Exposed (Madame X, #2)(20)

“I’m sorry, Logan. I don’t mean to bring him up when I’m with you. But it’s the reality of my life. I know you believe he’s bad, and there are parts of him and his life that I don’t like. Things that, the more I learn about them, just make me uncomfortable. But he’s been there for me since I woke up, Logan. He gave me an identity, what little of one I have. He was with me every single day while I was learning to walk and talk again. I started from nothing. I mean, a lot of the basics came back pretty quickly, but my muscles were atrophied, and the part of my brain that controlled speech had been damaged, so I had to relearn how to walk and talk. The first two years of my life after waking up were spent in physical therapy and speech therapy. I had trouble dressing myself, feeding myself. Caleb was there. He gave me everything I have. I can’t discount that because you have a bad feeling about him.”

Logan sighs. “I’m not trying to say he’s evil or anything, I just—” He cuts off, wipes his face with both hands, and starts again. “Have you ever asked yourself why he did that?”

“He was the one who found me.”

“He says.” Logan taps the table with the tip of his index finger. “But he also said there was a mugging. Isn’t that what you told me? The facts say otherwise. I’ve seen the police reports. I’ve seen the photos of the car, the reports of a sixteen-year-old female, unconscious and unresponsive, with severe cranial trauma. I’ve seen the medical reports, saying you might never wake up.”

“Why would he lie?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Logan says. “I don’t know. That’s a question for him, and it’s not one I can ask.”

“I don’t know if I can either.” I feel faint, again.

My chest feels thick. The walls feel as if they’re closing in. The back of the booth has hands, somehow, clutching at my throat. The world spins.

Lies. Truth. Distortions. Facts.

It all twists like smoke from an extinguished candle blown by a breath. Mixes, shifts, shapes contorting.

I’m up, out of the booth, tripping over my feet. I’m outside, and it’s morning now. Sun streams from between the canyon walls of the buildings, casting a broad path of golden light onto the street, onto the sidewalk, washing over me. I walk, trip, stumble, run.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t see. This isn’t a panic attack, this is . . . something worse. My heart is crashing and frantic and I am collapsing. Am I dying? Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad.

I catch up against a sign pole, the metal cold against my cheek.

I realize I’m crying and chanting, “Isabel . . . Isabel . . . Isabel . . .”

Warm strong hands pull me back against a broad chest. A voice like sunlight murmurs in my ear. “You’re okay. Breathe, baby. Take a deep breath and let it out.”

That’s not what he’s supposed to say. It won’t help. Telling me to breathe won’t make me breathe. He’s not saying the right words.

“I’m Madame X,” I whisper, hoping maybe if I say the words, it’ll work the magic just the same, it’ll force oxygen into my lungs and slow my frantic heartbeat. “I’m Madame X. You’re Caleb Indigo. You saved me from a bad man. I am safe with you. It was just a dream. Just a dream.”

I repeat this several times, and it doesn’t help.

I hear a strangled breath behind me, feel lips brush my earlobe. His arms are crossed over my chest, like iron bands. “God, he’s got you f*cking brainwashed.” The sound of Logan’s voice as he says this is feral, rage-infused. Bitter.

“It—it calms me down when I have a panic attack,” I manage.

“Well, let’s try something new, okay? You’re Isabel. You are strong. You are safe. You don’t need anyone.”

I can’t. I can’t say those words. I try, though. I try. “I—I’m . . . Isabel. I am Isabel. I am Isabel.” I shake my head. “I’m not. I’m not Isabel. I’m not. That’s not me anymore. I can’t be her, she died. I died. On the operating table, I died. They brought me back, but I died. My heart stopped for almost a minute. I died. Isabel de la Vega died.”

“Then be someone else.”

“Who?” I cry; it is a sob. “Who else can I be? I am Madame X.”

“Is that who you want to be?”

“I don’t know!” I twist in his arms, press my cheek to his chest. “I don’t know, Logan. No, I don’t want to be Madame X anymore. I want to be someone new, but I don’t know who. I don’t know who, or how to decide.”

“You are strong. You are safe. You don’t need anyone.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Maybe not yet. But it can be.” He touches my chin with a fingertip. “Look at me, honey. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘fake it till you make it’?”

I shake my head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Sometimes it’s all you can do. Pretend you’re okay. Pretend you’re strong. Pretend you don’t need anyone. Fake it. Fake it for yourself, for those around you. When you wake up, when you go to bed, keep faking it. And eventually, one day . . . it’ll be true.”

I have no answer. I’m spared from having to find one by the arrival of the Maybach. The long, low vehicle slides to a stop beside us.