He poured a clear liquid from one vial to another, humming softly as if performing a task he’d practiced countless times.
Then he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a folder—my name written across the front in his handwriting.
Inside were pages of notes. Behavior logs. Photos. Timelines tracking my confusion, my drowsiness, my reactions.
I must have made a sound, because suddenly he stopped humming. His shoulders stiffened. And slowly… he turned.
Our eyes met.
And he realized I wasn’t asleep.
“Hollie,” he said, voice eerily calm, “you shouldn’t be up.”
My throat tightened. “What… what are you doing?”
He closed the folder gently. “You weren’t coping well. I had to step in. You don’t understand how fragile you’ve been.”
Fragile. The word hit like a blade.
“You’ve been drugging me.”
“I was stabilizing things,” he said, stepping closer, the calm in his voice more terrifying than any anger. “You’ve been emotional. Forgetful. I was keeping your life manageable.”
I backed away. He followed.
“You tracked me,” I whispered. “You recorded everything.”
“You left me no choice, Hollie,” he murmured. “You needed structure. And I gave it to you.”