Page 47 of Savage Lies

“Dreams don’t feel like training. Training feels like training. I know the difference.”

A flicker crosses her face. “That’s why we should explore them. Tell me one of these dreams.”

“Government buildings, but not Russian. Flags from different countries hanging everywhere. Men in suits tense the second they see me.” I swallow. “I’m hunting someone. I know why I’m there.” I study her face. “Does any of that sound familiar to you, Doctor?”

Her pen stalls. “Dreams like that aren’t uncommon. Authority figures, big institutions… they’re symbols the subconscious leans on when it’s trying to process fear.”

“Symbols don’t make men in suits flinch when they see me. That felt real. And combat training. Do your patients often dream about disarming attackers and neutralizing threats?”

She goes still. “You’ve had dreams about combat?”

“Not just dreams. Reflexes. Movements I shouldn’t have, given my supposed background.” I lean forward, mirroring her posture. “Yesterday, a glass slipped off the counter. I didn’t just catch it; I blocked it like a knife. My body moved before my brain caught up.”

“Stress can create phantom muscle memories?—”

“Bullshit.” I don’t soften it. “This is different. This is training.”

Her voice turns textbook-smooth. “People often imagine themselves stronger than they are. It’s a way to cope when they feel powerless. Let’s not lose sight of the real work here…”

She sets her notebook aside to study me. “What kind of training do you think you received?”

“The kind that kills fast and vanishes without a trace.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“Mrs. Kozlov?—”

“Katya. Stop dodging. You know what I’m talking about.”

She laces her hands together in her lap, and I notice the calluses. Not the kind you get from writing. The kind you get from use. Her face stays calm. The silence says more than any textbook.

“Let me ask you, Doctor. How many patients feel like prisoners in their lives?”

“Plenty. Trauma breeds powerlessness and confinement.”

“What about patients who feel like they’re being held by people who claim to love them but might have other motives?”

Something moves across her face again. “That’s a very specific scenario, Katya.”

“He says he’s protecting me from dangerous people, but I can’t even leave the building alone. He calls it amnesia care. It feels like containment.”

She gives me a placating nod and asks, “How does that make you feel?”

“Like a bird in a very expensive cage.” I stand, walk to the window, and look out over the city. “Beautiful surroundings, excellent food, and attentive care. But still a cage.”

“Have you told him that?”

“Would you discuss escape plans with your jailer?”

Her pen scratches. “Do you believe he means you harm?”

I turn back to face her. “I believe he has motives he hasn’t shared. I just don’t know if they serve me, or him.”

“What do you think his motivation is?”

“Control. Information. Possibly revenge.” I walk back to my chair but don’t sit. “What I can’t figure out is whether I’m his victim or his enemy.”

Sokolova closes her notebook again and sets it on the table. “Katya, do you remember anything about your work before the accident?”

“You mean my career as an art curator?”