Page 52 of Lone Wolf

Scarlett is looking alert, too.

Katy is sat in the chair next to Dr. Khatri. Scarlett takes the seat opposite Katy, which leaves me directly across from the therapist. Just perfect.

“Before we begin,” Dr. Khatri says, “I want to thank you all for agreeing to this session. I know it wasn’t entirely voluntary—” a wry smile touches her lips “—but I believe we can make real progress together.”

Katy stares at a point just past Dr. Khatri’s shoulder. “Is this where we hold hands and sing kumbaya?” Her voice is flat, empty of even the sarcasm her words suggest.

“That comes later,” Scarlett says dryly. “After the trust falls.”

I have to fight the urge to snort, but something about the exchange loosens a knot in my chest. This isn’t just me against Dr. Khatri anymore. We’re all in this discomfort together.

“We’ll start simply,” Dr. Khatri says. “I’d like each of you to share one memory of your time with Grandmother. It doesn’t have to be significant or traumatic—just something that comes to mind.”

Silence falls over our small circle. A light breeze rustles the garden’s night-blooming flowers, carrying their sweet scent. In the distance, I can hear the faint sounds of training from the outdoor course.

“I’ll go first,” Scarlett says suddenly. “When I first arrived at Grandmother’s house, she gave me a room that was...nice. Clean sheets, a window, even books on a shelf. I thought maybe I’d be safe there.” Her voice hardens. “The next morning, she took it all away. Said I hadn’t earned comfort yet.”

Dr. Khatri nods. “Thank you for sharing, Scarlett. Katy?”

Katy’s eyes drift to me, then back to some middle distance. “She used to test us on languages at breakfast,” she says finally. “If you got a word wrong, you didn’t eat that day.”

Another memory surfaces: standing at attention beside the breakfast table, stomach clenching with hunger, watching others eat while Grandmother sipped her tea and observed us like specimens.

“Sarah?” Dr. Khatri prompts gently.

“My bedroom,” I say before I can stop myself. “She let me have anything I asked for, once I’d proved myself. But I couldn’t bear to think about my bedroom at home. So I asked for everything tobe pink. Pink and…girly. Even though that’s—that’s not me. It’s not who I am.”

Dr. Khatri opens her mouth to respond, but movement at the edge of the garden catches my attention. My mother approaches, carrying a tray with plastic cups of water.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the kitchen only just received the request for water to be brought out,” she says, her voice gentle.

My jaw tightens, suspicious at once. Of course she would insert herself into this. Of course she would find a way to remind me of our connection, to force her way into my life.

“Thank you, Mrs. Graves,” Dr. Khatri says. “That’s very thoughtful—and I’m sorry my request was so late.”

My mother just nods, and sets the tray on a small table beside our circle. But then her eyes find mine, hopeful, tentative. It’s the same look she always has—like she’s waiting for me to suddenly transform back into the daughter she lost.

But in that moment, something shifts. I see not just the irritating woman who won’t leave me alone, but someone who has been waiting for me to come home for years. Someone who never stopped looking, never stopped hoping. Someone who loved me enough to keep a teddy bear for a daughter who might never want it again.

And if I want to heal, to truly move forward, I need to stop pushing her away. She’s not just a reminder of what I lost—she’s a bridge to what I could be.

“Thank you,” I say softly, taking one of the cups.

My mother gives me her usual warm smile, and for once I smile back.

But Katy is looking between my mother and me with dawning understanding. Before I can speak, before I can take even the smallest movement, she pounces.

It happens in a blur. One moment she’s seated, the next she’s behind my mother, strong fingers encircling her throat. My mother’s eyes widen in shock and fear.

“Nobody move,” Katy says, her voice suddenly clear and cold. Gone is the listless prisoner; in her place stands Grandmother’s perfect creation. “Or I snap her neck.”

Dr. Khatri freezes, clipboard slipping from her fingers. Scarlett and I are both on our feet, bodies tense, eyes locked on Katy.

“What are you doing?” Scarlett asks, her voice carefully controlled.

“Getting out of here,” Katy replies. “You and Ariadne are going to escort me to the garage. You’re going to give me a motorcycle. Then you’re going to let me ride out of here.” Her fingers tighten slightly, making my mother gasp. “Or this bitch dies.”

I keep my face blank, my breathing even. I could reach her in two seconds. Scarlett would move at the same time. But Katy’s hands are positioned perfectly—one quick twist and my mother’s neck would break before either of us could stop her.

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