Page 22 of Victorious

“Gabe.” A tense exhale, whispered in the dark. He dragged himself from sleep to find Iris sitting upright in their bed, sheets clutched against her chest.

“What is it?” he asked, but before she could answer, he heard it, the warning chirp of the security alarm. Not a blare, but a short, clipped beep, a measured tone, as if to say, Don’t panic. Just get up and set things right.

Gabriel rose to his feet.

“It’s all right,” he said steadily. “Go to Ian’s room. Lock the door.”

She leapt out of bed and hurried down the hall as Gabriel started for the stairs.

He didn’t own a gun, had always believed in his own ability to de-escalate a situation, but now that he was moving toward an unknown threat, his hands empty at his sides, he found them reaching for something. Anything.

He ducked into the living room and swept the poker from beside the fireplace, fingers flexing on the iron as he descended the stairs.

Halfway down, he heard the sound of breaking glass, of straining wood, a voice muttering, half to itself. His office door hung open, the frame splintered around the lock, and through the gap, he saw the man behind the desk.

Gabriel slowed. Took a steadying breath.

He forced himself to set the fire poker down against the wall before he stepped through the broken door.

“Paul.”

His patient looked up, and even with only the street light spilling through the office window, Gabriel could see the wide-eyed horror on his face, his palms and shirtfront streaked red.

Gabriel took a slow step forward, hands raised to show that they were empty.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, because he didn’t see an injury, nothing that would explain the sheer amount of blood.

The man’s lips moved, but the sound didn’t carry.

“Paul?” he prodded cautiously.

His patient slammed his hands down on the desk, and Gabriel saw the notebook—his notebook—disemboweled, a dozen pages torn out.

“You lied.”

Gabriel let the air out through his teeth. He didn’t deny it. There was no point. The alarm chirped its low, persistent beat. It would alert the police. They would be on their way. Gabriel had to get things under control before they got here.

“You have every right to be upset,” he said, his voice low, even, despite the chaos. “But if you sit down, I’ll tell you wh—”

“You lied.” Paul began to shake his head, a rhythmic motion that didn’t stop, even when he sank his hands into his hair, clawing at his scalp. “You let me think it was all in my head. You let me think I was safe.” He tore his hands free, staring at the blood that stained his palms, splashed up around his wrists.

“What happened, Paul?”

The air shuddered in his chest. “My sister, Sarah, showed up. I told her she could stay.”

Dread began to twine through Gabriel.

Over the course of their biweekly sessions, Paul had only mentioned his family once—his grandparents, dead, his parents, estranged. He’d never mentioned a sister. As far as he’d known, Paul was alone.

Gabriel took another small step toward the desk. “And your pills?”

“We were drinking. Catching up. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I didn’t mean to … and then, I was in a room.”

It was an exercise Gabriel had introduced in their most recent sessions, a way to see if Paul might eventually be able to control what he made in his dreams.

Picture an empty room, Gabriel had said. A place that belongs to you.

“I was in a room,” Paul was saying now. “But I couldn’t get out. The walls were glass, and I started to pound on them, but they didn’t break, and I remembered what you said, about being in control, so I imagined them shattering, all those pieces flying outward—” He let out a tortured sound. “And it worked.” He spread his arms. “I was free. And then I woke up.” His arms fell back to his sides. “And there were all these tears. Like shards had buried themselves in the curtains. In the sofa. In the fucking walls. But there was no glass. And you know the fucked-up thing, Dr. Gray—I still thought, somehow, that it was in my head, that it wasn’t real. Until I saw Sarah.” He folded forward, gripping the desk. “She was on the floor. And she was full of holes. Ripped up. Like, like she was made of paper.” He dragged his head up. “And you knew. And you didn’t tell me. You let me think I was crazy.”