“Did you make any progress?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Not even among old friends?”

  “Fuck off, Jayson. Get to the point.”

  “I’m pretty sure my reason for being here is not much different than the one you’d have used to call me in,” I tell him. “I talked to Malia.”

  “Ah.” He raises his eyebrows in understanding, visibly tensing up as he leans forward, placing his elbows on the table. I can tell that he’s trying to appear dominant and in charge of the situation, but he’s clearly nervous.

  Why though? Shouldn’t I be the one who’s on edge?

  “And she told you—”

  “That you’re placing more focus on the latest Bridgewater murder for now,” I cut him off. “And that you found something on the victim that, as Malia quoted, will change the way people see me?”

  I add a pause, observing him as I let the information sink in. He probably didn’t expect Malia to share this with me, and maybe I’m risking too much by letting him know. After all, Malia and I have never been seen together, no one knows that she’s currently residing at my place instead of her own little apartment that is just a few walking minutes away from my mansion. And we’re not known to be friends. Petal is the only link that connects her and me, but it’s a strong one. It’s no secret that she was at my place back then, that she was sitting in the next room while I took something from Petal, just as I was asked to. It’s not unreasonable to believe that she would talk to me about anything regarding the investigation of Petal’s disappearance.

  “She wasn’t supposed to,” Christopher gnarls, grinding his teeth while a crease appears between his thin eyebrows. “That conversation was confidential.”

  “Believe it or not, I told her the same thing,” I say, reveling in the look of surprise that spreads across his face. “But here we are. And there are two things here, that surprise me, Christopher.”

  He arches his eyebrows in expectation while I go on.

  “The Bridgewater murderer has been striking terror for years now, and for whatever reason, you guys never even came close to finding him. Now that she has disappeared, while you reject the notion of her being his next victim, you still double the force working on the Bridgewater case?”

  He listens, his expression hardening as I speak. “What’s your point? You said it yourself, her disappearance touches me on a personal level. We have been friends for years.”

  “Yes, but you said—”

  “Jayson, let me ask you one thing,” he interrupts me, raising his hand like a student in class. “Have you ever heard of the drug Sodium Amytal?”

  A cold shower runs down my spine, hitting me with such sudden force that its impact is impossible to hide in front of him.

  “Thought so,” he says, casting me a condescending smile. “It’s the drug you use on your patients, isn’t it? When you knock them out before your procedure.”

  I frown at him. “Among others, yes. But I don’t use it to ‘knock them out’; the effect mechanism works a little more complex than that.”

  Christopher waves me off. “Yeah, whatever. But you’re familiar with it?”

  “I am.”

  “And you see, this is the thing here, Jayson,” Christopher says, taking a deep inhale as he seemingly prepares for his final strike. “Not many people are familiar with it. It’s not widely used anymore, because there are better alternatives to it—as I’m sure you know. In fact, you’re the only licensed physician in the area who is known to use it on a regular basis.”

  “It comes with the job.”

  “Oh yes, sure it does,” Christopher agrees. “I’m sure it has its benefits when your goal is to hypnotize a person, to make them tell you things they wouldn’t tell anyone else, to make them docile and pliable.”

  “That’s not what my service is about,” I say, locking him down with a sinister stare. “And you know that.”

  He nods again, slowly this time, withstanding my gaze.

  “Of course,” he says, a cavalier tone lacing his voice. “But it can be used for that, right? Administered to the right person, it could make them an easy victim, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I shrug, unsure where he’s going with this. “Sure.”

  Christopher sighs, giving the impression that he’s not entirely satisfied with my nonchalant reaction. That changes when he continues speaking, finally revealing why he’s telling me all of this and what he meant by the things he said to Malia.

  “You know, Jayson, there’s something about that latest victim of the Bridgewater murderer that may lead our investigation in an entirely new direction,” he says, emphasizing each word and visibly enjoying his moment.

  “The autopsy report revealed something rather interesting: They found Sodium Amytal in the girl’s body.”

  He takes a deep breath, throwing an ugly smirk at me when he concludes. “And like I said: Jayson Bowlan is the only person in this area who’s administering this drug, known far and wide.”

  Chapter 17

  Petal

  “I have something for you.”

  The smile on his face is hard to read. There’s something sinister about it, but it’s not a threat. He told me to look up at him right after he stepped through the door, approaching me with his hands behind his back. I tilt my head back, considering him with questioning eyes when he comes to a halt in front of me.

  “It may be a little early for this,” he says, kneeling down before me. He keeps one hand behind his back while using the other to place a finger beneath my chin and keep my head in place. “But I think you deserve it. Like you said, you’ve been a good girl lately.”

  My heart starts hammering with joyous excitement. Is he going to let me take a walk outside? Will I finally get to the sun, breathe in some fresh air, feel the wind on my skin?

  “Close your eyes,” he says, jutting his chin forward.

  “Yes, Master,” I respond, hoping to enforce his generosity with my obedience.

