Being shot in the head by a suspect. Spending a week in an induced coma while the swelling on her brain subsided, then, when the medication wore off, scaring everyone to death by not waking up for another week. Opening her eyes to find Baldwin hovering anxiously over her. Not being able to talk…to tell him she loved him, and that she hated him. The Pretender, setting up residence in her brain, invading her dreams, haunting her days. Psychological disequilibrium. What a perfect term for what she was feeling. Pissed off and scared, too. This couldn’t all be in her head. Could it?
She grabbed the pad of paper from her pocket, flipped it open and scribbled furiously. She held it up for the doctor to see.
He raised his hands in defense.
“Now, Taylor, I’m not saying you’re crazy. Far from it. A conversion disorder fits with your symptoms. And it’s fixable.”
Baldwin shifted in his chair, faced her, his voice deep and grave. “Taylor, he’s right. A conversion disorder does fit. We’ve talked about you having PTSD. You should hear yourself sleep. You moan and scream and yell. You thrash around all night. It’s obvious you’re reliving the shooting.”
She shook her head vehemently, wrote That’s not true and showed it to Benedict. She didn’t need him to see how weak she’d become. She put her hand on Baldwin’s arm and scowled at him. He seemed grimly determined to sabotage her today.
Of course she was reliving it. Every second of every day. It was on loop in her head.
Benedict frowned at her. “Taylor, you need to let me know these things. I prescribed Ativan when you were here last—you’re not taking it regularly, are you?”
She shook her head. The Ativan made her logy.
“I keep telling her she needs to take the meds.”
She hated when Baldwin sided with the doctor against her. If he could just be on her side, and stop being so fucking solicitous and knowledgeable.
Maybe I am just sitting on a head full of crazy. I can’t talk. I can’t work. I’m communicating with a notepad. Yeah, I’m going to be just fine. Sure.
She missed her life. She missed her team. Her homicide detectives at Metro Nashville: Lincoln Ross, Marcus Wade, Renn McKenzie. Her former sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald. Sam, Forensic Medical, the acrid scent of formalin. Commander Huston. Everyone. Even missed Baldwin, though her fury at his lies hadn’t faded, and the hurt was all that was left behind. But she didn’t know how to face them. Any of them.
Her breath started to come quicker.
“Taylor?” Baldwin said, jerking her from her thoughts.
She needed to get out. Away. Now. She shot daggers at them both, then stood and marched from the room.
She made it out of the doctor’s office and into the vestibule by the elevators. She wasn’t going to get far. Baldwin had the car keys.
She tried to say the words aloud that were burning her mouth, her throat. But the images started—the hardwood floor, covered in dust that tickled her nose, the beating of her heart, so loud, so close, the blackness she knew was blood covering her eyes. Her blood. Baldwin screaming, Sam bleeding, the Pretender crumpled in a heap just inches from her, his eyes open, staring into hers as she struggled, and failed, to maintain consciousness.
She was dying again.
She started to hyperventilate. A fucking panic attack, in public, for everyone to see. She glanced about wildly—where could she go?
Strong arms encircled her. She smelled cedar, Baldwin’s natural scent.
“Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Deep in through your nose. You’re all right.”
She was getting tired of people telling her she was all right. Obviously she wasn’t. She was far from all right. She was broken.
She sagged against Baldwin, let him take her weight. How many times had they done this in the past few weeks? Four? Ten? Fifty?
She felt herself center, the panic subsiding. The Ativan was supposed to help avoid and alleviate this very problem. Maybe she should try it again. She just hated to admit defeat. She kept hoping she would find a way to handle this.
“Honey, come on back inside. I think Dr. Benedict wants to finish.”
She fought to get the words out—fuck Dr. Benedict—but they wouldn’t come. Instead, she clamped her lips tight together and followed Baldwin back into the office. They took their seats.
Benedict acted like nothing had happened. He just cocked his head and asked, “So?”
I’ll do it.
Benedict clapped his hands together. “Good. I’ll send word over to Dr. Willig that you’ll be making an appointment to see her ASAP. She’s well versed in conversion disorder; I can’t think of a better doctor to work with on this. I’ll see you back here in a couple of weeks. If you have any pain, or problems swallowing, or bleeding, you get in here immediately, all right?”
They stood, and he walked them to the door. He let his hand linger a moment on her back in reassurance.
“Hang in, okay? This will improve. Time heals all wounds, remember that.”
God, if only that were true.
“I know this is hard. I know it sucks. Whether you’re ready to admit it or not, you’ve been through an unbelievable trauma, no matter how ‘lucky’ you got with that shot. The stress of your situation alone is enough to cause the conversion disorder. Listen, I’ll throw in some incentive. You see Victoria—regularly, mind you—and I’ll talk to Commander Huston about you going back on the job. I see no reason you can’t at least handle a non-field post in a few weeks.”
How much convincing had Baldwin had to do to talk the doc into that? At least driving a desk would be something. Better than sitting at home waiting. Waiting for her voice to come back, or the anger to fade. For Sam to forgive her. For Baldwin to agree to talk about the search for his son.
“Deal?”
She nodded, and put out her hand to shake.
At this point, she’d do almost anything to get back to normal, even if it meant getting her head shrunk. Working murder was her life, her purpose. Take that away and she felt like a shell of herself. Take away her voice too, and she was slowly locking herself down, inside, where only her demons resided. This was a fitting punishment for her sins, to be sure. A little bit of hell on earth. She just wondered how long it was going to last.
CHAPTER THREE
When they’d arrived at Baptist, Taylor had watched an older couple get out of a car in the handicap space, two tiny, shriveled beings, male and female, showing up for an appointment. It had made her sad, the parallels between them—old and young, both hurt and looking to be fixed. Taylor knew her odds were better, but she couldn’t help but feel that this was what she had to look forward to. The romantics of growing old with someone were shattered by the realities of the flesh incrementally dying.
But leaving the hospital, she wasn’t feeling as pessimistic. As annoyed as she was, with both Baldwin and the doctor,
