Page 27 of Total Exposure

He says ‘got it’ like this is some super-simple shit to process. It’s not. So, “No, man. I don’t got it. Just what the fuck have you gotten me into?”

“Your job is simple, OK? You watch her. That’s it.”

“And if something bad happens? I’m just supposed to ignore it?”

“Yes.”

“What if she tries to kill herself?”

“She won’t.”

“How the fuck do you know that? She’s mentally unstable, Jordan. I can’t just let her hurt herself. I can’t—”

“You’re not,” he says. “She’s under the care of a very well-respected psychiatrist. This treatment was planned for a long time. We know what we’re doing.”

“We?” I ask. “We? You’re not a fucking doctor.”

“Correct,” Jordan says. “I’m just the partner who arranges her treatments.”

I open my mouth to say something. Like, What kinda fuckin’ game are you playing now? Or, Who the fuck would trust your twisted mind with people who need mental guidance? Because both of those questions are valid.

But the call drops. Like… three this-convo-is-over beeps hit me like a goddamned slap in the face.

A flash of movement on the monitor makes me look up.

Evangeline Rolaine has opened the bathroom door.

Chapter Eight - Evangeline

The powder room is small, and cramped, and the mirror is way too big for my comfort. My image staring back at me is the last thing I need to see.

But in the dark… this place is almost perfect. I can’t see the mirror. And the walls are close. The heat is on, so it’s cozy and warm. The rug is soft.

Jesus Christ.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m extolling the virtues of being locked in a five-by-five room.

I am one sick woman.

But I’m out of here. I might be sick, but this is sick too. Cameras? Everywhere? Some stranger watching me? What the fuck was I thinking?

Thank God I still have my phone on me.

I fumble with the phone, trying to press the little icon for contacts, but my hands are shaking so bad I hit just about every app surrounding it. Messages, then photos, then camera.

“God. Fucking. Dammit!” I don’t even care if my watcher heard that. Finally my trembling finger hits the right one. The contacts come up—I only have about a dozen, so Lucinda’s is in the middle of those. I force myself to hit her name and not the Chinese restaurant I order takeout from, or my building concierge, and get it on the first try. This small success should not be enough to make me happy, but it does.

“Don’t tell me you’re out already?” Lucinda asks.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, breathless from the panic attack.

“Did something happen?” Her voice is so calm, and normally I love that about her, but right now I just find it irritating.

“I’m in a strange house filled with cameras. I think everything about that qualifies.”

“OK,” she says. “But you were ready for this. You made a decision. And you packed your suitcases. And you got into the car and got out of it again. And you went inside. Which was only about twenty minutes ago, Evangeline. So what happened?”

It’s almost imperceptible. But I can hear it in her voice.