Chapter 2
Alice
The invisible chain dragged me along as Nicolas drove through the familiar streets of San Diego. I should have known where we were heading the moment he took the exit toward Miramar.
Warrior's Haven Veterans Rehabilitation Center.
My workplace. The place where I'd dedicated three years of my life helping broken soldiers piece themselves back together.
The place where Nicolas first walked into my life wearing a mask of vulnerability.
Nicolas approached the front desk. Janet, the head nurse, looked up with red-rimmed eyes.
"Nicolas! Oh honey, I'm so sorry for your loss." She reached across the counter to squeeze his hand. "Dr. Crawford was such a wonderful woman. She helped so many of our veterans."
"Yes." His voice was mechanical, like he was reading from a script. "She was... dedicated to her work."
Janet's tears started fresh. "How are you holding up?"
"I need to collect my wife's personal belongings from her office," he said, avoiding her question entirely.
'Dedicated enough to fall for your lies, you bastard.'
Janet fumbled for the keys, her hands shaking. "Of course. Take all the time you need."
My office door stood open, exactly as I'd left it that final Friday.
Nicolas stepped inside and immediately gravitated toward my treatment chair. He sat down slowly, his hands gripping the leather armrests.
My notebook lay open on the desk, frozen on the last page I'd written: "Patient Nicolas - breakthrough session scheduled."
'My biggest fool's mistake.'
Nicolas spotted the notebook and crossed to the desk. His fingers traced the words I'd written in my careful handwriting, and for a moment, his mask slipped completely.
"You really believed me, didn't you?" he whispered to the empty air.
But I wasn't empty air anymore. I was right fucking there, studying every micro-expression that crossed his face.
The sight of that treatment chair triggered something visceral in my consciousness. Suddenly, I was drowning in the memory of autumn two years ago...
(Flash back)
He'd appeared in my doorway like a lost puppy, all nervous energy and haunted eyes. Nicolas Reeves, 28, Army Ranger recently returned from Afghanistan.*
"Dr. Crawford? I have an appointment."
Even then, something about him had seemed off. The way his gaze wouldn't quite meet mine, how his hands shook just enough to seem genuine but not enough to be distracting.
"Please, have a seat anywhere you're comfortable."
He'd chosen the chair farthest from the door, a classic sign of hypervigilance. Or so I'd thought.
"Tell me what brought you here today, Mr. Reeves."
"The nightmares won't stop, Doc." His voice had cracked perfectly. "I see his face every night... covered in blood."
"His?"
"Tom. My... my best friend." The way he'd stumbled over the words had seemed so authentic. "He died because of a medical mistake."
I'd leaned forward, every fiber of my training focused on this broken soldier. "Nicolas, survivor's guilt is common among veterans. We can work through this together."
'Together. God, I was so fucking naive.'
Only later did I realize the sick truth—when he said 'Tom,' he meant Sarah. And that evil doctor he kept talking about? He was talking about me all along.
The memories kept flooding back, each one a fresh wound in my ghostly consciousness.
Week after week, Nicolas had returned to my office, weaving his web of lies with masterful precision.
"You're not responsible for his death, Nicolas," I'd said during one session, watching him bury his face in his hands. "You couldn't have saved him."
"But I should have been there. I should have stopped the doctor who fucked up his treatment."
The way he'd said 'doctor' should have been my first clue. The venom barely concealed beneath the grief.
I was so busy trying to save you, I didn't see you were hunting me.
By Christmas, I'd broken every professional boundary I'd sworn to maintain.
The "accidental" meeting at Starbucks near the hospital. Nicolas appearing just as I was spiraling from my breakup with David, looking like salvation in a Army jacket.
"Dr. Crawford... Alice... you saved my life. How can I ever repay you?"
"Seeing you heal is payment enough, Nicolas."
He played me like a fucking violin. Professional, caring Dr. Crawford, falling for her own patient.
(End Flash)
Back in the present, Nicolas had moved to my bookshelf, pulling down my clinical journals with increasingly frantic movements. Books scattered across the floor as his composure finally cracked.
"Why don't I feel...?" He clutched my coffee mug, staring at the faint lipstick stain on the rim. "Why isn't this enough?"
The question hung in the air like a confession.
I studied his face—really looked at him for the first time since my death. The satisfaction I'd seen in our bathroom was gone, replaced by something that looked almost like... loss.
'Because revenge was supposed to fill the void Sarah left, but all you've done is create another one.'
Nicolas sank back into my treatment chair, still clutching my mug like a lifeline.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he looked exactly like the broken patient who'd first walked into my office.
Except now I knew it had all been an act.
Hadn't it?
'What the hell is wrong with you, Nicolas? You won. I'm dead. Sarah's avenged. So why do you look like you've lost everything?'