Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

I'm nervous.

It's my first counseling session with Kincaid, and I have no idea what to expect. I'm standing outside the north dorm, under the slight overhang of the roof, trying to stay out of the drizzle, but I can't quite make myself open the door and walk inside the building.

It doesn't help that I saw him again outside my window last night, but I should be grateful it didn't result in another sex dream. In fact, I slept pretty well and didn't wake up until my alarm went off. I still feel tired though. All the coffee at breakfast didn't help; neither did the toast and peanut butter I pecked at like a bird, much to Lauren's amusement.

I take in a deep breath and step inside the building. It's warm in here, smelling of woodsmoke. There's a long hallway with a handful of doors, and at the end, it looks like it opens up to a small common room, similar to the one in the main lodge.

I slowly walk down the hall until I find a door that says Dr. Wes Kincaid.

You don't have to tell him anything , I remind myself. Showing up is mandatory. Showing yourself isn't.

I rap on his door.

"Come in," comes his now familiar voice.

I turn the handle and step inside. His office is dark, venetian blinds over the windows that are half-shuttered. Bookshelves crammed with books line all the walls, along with several diplomas, and artifacts that seem to be collected from a bunch of cultures: a lacquered vase, a broken pot, a small Peruvian statue. It smells good, like santal, and I spot an incense holder on one shelf, as well as various candles.

He's standing at his desk, staring at something white and square in his hands that he quickly slips into his pocket before he takes his seat and finally meets my eyes.

"Please, come in. Sit down," he says, gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of the desk.

I walk across the room, my shoes squeaking on the hardwood, feeling self-conscious. The worn leather creaks as I sit down in the chair.

He folds his hands over the desk, and I take note of his attire today, a grey button-up under a dark vest. He looks every bit the psychologist today, including his eyes, which are flicking over my body and face as if searching for something.

Unfortunately, his professional attire doesn't make him any less sexy.

He clears his throat. "How are you?"

I shrug. "Can't complain."

His dark brow arches up. "Well, that is good to know. Before we start, I should tell you that I'm videotaping this session." He points at a small web camera on the windowsill behind him.

"Don't you need my permission for that?" I ask, my body stiffening, hating the idea of being on film.

His smile is stiff. "Not here, I don't. You conceded to that in your NDA."

"Do you have a copy of the NDA so I can double-check?" I ask grumpily. "Doesn't seem fair that I have no computer access to check what I signed."

"How about we get to that later. I only have an hour with you a week, and I want to make it worth my while."

I sit back in my chair, my hackles up. It doesn't matter how handsome he is, I'm going to be as stubborn as humanely possible for the next hour. Which, of course, isn't easy when I have a tendency to blab about everything, especially when the subject is me .

"Tell me, Ms. Denik," Kincaid says in his smooth voice. "Have you been sleeping well?"

"You would know," I answer. "You're the one who keeps standing outside my room at night."

He splays his hands in innocence. "Merely my evening walk."

"Right. Bear patrol."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Yes. Someone has to keep you safe."

"How long have you been working here?" I ask, looking around the room. "This place seems very lived-in. I like it."

"Five years," he says. "But we aren't here to talk about me."

"That's a shame. You're far more interesting than I am."

A flash of something in his eyes, intense and unreadable. "That's not true. You know it too. You know you're special, Sydney."

I roll my eyes. "Everyone wants to believe that."

"But it's true. That's why you're here. Do you know how many applicants we get each year? Thousands. Aspiring neuroscientists, biologists, geneticists—everyone wants in, but only those who are special enough, like you, are accepted. You have proven your worth. Tell me about how you discovered the dark fungus."

"I had heard about dark fungi and saw Dr. Nilsson's most wanted list on a website. I was already interested in DNA sequencing and molecular data and decided to apply it to the list. The idea that there are millions of unclassified fungi out there that we can't really see, in the land, the sea, the air, all this DNA that we can isolate but can't attribute to any known organism…it's fascinating."

Normally, when I'm talking about dark fungi, I get really passionate and animated, so I'm surprised I'm playing it so cool.

"So you followed your curiosity."

"Yes."

He leans in slightly, watching me closely. "It had nothing to do with the fact that whatever you discovered would be linked to you, that you would become known for it. That you would be recognized and deserving of the accolades."

I swallow thickly. "I mean, I guess."

