Chapter 458
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Chapter 458:
Carmen felt her back press against the cold stone wall of a dark, hidden alcove deep in the stacks. A large, heavy body pressed flush against hers, trapping her completely. She caught the sharp, intoxicating scent of cedarwood and cold winter air.
“Don’t look at him p>
The voice vibrated against her ear — low and jagged, saturated with a terrifying, absolute possessiveness.
“You look at me, Carmen. Only me p>
In the memory, Carmen tried to look up. The man’s face dissolved into shifting static.
“Push through the fog, Carmen,” Dr. Foster urged gently. “Look at his face. Who is holding you p>
Carmen’s body began to convulse against the recliner. Her hands gripped the leather armrests so tightly her fingernails threatened to tear through the seams.
Then the static shattered.
The face came into perfect, horrifying focus.
She saw the sharp, aristocratic jawline. She saw the intense, predatory hazel eyes. And just below his left earlobe, she saw a tiny, distinct black mole.
It was Justin Collins.
Re𝖼о𝘮𝗆𝖾n𝗱 t𝗈 yo𝘶𝗿 𝘧𝘳𝗂e𝗇𝖽ѕ
“No p>
Carmen let out a blood-curdling scream. She lurched upright, tearing the sensor wires from her fingers, and scrambled backward until her spine met the wall of the clinic. She pressed herself against it, gasping for air as though she had been held underwater, hot tears streaming freely down her face.
“Carmen, you’re safe,” Dr. Foster said, rising slowly from her chair. “What did you see p>
Carmen couldn’t speak. Her vocal cords were paralyzed by pure, unprocessed horror.
The man who had been playing the gentle, grieving widower. The man who had held her while she wept in the hospital hallway. He was not a stranger.
He was the phantom from her nightmares. The man who had possessed her, consumed her — and somehow, erased her entirely.
Carmen snatched her coat and bolted from the clinic, bursting out onto the freezing Manhattan sidewalk. She stood in the cutting cold, chest heaving, the city roaring indifferently around her.
She knew what she had to do. She could not trust her own fractured memory, and she could not trust the Golden family. She needed physical, undeniable proof.
She stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. “JFK Airport,” she said. “I need to rent a car p>
She was going back to Yale.
The black Porsche rental car rolled slowly through the wrought-iron gates of Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut.
It was dusk. The sprawling gothic architecture of the campus was bathed in the eerie amber glow of the streetlamps, and dead autumn leaves crunched beneath the tires. Carmen parked near the Sterling Memorial Library. She wore a heavy camel coat and dark sunglasses, pulling her collar up against the biting wind.
She crossed the quad on foot. Every step felt like walking over a grave. The physical environment triggered relentless micro-flashes of memory — the smell of old books, the distant chime of the campus clock tower, the particular weight of the cold air against her face.
She made her way toward the alumni hall. Tonight was the annual School of Management networking dinner. If anyone remembered her past, they would be inside.