Page 137 of Manhattan State of Mind

I reach into my bag and remove a pale blue envelope.

Each step amplifies my anxiety as I ascend toward him. But I won’t let him see how much this is hurting me. He’s dangerous. A threat to my sanity, my heart. Trusting him was a mistake I never should have made.

His eyes flicker with an unspoken emotion as he begins to speak, his face hard. But I can’t hear him. I strain to catch his words, but it’s futile. I’m a ghost.

I scream at him, hurling poisonous words meant to wound. I want to hurt him as much as he hurt me.

Shock crosses his face as he reads the letter I shoved at him. Anger, pain, a hint of regret, but the soundtrack of our heated exchange remains muted. Maybe I don’t want to hear it.

My hands shake with adrenaline. I jab a finger at his chest, unleashing a torrent of rage I can’t comprehend. We stand toe to toe at the top of the sweeping stairs, oblivious to the ballroom below.

His eyes blaze, but behind the anger is a well of hurt I didn’t know he could feel. He reaches for me. I recoil, the betrayal still bleeding and raw.

With one last look, I turn and flee down the marble steps. I have to get away from him.

Focused only on escape, I don’t see it coming. My heel catches. Balance lost, arms flailing as the ground rushes up—

“Lucy,” a voice calls, its gentle lilt replacing his voice. It’s Dr. Ramirez, coaxing me back from the precipice of the memory.

I gasp, the room swimming into focus as pain stabs through my temples.

That confrontation had to be real. But can I even trust my own mind?

If it’s real, why did JP lie? We weren’t talking like a boss and employee; we were locked in all-out war. There’s history here that he’s not telling me. He shattered me that night.

He’s the guy!the little irritating voice in my head screams.He’s the guy who hurt you. He’s Daredevil!

Did he push me in a fit of rage? Surely not, but… I don’t trust him. Not anymore. Betrayal churns in my stomach like acid. He could have helped me regain my memories. Instead, he hid the truth.

JP tried to bury the truth of that night. What really happened at the Plaza Hotel?

THIRTY-EIGHT

Lucy

An hour later, my caffeine levels and nerves are both through the roof as Priya and I sit in a café across from the clinic.

She came to collect me. I must’ve been a blubbering, incoherent mess over the call.

I actually threw up my ham and cheese sandwich in the clinic toilet. Somehow I managed to pull myself together and lie to Dr. Ramirez, pretending I was fine. For a second, I thought she was going to force me into a straitjacket, just as Libby predicted.

I remember now. The blue envelope. I’ve seen it before. It’s the letter that had JP turning all shades of awkward in the car when he drove me home. A car pulled in front of us and the contents of the glove box spewed open. He got flustered when it landed at my feet. I’d written it off as classified corporate mumbo-jumbo but now… now I can’t ignore the knot of unease tightening in my gut.

That was the letter I gave him, one he clearly didn’t want me to remember. The knot of dread in my gut twists painfully. JP has been lying to me, covering up something.

Knowing something traumatic happened, yet having no recollection… it’s a disturbing, twisted state of mind. I can’t find the proper words to describe it to Priya.

Reaching out to JP isn’t an option. I can’t trust him. The man is lying to me, covering something up. And that thought alone cuts deep.

Because even with all the anger brewing, my feelings for him lurk around, raw and tender as an open wound. If only I could rip them out. Easier said than done.

I let my fears tumble out, painting Priya the grim portrait of my hypnotherapy session. The retelling leaves me with a nauseating sense of dread.

“I got a recording of the session,” I confess, my skin crawling just from the thought of it in my bag.

“Well, that’s good,” Priya says. “You can play it back, see what you’ve missed.”

I shake my head, a shiver running down my spine. “It’s not that simple. I can’t just apply cold logic here. I’m scared of what I’ll feel if I hear my own voice narrate those forgotten moments.”