“I brought everyone. It’s funny, really. How you never give me any credit. It’s always McKay. Or Donovan. Or Nathan. But me? You treat me like Adam.”
“How do you figure?”
“You love him, but you hate him. You trust him, but you won’t listen to him. It’s the same way with me. You know I’m always right, but you pretend it’s Donovan who has been taking care of you all these years.”
I should not talk to Carter. I should shut my mind down, the way Wendy has, and look out my window, and pretend that I do not hear the voice of Carter Couture in my head at the most inopportune times.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if she heard me too?”
That would actually not be funny at all.
“I’ve been inside her. I know her mind. But then, he is always there. Trying to put me in my place.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Who is she submissive to?”
“Nick?”
“Nick.”
“Nick Tate is in her head?”
“Of course he is. He’s just like me.”
“Just like you how?”
“PSYOPS….”
The word comes out as a whisper, but it’s all contained in my head. So it bounces around in there for a little bit before it actually makes sense.
Nick Tate is PSYOPS?
Holy shit. Is it true?
“Of course it’s true.”
He mindfucked her.
No wonder she listens to him like that!
No wonder he’s always in control!
I open my eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them, and look over at Wendy. She didn’t fall asleep. She’s still staring out the window. Then my eyes wander up to the driver’s seat. To Nicholas Tate. He’s concentrating on the road, the dashboard lights dancing across his face.
He mindfucked her.
And that cure she talks about, that was him too.
What did he do to her that she needs a cure?
He must feel my gaze because his eyes dart up to the rear-view mirror and lock with mine. He wants to ask me a question, but he doesn’t.
Does he feel Carter?
Does he know how close Carter is?
How close Carter has always been?
No.
Nick doesn’t.
He doesn’t even care.
“He doesn’t even care. That’s why you’re in control here, Indie.” Carter is whispering to me again. “You know I’m right. I’m always right. Say it, Indie. Say it.”
And I do.
“You’re always right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY - MERC
We’re eating spaghetti and meatballs at the kitchen bar. Apparently, it’s an Old Home favorite and Maggie was in charge of tonight’s menu. She and Sasha are sitting at bar stools and I’m standing up on the other side of the massive kitchen island, just shoveling that shit into my mouth as I think about all the bad, bad things that are gonna come out of my little impromptu desire to work again.
I should’ve left it alone. I should’ve just…
Just what? Kept on pretending?
If Nick is right—and let’s be clear here, Nick isn’t anyone you dismiss. Even if the dude came to me with an even crazier idea than the one he just presented an hour ago, I’d listen to him. He’s deep inside. Like… Central American drug-lord deep. So if he’s right, then I’ve been living in a state of…
I close my eyes and drop my head, sighing.
They got to me.
They got inside my head somehow.
They made me believe things.
And I should’ve known better.
But who did this?
Because Garrett is dead, Nick didn’t know about it, and I certainly didn’t mindfuck myself.
My eyes involuntarily wander to the far end of the connected family room. But I’m not looking at the built-in bookshelves or the massive TV mounted over the fireplace. I’m trying to see through walls. I’m trying to see Donovan.
Did he get to me?
And if not him, who?
If Nick was a secret PSYOPS agent, then isn’t it possible there are more? Maybe even a lot more?
And then this sick thought trickles into my mind—what if… what if I’m in the PSYOP?
I drop my fork and turn away from the girls, trying to catch my breath.
“What?” Sasha asks. “What’s wrong?”
What if I’m in it and I didn’t even know until this very moment?
What if I am Wendy running around her mind’s eye version of Nick’s house, looking for clues?
“Merc?” Sasha stands up and walks around the island. She places her hand on my arm. “What’s wrong?”
I let out a long breath, suddenly shaking a little. Then I look at Sasha. “Nothing. I’ll tell you later.” I don’t make any mention of Maggie, but Sasha gets it. It’s been a while since we had to curtail conversations because of our kids, but not long enough for her not to understand what I’m doing.
Maggie huffs. “I’m not stupid, ya know.”
“No one said you’re stupid,” Sasha says.
Maggie shoots her a look. It’s a look every parent recognizes. This look is amusing on other people’s children, so we both chuckle.
“It’s not funny. Everyone except Adam treats me like a six-year-old.”
Sasha and I look at each other with the same question on our faces. Isn’t she six? But we have enough sense not to ask or chuckle again.