Unraveling You Series: The Complete Set

by Jessica Sorensen

  I slam to a stop and hurry and wipe my eyes with my sleeve, trying to catch my breath. “No . . . I was just . . . I knocked on the door, but no one answered,” I lie, unsure of what else to say.

  She glances at the home then at me. “You know it’s vacant, right?”

  “I figured that out, yes.” As casually as I can, I move to the right to swing around her, knowing if I stand near that house for too long, I’ll lose my shit.

  “Didn’t the boarded up windows and spray paint kind of give that away?” she asks, sidestepping and blocking my path.

  Red flags pop up everywhere.

  My eyelashes flutter against the rainstorm as I skim her over. She’s medium height, a little on the thin side, and is wearing black rain boots. Her hood is pulled so low I can hardly see her face, but her voice sounds gruff, like a heavy smoker.

  Do I know that voice? Or am I just being paranoid?

  Her hair isn’t red like blood, red like the woman who always wanted to touch me. That’s the only sense of comfort I have at the moment, but hair dye can easily fix that.

  I duck my head to get a better look at her, but she steps back, stuffing her hands into her pockets.

  “You better be careful. This place isn’t safe.” She spins on her heels and runs down the sidewalk away from me.

  “Hey!” I call out, hurrying after her.

  I don’t know why, but I have this crazy feeling that she might know something.

  She picks up her speed as she nears the end of the block. I bring my pace from a jog to a sprint as she makes a left and disappears behind a fence. By the time I reach the corner, she’s gone.

  “Shit!” I curse, kicking a street sign.

  “Ayden.”

  I freeze then turn around, shielding my eyes as I squint through the rain at Lila who’s standing a few feet away from me, wearing her coat and carrying an umbrella.

  “I . . . Why are you . . . ?” I look around the street and spot a maroon SUV parked at the entrance of the neighborhood, the same car I thought was following me. “What’s going on?”

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?” She shakes her head with dismay. “Get in the car. We need to talk.”

  I look back in the direction the woman vanished. “There was someone here, talking to me. It seemed like she was warning me about something.”

  Lila leans forward and peers down the street while positioning the umbrella over both of our heads.

  “They’re not there anymore,” I explain. “But it was a woman, and—I don’t know—I have a bad feeling about her.”

  She frowns as she looks back at me. “This entire place is one bad feeling. Now get in the car so you can explain to me what the hell you were thinking coming here.”

  The walk back to the car is painfully slow and quiet. By the time we climb inside, the SUV is pulling away, and the rain has slowed down.

  “Who is that?” I ask, pointing at the vehicle.

  “That was an undercover detective,” she says, slamming the car door.

  “What?” Suddenly, their little not-being-alone speech makes much more sense. “Why is he following me?”

  “Well, for starters, we want to make sure you’re safe. And secondly, because Dr. Gardingdale informed us that you’ve been late to the last eight sessions.”

  “You could have just asked me what I was doing.”

  She elevates her brows at me accusingly. “Every time we ask you about anything, you tell us you’re fine. Plus, you tracked down this place”—she nods her head at the house—“all by yourself. You searched for your sister’s address for months, and Lyric was the only one you ever told. So, how could I possibly know you’d tell us the truth if I asked?”

  Okay, she has a point.

  “We needed to find out where you were going since you won’t ever tell us anything.” She tosses the umbrella into the backseat, and then her eyes narrow at me. “I hate being this kind of mom—the one who gets angry at her children—but seriously, what the hell were you thinking, coming here by yourself?”

  “The police investigated this place after Sadie was taken,” I remind her as I rev up the engine and flip on the wipers. “They didn’t find anything suspicious other than the paint on the outside and inside.”

  “Other than the paint.” She gapes at me. “Ayden, that paint all over the house matches that mark on your side, the one put on you against your will. That’s not a little thing.”

  “I know.” I lose my voice as guilt creeps up inside me for upsetting her. “But I just wanted to see for myself.”

  Her expression slightly softens. “I understand that you want to know what’s going on—we all do—but you can’t go around looking for stuff on your own. Not after what’s been going on and that note . . .” She trails off, shaking her head.

  I flop my head back against the headrest. “I get that I fucked up, but I feel like I’m losing my damn mind. Every day, I wake up worried something’s going to happen to me. Or worse, the police will knock on our door again, only this time, they’ll be there to tell me my sister’s been found dead.”

  She’s quiet for a while, probably trying to figure out what the hell to say to my out of the blue confession.

  “I get that it’s hard.” She gently places a hand on my arm, and for once, I don’t flinch. “But wandering off by yourself isn’t going to help. You need to let the police do their job and focus on yourself and getting better. Talking like this—telling me how you feel—that’s a start. I’ve never heard you be so open.”

  “I think I’m just getting tired of keeping everything locked in all the time.” I shut my eyes. “It’s hard just to focus on myself when it feels like anyone could be them. Like that woman I just saw.”

  “What did she say to you exactly?” she asks, cranking up the heat. I recap the last five minutes to her, and she frowns when I’m finished.

