How much did they give you for that new brick house, for that white picket fence, for that nice black car? What’s the going rate for that fake life you’re living?

How much do you owe the people who made this life for you?

How much do you have left?

I know the answer to that one. More than you deserve.

If you’re not careful, you’ll get what you really deserve.

CHAPTER 17

Monday, 5:30 p.m.

HELLO?” I CALLED, STEPPING into Dr. Cal’s outer office. His secretary seemed to have left for the day already. Maybe there’d been some wires crossed. Maybe I wasn’t on the final calendar. Maybe the mistake with the appointment was his and not mine.

“Come on in!” Dr. Cal’s smooth voice called from his inner office, door partly ajar once more. “Sit, sit,” he said, with his too-wide smile and too-white teeth. He crossed his ankle over his leg, in that same chair, and I checked his socks. Orange. Pumpkins, maybe? It was still August.

“I know it’s a little early for the season,” he said, shaking his foot, “but fall is always my favorite time of year.”

I had no idea what I was doing here, and he wasn’t giving me any hints. “Um, I wasn’t sure why you needed to see me, and I’m on my way out, have to be somewhere soon . . .”

“Right,” he said, planting both feet firmly on the ground. He grabbed a folder beside him, opened it up, twisted it my way.

He held himself very still. His demeanor was making me nervous.

The form appeared to be a disclaimer, with my name and birth date already filled in. Something about a sleep study, best practice recommendations, a release of liability—

He cleared his throat. “I forgot to have you sign this when you were here, when you opted out of doing a sleep study.”

I tilted my head. Had I? He’d mentioned one, and I’d put it off, saying I didn’t have the time right then—I wouldn’t have said my response was official in any way.

“It’s standard,” he said, handing me a pen.

“Sure,” I said, adding my signature. He’d left the date open, and I hastily scribbled it in. I wasn’t sure why he was calling me in so urgently over this.

He flipped the folder closed, took a slow breath, shoulders relaxing. “Have you been keeping that journal, like we discussed?” he asked.

“Not yet. I’ve had a few rough nights.”

His face darkened, and then I knew for sure he’d heard. “My secretary told me there was an emergency the other night. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” I said.

He looked down at my knee, at the way I held my leg out straight to keep the stitches from pulling. I could walk without a limp, but I was being cautious—not wanting to pull anything apart before it had fully healed.

“Is that from . . .” He let the thought trail.

“I tripped,” I said.

He drummed his pointer finger against his knee, the pace increasing. “Were you—did you—was it like you mentioned last time? That you woke up outside?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I tripped because I found a body in the dark.”

His face was impossible to read, no emotion behind it. “That must’ve been terrible,” he finally said, like he was trying on empathy for the first time.

“It was,” I said.

He sat back in his chair, the folder still in his lap. “Olivia, these things we were discussing, it’s hard to determine what the diagnosis is without a sleep study. Whether you could be a danger to yourself or those around you.”

I stared at him blankly until he cracked first, looking down, making some useless note.

The twenty-year anniversary approaching, the panic of being found and put on display for others to pick apart. The night terrors becoming something more . . . Anything I said now would indeed end up in some medical file. If it got to that, a detective asking for the records, subpoenaing them somehow, I wanted there to be a record of this, too.

“Must’ve been extra stress, like you said,” I offered.

He let out a slow sigh, like he was relieved. “Good, good.” He put the folder on his desk, patting it once.

I could’ve laughed. It was the first time I’d found him truly funny.

That paperwork was to cover his own ass. Dr. Cal had called me in here, worried about his liability. He’d heard the rumors, and he knew I’d been to see him beforehand, and, like Bennett, he’d made that leap. I’d come to him for help, and he’d brushed me off, and now he was scrambling.

Here Bennett had been worried about word getting out that I’d been seeing someone for sleepwalking and everyone would know—HIPAA laws be damned. When really Dr. Cal was terrified. Maybe not a sociopath after all. He was too nervous, too unnatural.

A narcissist, though, yes.

It wasn’t good for business if your patient woke standing over a dead body. Not a five-star recommendation. Not the type of press he’d want, either.

“I’m sorry to hear about . . . everything going on. It must be very stressful. How have you been coping?”

“It is,” I said. “You know Sydney Britton in the ER?”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the name,” he said.

“She gave me this pain pill/sleeping aid combo. Knocked me right out. I didn’t move all night.”

He blinked at me slowly. “Well, that’s good news, knowing you didn’t have an adverse reaction to it. Why don’t you email that name to me and I’ll get you a refill, should you need it.”

“Perfect,” I told him. Fucking perfect.

He’d feared he had made a mistake, and now he was swinging to the other extreme. Everyone wanted to save their own ass, present the perfect image. At the end of the day, we were all products to be consumed by the public, at their will.

“I’d like to keep working with you,” he said. “I think you’re a very interesting case.”

I almost didn’t respond, because he was, even now, trying to see how he could use this story for himself. So many careers had been made from the original event: the reporters who were there, watching it live; the doctors who looked over my case until my mom realized they were using me for their own case studies, something to help their public image and pad their résumés; the friends who had shared photos and anecdotes, inserting themselves into the story for their own momentary taste of fame.

But I had to keep him on my side. “I think I have an appointment with you on Thursday. Guess I’ll see you then?”

“Great, yes. And just so you know, you can talk to me, Olivia. I take privacy very seriously. I spoke with my secretary, too. She understands the sensitive nature.”

As evidenced by the fact that I was here after hours, that he’d called instead of emailing to set this up, that there was absolutely no record of my presence today.

Only Bennett knew the full truth—knew about my visit here and how it might connect to the case. And I had to believe he was on my side.

THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE DR. Cal’s office was mostly empty already. I’d checked my phone, looking for any contact from Elyse or Bennett. But I had no new messages.

It was late enough in the day that I knew Bennett shouldn’t be sleeping, especially if he hadn’t had a shift here today. I needed to ask him if he had suspected Elyse. I had called his cell, leaning against the wall, when the door to Dr. Cal’s office swung open again.