Page 68 of Twisting Beauty

“I, er, well, Mr. Lasair, patient records are strictly confident⁠—”

“Her file.”

He hesitated, muttering something else inconsequential.

I said nothing. I just looked at him and let him picture what happened if the answer was no.

I’d watched my father do it my whole life, that quiet pressure that made men fold without a raised voice.

I hated that it worked when I did it too.

He cleared his throat and moved to the filing cabinet.

I sat in his chair, forcing him to stand beside his own desk to hand the folder over.

“Get out.”

“But this is my—” Stopping short, he apparently decided better of it and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

I leaned back in his leather chair and opened the file.

I began to read. Page by page. Methodically.

I noted the date on the intake form, the full name, date of birth, address, all Rua’s details, admitted under my father’s signature.

I read the session notes. Withdrawn, fearful, eager to appease, compliant, reassurance-seeking.

Hmm. That sounded like Rua. I turned the pages. More damn notes.

Patient presents as quiet and cooperative.

Seeks frequent reassurance from staff.

Shows reduced insistence on autonomy.

Then after six months, the session notes changed. Abruptly.

Patient presents with increased agitation. Heightened defensiveness during sessions. Oppositional behavior when corrected. Hostility toward staff.

Patient became violent when addressed as Rua.

The pulse ticked in my jaw.

I kept reading, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I was onto something.

The notes became even more disturbing.

Patient states she was abducted.

I stopped.

Not believes. Not claims. States.

Was this the first honest line in the whole fucking folder?

My thoughts whirled around in my head as the implication sat like a stone in my guts.

Patient exhibits identity disturbance.