t be true. Ghosts don’t enter locked rooms to hide under beds and suck women’s fingers. Ghosts also don’t offer women cunnilingus only to knock them unconscious and leave them with the female equivalent of blue balls. That kind of shit is only the product of a malfunctioning mind.

The black SUV drives away, and someone behind me taps on the glass. I turn around, finding Dr. Saint standing on the other side with her hand encased in a bandage, wearing a tank top and leggings instead of her usual skirt and blouse.

She’s a tall woman in her late-thirties, who usually wears her shoulder-length hair loose. Today, it’s tied back in a severe bun as if she’s cut short her session at the gym.

Opening the door, she lets me in without a word and then walks in silence across the waiting area. I drag my feet, feeling bad for interrupting her regular schedule.

Her office is set up like a cozy living room, complete with wall lamps, a bookshelf, and a squishy brown velvet sofa. The furniture has been moved around a little, so her desk is closer to the door. I sit in an armchair, watching her rifle through a pile of papers.

“Amethyst Crowley,” she says, her voice sharp. “I haven’t seen you in years.”

My hackles rise at the accusation, even though it’s true.

“What happened to your hand?” I ask.

Pausing from what she’s doing behind the desk, she glances down at the bandage and scowls. “Letter opener. Tell me what’s happening. Your mother says you believe you’re the target of a conspiracy.”

I purse my lips. If I didn’t rely on Mom and Dad to cover my medical bill, I would work with a more professional therapist who didn’t discuss my case notes with third parties. There are rumors going around that Dr. Saint will see anyone for a price and even has clients in the mafia.

“Is it a conspiracy if she avoids questions about my past?” I ask.

Dr. Saint’s eyes soften. She leans across the desk and offers me a half-smile. “Are your memories returning?”

I’m not paranoid, but she always used to sit closer, within touching distance, so she could slide over the box of tissues. Now, she’s hiding behind a desk like she expects me to attack.

If I tell her the truth, she’s likely to relay that information to Mom, and I’ll never find out what happened before the so-called accident.

“There are snippets,” I say. “It’s hard to put them into context because I don’t know what happened in my past.”

She nods. “Did they resurface before or after you encountered your uncle?”

My heart skips at the suggestion that Uncle Clive is a player in my missing memories. Not wanting to commit to anything, I say, “Both.”

I tell her about the photo and the threatening note I gave to the police and offer to show her the images on my phone. She remains behind the desk, saying she’ll view them from a distance.

Something is off about the doctor. She’s skittish and seems ready to bolt. Does she think I’m a threat, or did something happen to put her on edge? Not wanting to succumb to my paranoia, I continue.

“Someone is also sending messages from the grave.”

She straightens in her seat. “Xero Greaves?”

“Mom told you?”

“Several of your posts have gone viral on social media,” she says, not even attempting to hide her judgment. “Did you start communicating with him before or after you stopped taking your meds?”

“I couldn’t function with the blackouts.”

“And you didn’t think to speak to me about the side effects?”

“I did.” My teeth click shut.

Did I? I can’t remember if I left a message on her voicemail or spoke to her directly. That time in my life is a blur. I barely even remember what prompted me to write to Xero in the first place. I know he was the one who encouraged me to stop taking the drugs.

I shake off the thought. “How can I spot a hallucination?”

She leans forward, her gaze sharpening. “What type of hallucinations are you experiencing?”

“I keep seeing a ghost who looks like the Grim Reaper. When I ask who he is, he says I already know.”

When she doesn’t respond, I elaborate on my encounters with Xero, making sure to avoid talking about Jake. If Dr. Saint can run her mouth about me to Mom, then she sure as hell can tell the police. I also tell her about the erotic dreams, the seance, and the death of Kayla.

She leans back into her seat and folds her arms. “I think your mind is trying to make sense of stressful events by generating hallucinations of a ghost.”

“I didn’t make it up.”

“Of course not. The hallucinations are your mind’s way of coping. You’ve been through quite a lot recently. Missing the execution of a man you’d formed a deep connection with, a colleague’s mysterious death, and encountering a man from your childhood. Those are many traumatic events.”

“Okay, so what can you tell me about my past?”

She tilts her head. “We can work together to explore the fragments of your memory and piece together a clearer picture of your history.”

Frustration bubbles in my gut, threatening to erupt. I was hoping she would lay out my childhood, or at least what she knows. After all, she is Mom and Dad’s therapist. One or both of them would have confided to her about the time I can’t remember.

“My mom mentioned you would let me have a recording of our early sessions,” I say.

The corners of her lips pinch. “Providing session recordings directly to clients isn’t standard practice, but we can explore alternative ways to give you support.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her attempt to get me back on her couch. Even though I don’t pay for the sessions myself, I don’t like the idea of her holding the recordings over my head like a carrot.

“Can’t you just email me the files?” I ask.

“That’s not possible,” she replies.

I grind my teeth. “Can you at least tell me what happened in my past?”

“Amethyst, I understand your frustration, but delving into your past is a delicate process that requires time and care. It's not something we can simply uncover in one session.”

My hands curl into fists. “Who says I was asking for an info dump? I just want access to my recordings. You’re supposed to help, and all you’re doing is fleecing our family of money.”

Flinching, she clasps her hands together on the desk, trying to maintain her composure. “We need to approach your memories with sensitivity and care. Healing takes time, and we can’t rush?—”

“It’s been fourteen fucking years, and I can’t remember a thing.”

Her eyes widen at the inconsistency, but she has the good sense not to mention my lie about the snippets. “Amethyst?—”

“No,” I snap. “If you can’t give me the recordings, then there’s no point in continuing. Just give me my prescription, and I’ll leave.”

When I rise off the armchair, she scrambles out of her seat and edges toward the door, as though challenging her is all the evidence she needs to diagnose me as feral.

My jaw tightens. What’s wrong with this woman? It’s me who should be jumpy. I’m the one who’s being beleaguered by ghosts and online trolls.

“I’ll send it to the pharmacy,” she says. “It should be ready for you when it opens.”

“Thanks,” I reply through clenched teeth and head for the door, sneering at her as she flinches.

My phone rings from an unknown number, and my heart skips several beats. Hoping to prove to her that Xero’s ghost still exists, I answer and place the call on speakerphone.

“Hello?”

“It’s Officer Bridges. I called the prison this morning. Mr. Greaves’s phone was smashed during an altercation, but it’s still in their possession. Was there anything else you wanted me to check?”

There goes my theory that a crooked prison guard stole his handset.

Shit.