  “Honestly, I’m not that worried. This area is very sketchy, and it could have easily been a nervous drug dealer or something. But I’ll go let the detective know about her, and maybe they can track her down.”

  I draw the seatbelt strap over my shoulder. “How long have I been followed?”

  “Only since the note.”

  “How long am I going to be followed?”

  “Until we know you’re safe.” She nods as she sticks her hand into her coat pocket and retrieves her phone. “Besides, they’re hoping the next time they try to do something, they’ll catch them in the act.”

  “So, they’re watching me all the time.”

  “For the most part.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “So no more running off to dangerous places.” She reaches for the door handle. “Now, go straight to your appointment and then home. Nowhere else. Don’t go looking for that woman. Let the police handle it.”

  “All right,” I reply, because I don’t really have any other choice.

  “Thank you for making this easy.” She hops out into the now sprinkling rain.

  “Wait. How did you get here?” I ask, leaning over the console.

  “The detective called me the moment he figured out where you were going.” She lowers her head to look at me. “When I got the call, I hopped in my car and drove as crazy as Ella to get here.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  She points diagonally across the street, and I easily spot the back end of her silver Mercedes.

  “Oh.” Through the rain and the distraction of the woman, I must have somehow missed the obvious.

  “I’ll see you in about an hour and a half.” She closes the door, and just like that, our conversation ends.

  As I make the short drive to therapy with the SUV tailing me, I feel like I’ve been put on probation. Having come from a home where, most of the time, my siblings and I ran wild, I feel strangely okay that. For the first time in a long time, I feel kind of safe.

  Ten minutes later, I enter the office where my therapy sessions take place. The rain has let up by the time I walk in, and s
unlight sneaks through the clouds and glimmers through the windows.

  “Hey, Ayden, how have you been?” Dr. Gardingdale greets without looking up from the filing cabinet he’s sifting through.

  “Good.” I drop down in the chair across from his desk.

  He glances up at me. “You don’t sound good.” He glides the filing cabinet drawer shut, pulls out a chair, and then sits down. “Is something wrong?”

  Out of habit, I shake my head, but words slip out of my mouth on their own. “Did you tell Lila I was showing up late to sessions?”

  “I did,” he answers shamelessly. “I was concerned that you might be doing something that could harm your wellbeing.”

  “Why would you figure that?”

  “Because of something you said at your last appointment.”

  “What did I say exactly?”

  “That you were thinking about going and looking for your sister yourself.”

  “I said that?” Why can’t I remember that?

  “You were under when you said it,” he explains, checking the time on the wall clock. “It was during an amnesia therapy session.”

  I attempt to remember, but come up blank. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you were upset when you woke up.” He tugs on his red and blue striped tie, loosening it. “It was the session where you—”

  “Cried,” I finish for him.

  I cringe at the faint memory of me waking up to the branding iron. The pain was unbearable. I could still feel it when I woke up.

  “I didn’t want to upset you, but I thought I needed to tell your mother about what happened and about being late to sessions.” He pauses, giving me an opening to explain where I’ve been.

  “I think maybe I should reconsider that slip I signed, giving you permission to discuss certain things with the Gregorys.”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  I hesitate then shake my head. “No, not really. They don’t deserve to worry like that.”

  “I think that’s a wise choice.” His phone buzzes, and he silences it without looking at it. “So, is there anything else bothering you? Maybe at home? Or at school?” His light questions are his way of easing into the darker stuff, which always comes later in the hour.

  “No . . . not exactly . . .” I trail off, uncertain how much talking I want to do today. It’s been such a stressful day already. “Nothing’s really wrong at home or school.”

  It’s not as easy as it sounds

  To confess my darkest worries,

  My fears of who I am,

  My fear of never being good enough.

  He slips on his glasses. “Remember, I can’t help you unless I know what the problem is.” When I still don’t answer, he adds, “Do you want to talk about your sister? I don’t usually like to dive into the complicated stuff, but if you need us to, we can. I know what’s going on with her has to be stressful. Plus, you’ve been putting a lot of pressure on yourself with this amnesia therapy because of what’s happened to her.”

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “That’s not what I was going to say . . . but I do worry about her. All the time, actually. I even went to that address she used to live at . . . That’s why I’ve been late.”

  Shock flickers across his face, but he keeps himself professionally composed, his voice remaining even. “Can I ask why you’ve been going there?”

  I shrug. “I was curious where she lived and what her life was like up until she was taken. Plus, in this weird way, it made me feel close to her.” I only realize the truth when the words leave my lips.

  Deep down, I knew going in that house wouldn’t help find Sadie. It was the last place she lived, the last place she might have had a life.

  “That’s understandable,” he says. “It has to be hard on you having not seen her for years, only to find out she’s been kidnapped.”

  “I feel like I hardly got to know her. I was fourteen when we were taken, and she was only thirteen. My older brother was almost sixteen, but still, it seems like such a short amount of time . . . time I’ll never get back. And, with my brother, I’ll never have a chance to get any more time at all.” I force down the lump in my throat.