Okay, that had a lot to do with it. My ego loved the idea of discovering something before someone else, loved how people would know the name Sydney Denik, even if just within a small circle of mycology nerds.

"Would you consider yourself to be an ambitious person?" he asks, bringing out a pen and pad of paper and writing something down.

"Yes."

"Have you always been ambitious?"

"Ever since I was young," I tell him. I launch into how I wanted to be a mad scientist growing up and how my grandmother was my enabler.

He at least seems amused by my confession. "I see," he says, smiling slightly, his grey eyes seeming warmer. Then he grows serious again. "Has your ambition ever taken on a dark side?"

I stare at him for a moment, my heart lurching.

He can't know, can he?

Oh, but wait. He has access to the internet. Of course he can.

"No," I lie. He doesn't need to know, and if he does know already, I don't need to repeat it. Besides, it's a leap to say it was because of ambition. I thought Professor Edwards actually liked me. It was him who used me, not the other way around. It was him that lied and said he wasn't married. It was him that made me lose my scholarship to Stanford.

"Do you feel ambitious here at Madrona?" he asks. "I imagine your capstone project is at the forefront of your mind."

I blink a couple of times. "Actually, no," I admit. "I haven't really thought about it since I got here."

Because there is no capstone for me anymore , I want to admit to him, just to get the truth out there.

Kincaid scribbles something down, and my thoughts about Edwards remind me to stay professional, no matter how good his hands look as he writes.

"How have you been sleeping?" he asks again, glancing up at me. "You never answered the first time. You deflected."

I make a face at his candor. "I think I'm sleeping okay. But I don't feel like I have. I've been pretty tired since I got here."

"How is your appetite?"

"Nonexistent. The food is really good, I'm just not…hungry. I don't know. Feels like I lost weight since I got here."

"Are you on any medication?"

"Yes. I have an IUD. And I take Adderall."

"How much do you take?"

"Only ten milligrams. Just twice a day. But I plan on cutting back. I could only get the pharmacist to give me two months' worth. You know, they automatically think you're dealing drugs if you get three, heaven forbid. So I'll cut back to one a day while I'm here."

He leans back in his chair, tapping his elegant fingers along the edge of the armrests. "Do you care to do a little experiment with me?"

My brows go up. "What kind of experiment?"

"Well, two experiments, actually. One is that I want you to keep a diary. Write in it every night before you go to bed. Just a sentence or two about your day or at least how you're feeling. Mentally, physically."

He reaches into his desk drawer and slides a faux-leather notebook toward me.

I take it, turning it over. I love a good notebook. "You won't be reading it, will you?"

"No. It's not for me to analyze. It's for you to analyze."

"Okay. What else?"

"I'd like you to stop taking your medication for a couple of weeks."

I stare blankly at him. "Why?"

"I think you'll sleep better."

"I need it to function," I tell him, feeling a little panicky.

"Stimulants can be very helpful, but from the symptoms you describe, feeling tired despite sleeping, not having an appetite, I think we can manage your ADHD through behavioral therapy. You're only on ten milligrams. That's something we can try to manage without drugs. And that diary should help."

I shake my head. "No. I need to be able to think while I'm here. I need my brain at its best. I need to concentrate on my capstone." I lie about the last one.

"You'll be fine. I promise. Just a couple of weeks, and if you don't see a difference, go right back on them. You have to conserve them anyway." He pauses, licking his lips, his gaze sharpening on mine. "Don't you trust me?"

I feel my breath hitch in my chest. "I don't know you," I whisper.

"Haven't you ever trusted someone you don't know before?"

"Yes. And it never ended well."

He nods slowly. "I understand. Well, then I'm asking you to trust me, Sydney Denik. I only have your best interests at heart." He swallows. "Please."

I find myself agreeing. "Okay."

He gives me a genuine smile, one that makes his eyes crinkle, lines along his cheeks lighting up his face for one brief, beautiful moment.

Wow. I can't help but smile back.

"I won't let you down," he says. Then he coughs lightly and turns his attention back to the pad of paper, the spell between us broken. "How are you getting along with the rest of the students?"

I shrug. "Uh, I mean, I've made some friends, I think."

"Does that come easy to you? Making friends?"

"Define friends," I say wryly. "I seem to get along with most people. On a surface level, anyway. I think I'm easygoing and fun. People seem to want to be around me…"

"And below a surface level?" he asks, leaning forward on his elbows and steepling his fingers together.

