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She pulls me against her for a hug. “That’s the most fucked-up story I’ve ever heard.” Her heavy breaths crash like waves between us, breaking into a silent bafflement that I hope lands on the shore of belief. “Okay,” she says, “there’s a lot to unpack there, but if we’re going to prove it, we need to get started.”
I gasp, squeezing her tighter, shocked and grateful that there’s someone who will ride this out with me. “Thank you, Lettie.”
She pats at a tear rolling down her pink-tinged cheek. “Of course, but I’ll only help if I get the nitty-gritty details of the kinky sex you had, and you swear not to call me Lettie in front of other people.”
Finally, a smidgen of laughter rumbles from my chest. “Deal.” I clear my head, sifting through all the things we need to look into. “I’m not permitted internet access, so I need your help.”
She pulls up the Notes app on her phone. “I’ll start as soon as I leave. Give me the details.”
Listing off the names and some characteristics about each of my guys, our address, and some information on Rena—since, without my phone, I don’t have her number—I rack my brain for what else I could offer. I’m not ready to dive into that information about Mercy and Dalton yet, so I store it away for later.
“That’s enough for tonight, and our time is almost up,” Celeste says, pocketing her phone. “In the meantime, you need to figure out how to get yourself out of here.”
“I’m trying. I know what I have to do, but my pride has been getting the best of me.” I lift my chin. “I have to tell them what they want to hear.”
She nods. “Yes, you do. This is a good window for that. Tellthem I convinced you, so you can get out of here and investigate this with me.”
I’m not sure if she really believes me, but Celeste has always been my best friend, my champion—the one who wouldn’t let other kids poke fun at me for zoning out, the one who encouraged my painting, the one who didn’t judge, no matter how far we strayed on a viewpoint. I appreciate the effort even if she isn’t convinced, but that gives me an idea. On the stroll back, I stop abruptly. “When you come tomorrow, can you sneak me in a knife?”
“A knife? Ivy, I don’t … I don’t know,” she stammers.
“I’m not going to hurt myself or anyone else,” I promise, “but I think I can erase some of your doubts. Grab a chef’s knife out of your butcher block. Hide it inside the lining of your coat.”
“There’s a metal detector at the entrance,” she protests, swallowing, and for the briefest moment, she looks at me like she doesn’t know me. But then she grits her teeth. “I know a guy in the kitchen here. I think I canmaybesnag one from there. I do owe you a birthday present. This can be myThelma & Louisecontribution.”
Leave it to Celeste toknow a guyanywhere we find ourselves.
“Fantastic, Lettie.” I throw my arms around her. “I knew I could count on you. Please find my husband.”
“On it,” she whispers, hugging me back.
In my morning therapy session, I laid the foundation for mybeliefthat I’d been in a coma and Wells was only a dream. Apparently, that’s progress, but I still have some work to do—whatever the hell that means.
When Celeste struts in, I’m already dressed for our walk. Her face is tense, which has my stomach in knots.
Once we’re secluded, I turn to her. “What did you find?”
She purses her lips. “Not much. The men don’t exist, Ivy. I mean, people with those names exist, but not with the physicalcharacteristics you offered or the age range and military background. I took screenshots of anyone with their names.”
She passes me her phone, and I scroll through the pictures. None of them are my guys.
“What the fuck?” I hiss as my mind races. “This doesn’t make any sense. What about the house?”
“Empty.” She huffs and hesitates, but my gaze stays planted, waiting for her whiskey-colored eyes to rise to mine. “Has been for a year. It’s for sale.”
A pang of terror stabs me in the chest. My hand presses against my sternum, trying to ease the horror threatening to stop my heart. Jesus, I do feel crazy. But I know it was real.
“Celeste,” I snarl, “how would I give you that address and be able to describe the house?”
Her lips quiver in a frown. “I don’t know. It’s weird, for sure, but that’s what I found.”
“And Rena?” I choke the question out, not sure I can handle anything else today.
“No one would let me talk to her. I explained who I was, that I knew you, but was refused the connection. I left several messages.”
I grunt and stroke my freezing forehead, sweat-soaked in spite of the frigid temperature. “Fuck.Every day is worse than the one before. I’m spiraling here. There has to be an explanation. Maybe this is my trial?”
She tilts her head, and pity shadows her features. It’s like a punch in the gut. I’m losing her.