  “I’ve been dreaming about her a lot . . . Sadie. She’s in a house on this hill, and she’s tied up and hurt. I can hear her, but . . . I can’t help her. All I want to do is help her, and I feel like, if I can just see what’s around the house, then I’ll be able to find her. But I never have the dream long enough for me to figure out the exact location.”

  “Are you sure it’s a dream? Perhaps it’s a memory.”

  “I honestly have no fucking idea anymore. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell what’s really happened and what’s a nightmare. Sometimes, I feel like my mind gets all jumbled because it’s overthinking too much, if that makes any sense.”

  Lightning booms from outside, causing me to jump. Out the window, the clouds have rolled in again, blocking the sunlight from the earth.

  His forehead creases. “I know you’re not going to be happy about this, but I’ve been considering maybe having you take a break from the amnesia therapy.”

  “What?” I jolt upright in my seat. “No, I can’t do that. Please, don’t make me do that.”

  He offers me a sympathetic look. “Ayden, I’m sorry to say this, because I know you want to help find your sister, but I think we might be putting too much pressure on you, and the brain doesn’t do well with stress.”

  He scoots his chair forward and crosses his arms on his desk. “It was stress and the pain from the situation that made you forget to begin with. Perhaps a little break might be beneficial and might actually help you have an easier time remembering, if that makes sense.”

  “I don’t want to stop the therapy yet, not when my memories are starting to surface on their own.” I shift my weight in the chair. “I’ve actually been thinking a lot about that experimental therapy you told me about, the one Lila doesn’t want me to do. I’m eighteen now, though, so doesn’t that mean I technically don’t need her permission?”

  “Legally, you don’t need the permission from a guardian, but I wouldn’t advise it. Like I said, your brain needs rest.” He removes his glasses and cleans the lenses with a rag he fishes from a drawer beside him. “I’m not saying we’re going to stop forever. We can go back to the therapy in time.”

  “My sister doesn’t have time,” I croak, my emotions thick in my throat.

  “Finding your sister isn’t solely your job. The police are doing everything in their power to find her.”

  “The longer she’s gone, the less likely she’s . . .” My chest aches just thinking about it, deep wounds hidden beneath the scars.

  There were so many scars on all of us when we were pulled out of that house. So many scars showing just how truly evil they were.

  “I think we need to start working on some relaxation exercises,” he says as he watches me fight to get oxygen into my lungs.

  He puts his glasses back on, collects a pen and notebook from the drawer, and then stares at me for the longest time before asking, “Can I ask what you were going to say to start with? I asked you what’s wrong when you walked in, but we never made it to what you were going to say.”

  I gradually inhale then exhale before I can speak. “I was going to say what’s been bothering me is . . . Lyric.”

  “The girl you’ve been seeing?”

  “Yeah. We’ve actually been dating in secret.”

  “Why do you feel the need to keep it a secret?” he asks, jotting something down in the notebook.

  “We’ve been saying it’s because our parents are really close, and if we told them, they’d start setting all these rules, but . . .” I sketch the scars on the back of my hand, faint white lines put there by fingernails.

  “But what?” he treads cautiously. “Remember, in order for me to help you work through the problem, you have to discuss it with me.”

  A deafening breath escapes my lips. �
��I’m starting to realize my reason is a bit different than hers.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know . . . I think I’m just worried about what’s going to happen when her parents find out. Lyric . . . She’s so happy and full of life. She can make anyone laugh, and everyone loves her. Me,”—I internally cringe—“well, I’m not like that at all.”

  He writes down a few more notes. “So, you think you don’t fit well with her?”

  “No, I think she’s—that I’m—” I rub my hand down my face, releasing a trapped a breath. “Look, I know I’m not good enough for her.”

  His hand stops moving across the paper as he peers up. “And what does Lyric say about how you feel?”

  “I haven’t told her, but if I did, she’d tell me I’m wrong, because that’s the kind of person she is.”

  Silence stretches between us as he slides the notebook aside and overlaps his hands on his desk. “Can I ask why you feel unworthy?”

  “Because she’s too good for me,” I reply with a shrug. “I thought that was pretty clear.”

  “I think it’s only clear to yourself,” he explains, meticulously assessing my expression. “I think that, perhaps, because of the verbal abuse with your birth mother and with the trauma you endured in your past, your self-perception is a little distorted.”

  “I think my past is part of the reason I’m not good enough for her,” I disagree with him. “I think I have this dark, fucked-up past that’s made me a fucked-up person who doesn’t deserve to be with someone who’s so happy and good. God, I can barely let her touch me without freaking out. ” The truth slips out of me like venom. My breath turns ragged, and my heartbeat skyrockets. “And, if we do make it too far with the physical stuff, I have to battle down this ugly, wrong feeling inside me. I don’t want to be this way, though. I wish I could change it . . . just get past it.”

  “Our past doesn’t shape who we are, and as for the not being able to withstand physical contact, that’s perfectly understandable considering what happened to you. I know we haven’t outright talked about the abuse you went through, but I think maybe, when you’re ready, we should start discussing it.”