I fall silent at that, digging deep. "I think I have a hard time keeping people engaged. Because even though I feel like I'm honest, I'm also holding the real me back."

"You're masking."

"Yes. Not consciously. I have to know someone and trust them to let them see the real me, and when I do, that's when I often lose them."

"I bet the real you isn't that different from the one that people see," he offers quietly. "Sometimes others pick up on the fact that you're masking, and so they think perhaps they aren't worthy of being shown the true you. It's not always about people not accepting who you are. Sometimes it's about them feeling like they aren't good enough for you or worth your time. Sometimes people just want to feel worthy of being let in."

I rub my lips together as I think that over. I'd never thought of it that way. "Maybe," I concede.

He studies me for a moment, his gaze so inquisitive that I have to stare down at my nails. Normally, I've picked them raw, one of my stims, but lately, they've been looking good. I'd paint them if my polish didn't chip after a day.

"And how are you dealing with the lack of communication and internet?" he finally asks.

"It's only been three days," I inform him. "I'm fine."

"You let your friends back home know where you are, of course."

"Yep. My friend Chelsea has all my stuff. She knows I'm out of contact."

"All your stuff?"

Oh fuck. He doesn't know I was kicked out of housing.

"There was no point being in student housing over the summer if I was going to be here," I say smoothly.

"Of course." He stares at me, and from the barely perceptible wince, I can tell what he's about to say next. "You wrote down a lot on your application…I know you lost your father a couple of years ago. And your grandmother a year before that. Are there any other relatives that you have a relationship with, that you stay in touch with?"

I shake my head. "I have an aunt, but we don't really talk."

He writes something else down, then looks up, his forehead wrinkling.

"You lost your mother at a young age too," he says softly.

"Postpartum depression," I tell him. I don't have to tell him the rest.

"You've experienced a lot of loss during your life. How old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

"Oh. You seemed older," he says. "No offense."

"I'm not offended. It's just rare to hear." Everyone usually thinks I'm younger than I am, probably because I have a baby face. Oh, and I'm incredibly immature.

"And how has your relationship with death changed? Do you think about it often? Do you fear it?"

The questions are starting to make me uncomfortable now. I shift in my chair, the leather groaning loudly. "I don't think about it. I used to fear losing my family, but after my grandmother and my father…there's no one left for me to lose. I guess that's the silver lining, isn't it?"

I give him an awkward smile, and he scribbles something down.

"I fear my own death though," I go on. "I fear dying before accomplishing all the things I want to accomplish, before I get to experience things and leave my mark on the world. But everyone fears that. Don't you?"

His eyes soften. "I do. It's a very human reaction. It comes down to purpose. We want to find our purpose before our death." A beat. The rain starts to pick up outside, spattering on the window. "Have you found your purpose yet?"

I let out a caustic laugh. "Are you kidding? No."

Kincaid leans in slightly, a conspiratorial look in his dusky eyes. "I think you'll find your purpose while you're here, Syd. I really do."

I hate how sincere he looks and sounds when I know he's just playing to my ego and saying things he knows I want to hear.

And yet, I believe him.

"You called me Syd," I tell him. "Does that mean we're friends now?"

"If you're trusting me, then I suppose that's fair to say." He glances at the clock on the wall. "Well, I think that's it for today."

"It's only been thirty minutes," I tell him.

"I like to break you in slowly," he says, his voice becoming rough for a moment, a smolder in his gaze, and, fuck, I can't help but think of sex.

"Okay," I practically squeak.

"Better to quit when things are going well, don't you think?" he says, looking cool and professional again. "I'll see you tomorrow in class."

And just like that, I'm dismissed.

"Are you going to get anything tomorrow when they go to town?" Lauren asks me. "I was thinking of getting a box of wine if you want to split it. I know it's not very classy, but it should last a long time. Might be nice to have some at dinner."

We're sitting at the picnic table at the gazebo with Munawar, Justin, and Natasha. The skies cleared during dinner, so we decided to forgo the common room and watch the sunset. I'm sleepy, as usual, but force myself to stay up.

It's a beautiful evening, too, a low bank of fog sitting over the entrance to the inlet and the ocean beyond. The water is still, and everything is bathed in soft gold, a raft of sea otters in the distance. Even the breeze is warmer than it has been, coasting over my skin, making everything seem magical. It's a view that deserves a glass of wine, but…

"Count me out," I tell her. "I'm cutting back on drinking."