  A startled sigh escapes me when I feel something on my throat, something hard and cold. A necklace? But it sits tightly, more like a choker. I shiver when he closes it around my neck, the cold metal resting on my skin with heavy weight. He fiddles with the clasp at the back of it for a while, until there’s a loud click sound.

  “Open your eyes.”

  I do as I’m told, met with his dark hazel gaze and a small silver key that he’s holding up in front of my face. My hands fly up to my throat on instinct, feeling out the metal ring that’s now closed around my neck. There’s a little pendant attached to it, a small ring, just big enough for my index finger to fit through it.

  “It’s a collar,” he enlightens me. “It shows that you’re mine.”

  I throw him a bewildered look, hooking my fingers below the collar and yanking at it.

  “You can try, but you can’t take it off without this,” he lets me know, lifting the key up before my eyes for a second, before he lets it disappear in his shirt’s pocket.

  “Why?” I ask. “Is this to stop me from running away?”

  I can feel the hope blossoming deep inside my chest. My mind is still set on being allowed outside, and it makes sense that he would equip me with a device that would stop me from getting away from him. But why not just cuff my hands to his if he wants to make sure I stay close?

  He shakes his head. “Like I said, it’s a symbol of ownership, nothing more, nothing less. But yes, it does provide us with some new options of restraining you.”

  Before I fully process what he’s saying, he reaches up, hooking his finger through the little ring at the front of the collar, pulling on it as he gets back up on his feet, dragging me with him.

  “So... this is not for a treat?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

  His finger is still hooked through the ring as he stands before me, giving me a little yank so I’m forced to take a step forward and stand so close that our bodies touch.

  “It’s a gift, yes, but not a treat,” he confirms. “If anything, you owe me a little punishment for using my name.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did when you were by yourself,” he cuts me off. “You told me yourself.”

  I furrow my eyebrows as I look up at him. He let it pass when I told him about it, why is he so keen on punishing me now?

  “I’m still healing from last time,” I utter, causing him to smile.

  This smile I can read. It’s a simple one, open and without any hidden meaning. It’s the display of a pleasant memory, a harsh but pleasing scenario between the two of us. There was no reproach in my voice when I pointed out my bruises. Yet, as much as I like them, I’m also terribly aware of the wrongness of it all.

  Nothing made that clearer than the girl’s horrified expression when she saw them.

  “Show me,” he says, and I see lust flickering in his eyes as he does.

  I share his sentiment, but when he lets go of my collar, gesturing for me to turn around and lift my gown for him, I’m flooded with hot shame. My movements are slow, but compliant with his wish. I slowly gather the silky fabric, pulling it up and exposing my marked behind for him.

  “Beautiful,” he assesses, caressing the curve of my ass so tenderly it’s hard to believe that it was the very same hand that caused the bruises in the first place. “You look stunning, Petal. Wearing your marks with such gorgeous pride.”

  I blush at his words and turn around, catching his amicable smile.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “Not everyone shares that assessment.”

  He frowns. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Her,” I say, nodding toward the door. “The black-haired girl. My... friend. She saw the marks earlier today and she looked appalled and terrified.”

  The frown on his face grows stronger.

  “Earlier today?” he asks. “When was she here?”

  “Um... I don’t know, a while ago when she brought me the stew—”

  “She was inside your room today and brought you stew?”

  His voice is so loud and thundering that it makes me flinch in fear.

  Why is he getting so angry at this? Did I do something wrong? Did she?

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  He steps forward, hooking his finger through the ring at my collar again to pull my face so close to his I’m forced to rise up on my toes, my shoulder pulled up to my ears with frightened tension as I meet his furious gaze.

  “When, Petal?” he hisses. “When was she here? How long ago?”

  “How am I supposed to know!” I snarl back at him. “You know I have no way of telling time!”

  “An estimate!” he yells. “You can give me that, can’t you?”

  “I don’t know! An hour maybe? Or two? No...,” I stutter, shaking my head. “No, it wasn’t that long. Less than two hours, most likely.”

  His eyes turn to narrow slits. I haven’t seen him this angry since...

  No, I’ve never seen him this angry before.

  Chapter 18

  J

  “This house is so beautiful,” she breathes, her gaze glued to the glistening waves that wash against the shore next to the cliff walk. The sun is about to set, already coloring the sky in warm tones while the wind feels colder against the skin.

  We’re sitting out on the terrace, on lounge chairs that I’ve barely used all summer. It hasn’t been long since I bought this property and there was too little time to make use of it since my office is still in Barrington and I spend most of my time with work.

  She’s one of the few people who even know about this place. I didn’t like the idea of advertising the fact that I’m now the owner of one of the famous mansions along the cliff walk in Newport. It would only attract the wrong kind of attention and jealousy.

  “Do you intend to move here?” she asks, taking another sip from her drink. We’re already on our third Gin Tonic and the spirit has painted her cheeks in a lovely red while her green eyes begin to turn more and more misty. I’ll have to be careful, I know that.

  But she’s here. She came to me. She created this, the very first opportunity for us to be alone ever since...

