“I need a new med check.”
“Why would you say that?”
Why not? “I don’t think my pills are working anymore.”
“Which ones? Because I’ll be honest with you, Riley. They don’t work if you don’t take them like you’re supposed to. Every dose, every day. It’s the only way you’re going to see improvement.”
Is he serious? Great. Looks like Nurse Stanley might’ve stopped by, had a chat with the new doctor. I don’t care. Keeping my features neutral, I refuse to give away the truth on my face. I’m not kidding. And I didn’t come to his office because I wanted a lecture.
I need help.
“I take all of my pills,” I lie. At least, I have been the last few nights. “Every day, at the nursing station in the morning, then when a nurse and a tech bring me my pills at night. I don’t want to see these hallucinations, you know.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Jeez, I would love to slap that stupid, smarmy grin right off his face. At this moment, if the asylum staff could assure me that I’d actually be alone, the solitary confinement to my room would so be worth it.
“Look, I’m telling you the truth. They don’t work anymore.” I grit my teeth and clench my fists, my leather gloves groaning in protest. I have to make him understand. “I don’t know what else to say. You order a new pill for my nighttime cup and, ever since then, Nine’s been back. I want him to go away.”
That’s all I had to say.
“You’ve seen him again?” Shoving the portfolio away from him, Dr. Gillespie leans forward in his seat, palms flush against the desktop. His big, blue eyes widen in abject surprise. “When? Where did you see him? Did he say anything to you?”
I’m taken aback by his reaction. I shimmy in my seat, climbing up so that I’m sitting straight. If he keeps acting weird, I’m ready to bolt out of here.
“Why do you care?” I ask him suspiciously. Then, because I can’t help myself, I add, “You probably don’t even believe me.”
The doctor clears his throat. He leans back, a different kind of smile stretching his thin lips. “I’m your psychologist, Riley. I have to believe you.” Dr. Gillespie pushes his glasses up his nose before pulling his portfolio—and my file—back toward him. He picks his pen up again. “Now,” he says, “some questions about your… your friend. Did you hear him speak to you at all?”
“A little,” I tell him. “But I… I don’t remember what he said.”
Becau
se there’s no way that I heard him tell me that Madelaine’s killer thinks he’s in love with me. Right?
Right.
“What about your vision? Did you actually see him?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I might have. The room was dark.”
And Nine is a Dark Fae.
Shit.
“This didn’t happen until I started taking that little pink pill the other day. It’s not working. Please.” I’ll beg if I have to. Anything’s better than going back to the old, familiar paranoia, expecting the fae to find me at any given moment. “You’ve got to do something to help me.”
Dr. Gillespie opens my file, gesturing at something on the top page. “This says your medication has been changed multiple times over the last year. Something to do with a dependence on—”
“My blue pill.”
“Right. According to Dr. Waylon’s report, though, it seems to be the only prescription that ever helped you.” He’s quiet for a moment before he starts scribbling away on a page in his portfolio. “I’ll keep your current dose as it is, but I’ll add your old medicine to the order. We’ll track your progress over the next couple of days and then we’ll go from there. How does that sound?”
“Anything that’ll work,” I say honestly. I can hear the relief in my voice and don’t even bother to disguise it. “Thank you so much.”
“I want you to promise me something, Riley.”
Right now I’m so glad that Dr. Gillespie is willing to do something to help me—whether he’s humoring me or not—that I’d promise him my firstborn kid. Whatever he wants, he can have it.