Last time I drank was when I showed up shitfaced to Professor Edwards' house, and everything went swiftly downhill from there.

"That's fine. I'll get it anyway," she says. "More for me."

"How was your session with Dr. Kincaid?" Natasha asks. She's normally quiet, barely says more than a few words to anyone except Justin, whom she's been flirting with all night. "I really hope he doesn't make me talk about anything personal."

"It was fine," I tell her. "And only half an hour to start. He doesn't seem to be too invasive so far."

"Did you find out if he's married?" Lauren says with a wink, the setting sun shining on her hair.

" No ," I tell her. "That's none of my business." I want to tell her that married men lie too, but that would be opening a can of worms.

"You have the hots for teacher?" Munawar asks as he buttons up his jacket, looking visibly cold.

"No," Lauren and I answer in unison, which just makes the rest of them laugh.

"Sydney!"

A voice calls out from behind me, and I twist around to look, half expecting to see Amani again, even though I know she went home.

"Who's there?" I ask, though all I see are the bushes.

"What?" asks Lauren.

"I thought I heard my name," I tell her, motioning for everyone to be quiet.

"Sydney!" the person yells again, further away this time. The voice sounds so damn familiar, but I can't place it.

"There!" I exclaim, looking back at everyone. "Didn't you hear that?"

Justin snorts. "That sounds like an elk bugle. I don't think the elk here know your name."

"No, it said Sydney," I tell them, getting to my feet.

"Where are you going?" Lauren asks.

"I'm going to go see who it is." I walk out of the gazebo, my ears straining as I try to hear if they call for me again, and head into the bushes.

"Sydney!" Lauren cries out as I hear her run after me. "That's right, I'm calling you too! Don't you know about folklore? Don't answer things that yell for you in the woods!"

I had heard about that but figured it was some Appalachian stuff. At the very least, I knew not to whistle at night. But the person was indeed a person and very clearly yelling my name.

It really did sound like Amani , I think, but that's impossible.

I come to a stop where the path forks, the right heading to the beach and the Panabode cabins, the other toward the main lodge. Suddenly, there's a rustling sound, and I swear I see someone running into the trees beyond, pink cloth trailing behind them.

"Amani," I say under my breath and start running that way.

"The girl who went home?" Lauren asks, following close behind.

"I don't know, maybe," I tell her, slowing down as the path gets rocky and starts going downhill to the beach. "Maybe she didn't really leave."

"Why would they lie? And why would none of us have seen her? Why hide her?" Lauren asks. "I swear, your imagination needs to be scaled back."

She's right though. When we get to the beach, there's no sign of Amani or anyone, just the calm waves lapping on the white-sand shore, the peeling orange bark of the lone Madrona looking extra fiery in the sunset.

"Maybe you should consider taking up drinking again," Lauren says, looking me over. "You're kinda stressed, whether you know it or not."

"I'm fine," I tell her, scanning the forest illuminated by the sun's glow. "I could have sworn I heard my name."

"Probably an elk, like Justin said. There's an estuary not far from here and their calls are made to carry. Come on, let's head back. We left Munawar alone with Justin and Natasha, and I'm afraid he's about to turn into a third wheel."

By the time we get back to the gazebo, however, all the activity has left me exhausted. I know the sun won't set for a bit, but I'd rather be asleep by then.

I excuse myself and head to the main lodge. The common room is quieter than normal, with only Noor sitting in an armchair by the fire, reading a book. Everyone else must be out enjoying the nice evening.

I head up the stairs, pausing at the landing when I hear a door above me shut, and a key turning, the sounds close enough to be coming from my room. I round the corner, and suddenly, Kincaid is running down the stairs.

"Kincaid?" I call out to him as he brushes past me, the scent of sweet tobacco and cedar whipping past, but he doesn't stop.

I watch as he disappears out the front door, and then I hurry up the stairs to my room. I quickly unlock the door and step inside, locking it again behind me.

Was Kincaid just in my room?

I turn on all the lights and look around, inspecting everything. Nothing seems to be taken; everything is exactly as I left it or as much as I remember.

Then I notice something that I can't believe I didn't notice before.

Poking halfway under the bed are the black Nike sneakers I thought I forgot to pack.