Chapter 23: "Breaking Free"

The terror is a physical thing.

A cold, heavy weight in my chest.

But underneath it, something else is taking root.

Rage.

A cold, clinical, diamond-hard rage.

He brought me here.

To this room.

A perversion of everything I stand for.

A soundproofed, sterile box designed for healing, twisted into a cage.

He thinks he has me trapped.

He thinks I am his victim.

His bait.

His pawn.

He has forgotten who I am.

I am not a pawn.

I am a psychologist.

And this man, this broken, narcissistic, grieving man… is a textbook.

A walking, talking case study of unresolved trauma and pathological transference.

And I have read every single chapter.

I cannot fight him physically.

But I don't have to.

He has brought me into his arena.

The therapy room.

My arena.

And I am about to use every tool he ever taught me to dismantle him, piece by painful piece.

The panic recedes.

The clinician takes over.

My plan forms, cold and clear in my mind.

I will not be the terrified patient.

I will become his therapist.

I will find his wounds, his deepest insecurities, his core need for validation.

And I will use them to save my own life.

When the door opens again, I am not cowering on the cot.

I am sitting in the single armchair.

My posture is open.

My hands are relaxed in my lap.

I am the image of calm, therapeutic control.

Harrison enters, and for a second, he falters.

He sees me in the chair, his chair, and his carefully constructed reality wobbles.

"Elara," he says, his voice tight. "You should eat."

I don't look at the sad sandwich.

I look at him.

My voice is soft.

Empathetic.

The voice I use with my most fragile patients.

"Alistair," I say.

Using his first name is a deliberate choice.

It shifts the dynamic.

It puts us on an equal footing.

"I understand now," I say softly.

He frowns, confused. "Understand what?"

"What you're doing," I continue, my eyes holding his. "This isn't about revenge. Not really. This is about saving me."

The word hangs in the air between us.

Saving.

His core need.

His life's great, tragic failure.

"You see what Theo is doing to me," I say, weaving a new narrative for him. "The control. The chaos. The way he smothers things. You saw him do it to Sarah. And you won't let it happen again."

He stares at me, his mouth slightly agape.

I am narrating his own delusion back to him.

And he is starting to believe it.

"He is dangerous," Harrison whispers, taking a step into the room.

"I know," I validate. "It must have been so painful for you. Watching what happened to Sarah. Feeling so helpless to stop it."

I lean forward, my voice dropping to a near-whisper.

"Tell me about her, Alistair. Tell me about the patient you couldn't save."

And he does.

He starts to talk.

The dam of his repressed grief finally breaks.

He talks about Sarah's light.

Her talent.

He talks about his own daughter, Anna.

About the guilt he's carried for decades.

He is no longer my captor.

He is my patient.

And the session has just begun.

He's been talking for an hour.

Pacing the small room.

Unburdening himself of years of pain and twisted logic.

I have just been listening.

Nodding.

Validating.

"They didn't understand," he says, his voice growing more agitated. "My colleagues in Arizona. They called my connection with Catherine 'inappropriate.' They didn't see that I was trying to save her. Just like I tried to save Anna."

His eyes are glassy.

Unfocused.

His speech is becoming more disorganized.

He's starting to lose the thread.

"I won't fail this time, Anna," he says, looking directly at me.

But he's not seeing me.

He's seeing his daughter.

The chilling, clinical realization hits me.

This is not just a narcissistic confession.

He is actively psychotic.

He is having a complete and total break from reality.

My carefully controlled session has just become a tightrope walk over a bottomless pit of madness.

He is no longer a rational actor I can manipulate.

He is a dangerously unstable man, trapped in his own delusions.

And I am trapped in them with him.

"You're right," I say, my own voice a careful, soothing balm. I have to play along. "You won't fail. You've saved me, Alistair."

"I have?" he asks, a childlike hope in his eyes.

"Yes," I say, standing up slowly. "You have. You've shown me the truth. We can go now. We can leave Theo. You've won."

I try to guide him toward the door.

A gentle, non-threatening touch on his arm.

He seems to consider it.

A flicker of lucidity in his eyes.

And in that moment of fragile hope…

CRASH.

A sound from upstairs.

The splintering of wood.

A door being kicked in.

It's Theo.

Harrison's head snaps toward the sound.

The lucidity is gone.

His eyes turn wild with paranoia.

"He's here!" he snarls, his voice a guttural roar. "He's come to take you away from me! He always does!"

He grabs me, his grip like iron on my arm.

The therapy session is over.

The door to the room bursts open.

It flies off its hinges.

Theo stands in the doorway, his face a mask of pure, murderous rage.

He sees me.

He sees Harrison's hand on me.

And he lunges.

But Harrison is faster.

He yanks me in front of him, my back pressed against his chest.

A human shield.

Theo freezes mid-step.

I feel something cold and sharp press against the side of my neck.

The syringe.

The same one from his office.

It's full of a clear liquid.

"One more step, Raine," Harrison hisses, his voice a mad, triumphant cackle.

His breath is hot on my ear.

"And the only thing you'll be saving is her body."