Patient A-3

Chapter 42: Journal #3

Avalyn,

They escaped.

They're coming after us, and they'll come after you too.

If this letter finds you, head to Dad's office. There are journals hidden in the drawers.

Look. They're there, I promise.

You are Patient A-3.

It might not make sense now, but Dad's writing holds the answers to all your questions.

Find them before they do, then run, and never look back.

You're the cure we were working on, and they know.

But-

The letter unfolds further, and I fight back a surge of nausea as the remaining words sink in. Cierien and Wrath are under the impression that the cure has taken effect, coursing through my veins. However, my father presents evidence to the contrary. Strangely, I never revealed those journals to them. They now rest quietly beneath my bed on which they peacefully sleep, their contents hidden from the very individuals who believe in the success of the cure.

My mother must have harbored the belief that knowing the truth would result in an immediate threat to my life, and perhaps she was right. Wrath, ever since he entered my life, has been consumed by anger. If he doubted the authenticity of the cure, he might have acted impulsively. The thought of it brings uncontrollable tears, falling onto the paper in my hands. Swiftly, I shove the letter into the pocket of my robe, as if hiding it could somehow shield me from the weight of the revelations it carries.

I need to get out of here.

I bite my lip, suppressing the torrent of emotions that clamor to break through. A chilling realization gnaws at the edge of my thoughts- perhaps Wrath's earlier attempt at an apology concealed a more sinister intention. His teeth, dangerously close, seemed poised to bite down, only hindered by Cierien's timely intervention.

A whirlwind of questions swirl through my mind. Despite my mother's assurance that all answers lay hidden in my father's journals, it's evident she didn't anticipate my late discovery of this letter, nor the presence of those men currently sleeping down the hall. The pressing question echoes: Why didn't my mother disclose the crucial information before she crashed? Why didn't she-

Mom and Dad crashed their car just a couple of blocks from me. At the time, I didn't give it much thought, dismissing it with a scoff. I even shared a laugh when Sophie made a joke about the rich choosing the scenic route to work. But, now I realize they weren't heading to work. They weren't passing through.

They were driving to me.

I hold my hand to my mouth, a silent barrier against any sound that might betray my fear. The handwriting on the paper is frantic as if she was racing against time to get her thoughts on paper-almost like a last resort if she didn't make it to me. Her awareness of the will being in my name, the impending transfer of the house to me, reveals that she foresaw her own demise. It was her first thought. My mother left me this letter, fully aware she might not make it to me, holding onto the hope that I would return to the house and discover the message she left behind.

They killed her.

The men I've grown to love, the ones whom I've bared my soul to, who have touched me and witnessed me in my most vulnerable moments- killed my parents. The realization crashes over me-they've been using and manipulating me from the very beginning. The growing distance between Sophie and me, their reluctance to leave the house, and their persistent efforts to keep me close all fall into a sinister alignment. The pieces of the puzzle, once scattered and dismissed, now fit together with alarming precision. It wasn't a coincidence that they wanted me to stay and depend on them. Even their reasons for diverting my attention from Sophie's calls, steering me away from anyone else, now appear as calculated moves in a game I didn't know I was playing.

Amidst the chaotic whirlwind of thoughts, one revelation pierces through- the book. Wrath's intense anger when I picked up that seemingly innocuous book now makes sense. It wasn't just a book; it was a journal- my journal.

I stand on unsteady feet, moving cautiously down the hallway. My eyes remain fixed on my bedroom door, and I strain my senses for any hint that they may be awake. Silence envelops me as I enter their room. Racing toward the bookshelf, I recall how he positioned the journal on the third shelf, all the way to the right. My eyes scan over the titles, searching for a spine that must look similar to the others. When I find it, I practically jump for it, grabbing it with too much urgency and ripping it from its spot. Surrounding books topple over, tumbling onto the hardwood floor with a resounding thud. I freeze, tension gripping me, my eyes darting toward the open door.

Standing frozen, time seems to stretch indefinitely. I eventually crouch down, carefully restoring the fallen books to their rightful places. With my back shielding the open door, I flip open the journal, my eyes devouring the contents with a sense of urgency. The entries reveal my father's relentless efforts to transform my blood into the cure, yet there's no conclusive evidence of its success. The detailed paragraph writing abruptly halts around the time I turn thirteen, leaving me with an unsettling void of information. What follows are only scribbled dates, leading up to the period around my departure at seventeen. It doesn't take me long to realize what the dates are.

It becomes evident why Wrath and Cierien would believe the cure was successful- nothing within these pages disproves it. The contradiction lies hidden in my father's hidden office journals and my mother's letter, both of which they have never seen.

Contemplating retrieving the journals from beneath my bed, I realize my hands are still shaking too much to function properly. The urgency to put distance between me and them takes precedence. Knowing I won't have time to pack, I decide to head straight to Sophie's. It's not safe for her, given they know who she is. I plan to call her on the way and urge her to pack a bag. She might question it, but I know she'll comply. The explanation will have to wait until we're on a plane to an unknown destination. I don't know where we'll end up, but I'm determined to use every ounce of money I have to ensure we get as far away as possible. My purse, containing my credit card, is conveniently always placed by the staircase along with my car keys. All that's left is to grab them and make a swift exit. Simple enough.

Shit, my phone.

I pivot on my heels, prepared to forgo my phone, but instead of finding the sight of the room, I find Wrath's chest. Standing directly before me, his hands cradle my phone. "Can't leave without this, can you?"

Fear grips me, rendering me too frightened to look up at him. My eyes stay cast to the side, contemplating the possibility of making a run for it, even though deep down, I understand the futility of such an attempt. Gently, he takes the journal from my hands, his finger trailing over the cover. "Did you figure it out?" he asks, his tone eerily soft. "You're Patient A-3, sweetheart."

//

oop

when I first published this book, I really contemplated changing the title because I thought it was too obvious 😭

anyways THANK YOU FOR 50K READ!!

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thank you sm for reading :)

next chapter soon.