Page 8 of The Witch's Heart
"Livingstone?" I ask, surprised.
He nods.
"Are you related to the L Livingstone who painted those?" I ask, nodding to the wall.
His lips twitch into a small—almost shy—grin. "You could say that," he says. "I'm Logan Livingstone. The artist."
This is almost as much of a shock as my being here at all. Because the man before me can't be more than thirty—if that—and these paintings look at least 100 years old, based on the aged and weathered frame and canvas. "When did you paint them?" I ask.
"When I was younger," he says. "Is there a reason you're deflecting the questions onto me? I know it can be hard to talk about one’s own pain and trauma, but I promise you that I'm here to help."
"Is that why I woke up in a dungeon cell and am being held against my will? So you can help me?" I ask, using my words as whips.
He flinches at my tone. “Your stay with us will include accommodations of the simplest nature to ensure safety. Your shower time will have to be chaperoned, and you’ll have to earn the right to personal items like hairbrushes and shoes. These rules are reserved for patients who need some time alone to reflect on their choices. Or for those who are a danger to themselves and others."
"So the twins? Declan and Dean? Are they reflecting or a danger?" I ask.
"They aren't what we are here to discuss," he says.
"They may not be whoyou'rehere to discuss, but I don't have any intention of sharing my personal life with a stranger who aided, or at least is abetting, in my kidnapping." I lean back and cross my arms over my chest.
"How do you think you got here?" he asks.
"I just told you, I was kidnapped."
Dr. Livingstone leans forward, his ocean eyes studying me intently. "Do you not remember, Miss D'LeLune?"
"Just Celeste," I say. "And remember what?"
"You called us. Just before you got home and attempted to take your own life, you called our hotline number and told us what you were about to do. You asked us for help. I got the call and came myself, only to find you bleeding out in the bathtub."
Vaguely, I recall a male voice reassuring me as I was pulled from the bloody water. But that doesn't explain the rest.
"I brought you here to save you from yourself."
I narrow my eyes at him, my heart thudding aggressively against my ribs and a headache forming behind my eyes. His words don’t make sense. I didn't call anyone that night. I remember it clearly. The visions. The plan. The feel of the blade against my skin.
"You're lying," I say. "I didn't call you. I didn’t call anyone."
He gives me the look of one who feels sorrow for someone crazy, and it pisses me off.
Until he pulls out his cell phone and hits play. I hear what sounds like my own voice coming out of the speaker.
"Help. Someone help me. My name is Celeste, and I'm about to hurt myself. Stop me before it's too late."
He pauses the recording and waits for me to say something.
Only no words come, because I never made that call, but I know whose voice that is.
It sounds like me. And if you didn't know the difference, you'd think itwasme.
But it's not my voice.
That voice belongs to my sister.
My twin sister who died six months ago.
Estelle.