  “Maybe,” I say, shaking off thoughts that shouldn’t creep out of the darkest corner of my mind now. “Eventually. But not for a while. Not as long as I still have my practice in Barrington.”

  She nods solemnly, looking down at her drink and back to the sea before she lets out a deep sigh, speaking of her beginning intoxication.

  “You’re so rich already,” she says. “Why do you keep working so hard? Is it a Samaritan thing? You like to help people?”

  It’s hard to read the look she’s throwing at me now. She looks shy and cautious, scared to ask the wrong questions, despite the curiosity that pushes her to probe further. It’s endearing, to say the least.

  “A Samaritan,” I repeat, chuckling. “Is that what you see in me?”

  She shakes her head. “No. You’re too expensive for that.”

  Her bluntness amuses me, causing me to laugh before I empty my drink, the last for a while.

  “Then you must know that I’m not suffering from some kind of helper syndrome. If I were, I’d do these things for free.”

  She clears her throat, lowering deeper into the lounge chair and taking a final swig from her glass before she gathers the courage to continue.

  “So, you simply enjoy it then?” she asks without looking at me.

  “Maybe,” I say. “It seems to be my calling, a skill like that, no matter how hard it is to work with it in a safe way. It’s hard to stop.”

  That’s only part of the truth. Erasing specific memories from a person’s mind is hard, even when you know how to go about it. It consumes me, and every time I do it, a part of me is taken away just like the memory I was asked to eliminate. I need weeks, sometimes months to recover from each client who comes to me, depending on the memory, its age and intensity and the client’s mental state. The longer a person has carried and suffered from a certain memory, the harder it is to wipe it out.

  It was easy with her, back then. Her memory was a fresh wound, not even processed by the time she came to me. She was still shaking from it, still crying the very same tears that were caused by the incident itself.

  “It’s scary what you can do,” she says in a low voice, making sure to avoid eye contact.

  “Of course it is,” I respond. “And it’s risky, too. There’s a reason why I charge the way I charge.”

  She turns to me, catching my eyes with an expression on her face that resembles guilt.

  “Christopher thinks it’s sick and twisted,” she tells me. “And so does my dad. They’d freak if they knew I’m here and alone with you.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me that. Her father made it very clear that I was to stay away from her, even though I told him that I couldn’t. There was no way of knowing how she’d handle the procedure, I had to keep an eye on her, possibly for years, especially since she was so young when it happened.

  At least that’s what I told him. That’s what I told myself, too. Because the truth was too distressing.

  How could I fall in love with a child? A girl who I barely knew—who barely knew me? And my first patient, too. It’s wrong on too many levels.

  Yet, here we are.

  “I can see why you wouldn’t tell your father,” I say. “But how come you didn’t even tell your boyfriend that you’re here?”

  I hate the undertone of jealousy that laces my voice, but I can’t stop myself from it. For the past four years, that boy has had the privilege of being around her as much as he wanted, sharing everyday life with her, seeing her every single day, allowed in her company no matter how many people saw. While I had to stay in the shadows, always causing a wave of worrisome gossip every time I was seen with her because too many people know about what I did to her—and how oblivious she is about it.

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” she insists, regarding me with an indignant look that eases my pain more than I’d like to admit. “He’s just a good friend.”

  She leans over to me, fixating me with a surprisingly intense and serious gaze. “He’s a close friend, a school friend. There was never anything between us, not like that. And I don’t want you, of all people, to believe anything different.”

  “Why do you say that? Me of all people?” I ask, careful not to show how much her words flatter me.

  She blushes, her eyes widening as she bites her lower lip in a burst of sudden embarrassment. But the drinks have lowered her inhibitions enough to admit something I never dreamed of hearing from her lips.

  “Because I’m attracted to you, Jayson,” she says. “Isn’t that... obvious?”

  The color on her face darkens even more and she lowers her eyes down to the empty glass in her hands, visibly seeking help at the bottom of it.

  “And I... I feel close to you, and grateful and... connected,” she stutters, creasing her eyebrows at the last word. “It’s odd, isn’t it? Christopher and I, we basically grew up together, we went to school together for most of our life, we spend so much time together, while you...”

  She dares to look up, a feeble suggestion of fear lacing her expression as she continues.

  “You’re around. You show up, we talk a little, and then you disappear. We barely ever spent more than ten minutes together ever since we first met. And still... there’s just. I don’t know. I feel like...”

  Her eyes widen with worry before she concludes. “Like there’s something between us.”

  A question is drawn across her expression, hoping—no, begging—for reciprocity. She has every right to be confused, because so am I. But our confusion isn’t built on the same grounds. Hers is caused by lack of knowledge that I possess, while mine is nothing more than an aftertaste.

  She gets tired of waiting for my response, and my heart skips a beat when she gets up from her chair, placing her glass on the ground between us before she moves over to me. I can’t help but watch it happen.

  I know I’m defenseless against her.

  I don’t stop her when she straddles me.