When his foot hit the bottom step, something in me snapped. I bolted toward the front door. My fingers touched the lock—just as his hand clamped around my wrist.
“Hollie. Stop.”
“Let go!”
He didn’t. His other hand reached for the pill bottle he always carried.
Panic surged. I twisted hard, slipping free, and ran—not toward the door, but to the study. I slammed the door, locked it, threw the window open, and climbed out.
Cold air tore at my skin as I dropped into the bushes below. I sprinted barefoot into the night, not stopping until the fluorescent lights of a gas station came into view.
The clerk locked the door behind me. Minutes later, the police arrived.
They found Lucas calmly sitting at the kitchen table, the folder still open—as if waiting to brief them. He didn’t deny anything. He spoke about me like I was data.
The investigation uncovered months of sedatives hidden in vitamin bottles, altered prescriptions, and meticulous notes about my behavior.
The more they revealed, the more I understood: the foggy confusion, the missing memories—it hadn’t been me. It had been him.