Chapter 2

Sloane's POV

Three days ago, I documented Linus Crewe's outburst as a "textbook paranoid schizophrenic episode."

I typed "worsening delusions" into his electronic chart and walked away without a second thought.

Until four days later.

I had just picked up Lawrence's heart medication from the pharmacy. I was about to cross the corridor when my feet suddenly glued themselves to the floor.

Linus Crewe was standing under the old banyan tree in the courtyard.

He wore the standard-issue light blue hospital scrubs. They were a size too big, hanging loosely on his tall, bony frame. His dark hair caught the sunlight, but his excessively pale face lacked any trace of color.

He looked like a fragile piece of porcelain—beautiful, delicate, yet projecting a sickeningly handsome vibe that made it hard to look away.

I frowned and quickened my pace toward him.

"Linus? Why are you out here alone?" I instinctively put on my authoritative doctor persona, eyeing him up and down. "How are you feeling lately? Have the hallucinations lessened since we upped the dosage?"

He turned his head. Those grayish-blue eyes locked onto me like a heat-seeking missile.

"Do you really love him, Dr. Hollister?" he asked, his voice low. "It's been four years. Has your love for Whit grown deeper—or has your hatred?"

My breathing instantly stopped.

I furiously dropped my voice and grabbed him by the collar, my sheer panic instantly morphing into rage: "You're coming with me!"

Fighting to keep my mask from shattering, I dragged him by the arm all the way down the hall to my private office.

I deadbolted the door behind us and spun around. Linus was already casually leaning against the edge of my desk, tossing an anatomical brain model from hand to hand as if he owned the place.

"Well?" He raised an eyebrow. "Hit a nerve?"

"Who the hell are you?" I stopped three feet away from him, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

Linus put the model down, dropping the playboy act. He stood up straight, and the oppressive weight in the room doubled.

"Dr. Hollister, I'm not a psych patient." He took a step toward me, then another, until my back hit the cold wood of the door. "Whenever my skin touches someone, I see their secrets directly."

I wanted to scoff, but my throat felt like it was in a vice grip.

"Don't you get it?" Linus's voice dropped. "Why was I sent here? Because my family is terrified of me. They're terrified I'll leak all their bloody deals. So they faked a flawless psychiatric record and tossed me in here like trash."

"Shut up." A violent wave of palpitations hit me. The sheer panic of losing control was tearing at my sanity.

Right in the middle of this suffocating standoff, the pager on my hip shrieked.

[Code Gray - Ward B, Room 402 - Violent Patient]

An emergency.

I jolted away from the door and grabbed the handle.

"Stay right here. Don't go anywhere." I looked back, using every ounce of my forced authority to glare at him. "If you step one foot out of this room before I get back, I will strap you to a restraint bed and pump you full of sedatives. Do we understand each other?!"

Linus just stood there, shrugging, giving me a "be my guest" gesture.

I stepped out, pulling the door shut and locking the deadbolt behind me.

It took me a full hour to help Security pin down a manic patient in Ward B—he had clawed a nurse's face—and administer the sedative.

By the time I scrubbed the blood off my wrists and walked back down my hallway, my palms were still sweating.

What was I going to do about Linus? How much did he actually know? Had he already spilled my secrets to someone else?

I reached for my keys, but my stomach dropped. The handle turned freely in my grip. The deadbolt was already unlocked. I shoved the door open.

"Linus, don't think your little parlor tricks can—"

The words died in my throat.

My heart almost completely stopped.

There were two people in my office.

Linus was sitting at one end of the sofa.

And sitting quietly across from him, holding my coffee mug, was a man.

My husband, Whitfield.