Free The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) by Tania Carver Page B

you’ll enjoy my recipe. I’ve followed yours as closely as I could.’
    More questions than Phil could articulate. Before he could seize on one of them, she sat down on the bed, looked at him once more.
    ‘Thought we might have a little chat before dinner.’
    ‘Where am I?’ asked Phil. ‘And why have you got me here like this?’
    She sighed, looked disappointed. ‘I thought you’d be more original than that. Really, I expected better of you.’
    ‘Who are you, then? How about that one.’
    She gave a smile reserved for the most patronising of nurses. ‘You know who I am, darling.’
    ‘No I don’t.’
    ‘Look at me.’ She sat back, flung her arms wide, cocked her head to one side. ‘Who do I look like? Who am I?’
    ‘You’re not Marina. You know you’re not Marina.’
    She leaned forward once more, talking as if explaining something to a slow child. ‘No. I’m not Marina. But I’m more than her. Much more.’
    ‘Like what, who?’
    She leaned even further in. ‘I’m the person who knows you best, Phil Brennan. I’m the only person who understands you.’ She sat back again, smiling, waiting for his response. A manic, self-satisfied glee dancing in her eyes. ‘Really, truly understands you.’
    ‘No you don’t. Don’t talk bullshit. I don’t know you.’
    She looked mock-appalled. ‘No need for that language, lovely one. You know there isn’t. Now.’
    She leaned forward once more, her hands upon him. He stiffened, tried to pull away from her touch. Couldn’t. She smiled.
    ‘Just relax. You’re not going anywhere.’
    He said nothing. Stiffened his body even more, clenched his teeth together.
    She continued. ‘Phil, I know what you’re really like. I mean, really, really like. Underneath it all. I know the real you.’
    She still hadn’t moved her hands. He couldn’t keep still forever, hold his breath forever. He exhaled. Tried to relax, concentrate on her words. Remember his training. Try to engage her.
    ‘This is the real me.’
    She shook her head. ‘No it’s not.’
    ‘Then who, or what, is the real me?’
    ‘The one who’s underneath…’ she gave an expansive gesture, flicked her wrist at where the wardrobe was supposed to be, ‘… all this. The clothes. The attitude. The outlook, that carefully cultivated outlook that puts you at odds with everyone else you work with. Even your own team. Especially your own team. The thrill you get from trying to be… different.’
    ‘I don’t try to be different, I just… I am who I am.’
    She laughed. ‘No. You think you know who you are. Don’t you? You believe the lies you tell yourself. You get up every day, look at yourself in the mirror and think, what can I do that’s different? What can I wear that’ll make me stand out at work? What opinion shall I have that’s contrary to everyone else’s? That’s what you do, Phil. Each and every day.’
    ‘Bullshit.’
    ‘Language, please.’
    ‘Fuck off.’
    She sat back once more, stared at him. There was no playfulness in her eyes this time. Just dark, angry blackness.
    ‘Don’t say that to me again, Phil. I won’t tolerate it.’ Her voice low, quiet even, carrying an unmistakable threat. ‘Keep speaking to me like that and I’ll make you sorry. I don’t care what you mean to me. No one talks to me like that. Not even you.’
    Phil glimpsed the madness inside her. He didn’t want to antagonise her further. But he still couldn’t bring himself to apologise to her. So instead he said nothing.
    She waited to see that he wasn’t going to say anything else. ‘That’s better.’
    He glanced to the capsules on the bedside table. ‘What are they for? Suicide pills, are they? Or something to help me sleep?’
    She smiled. ‘All in good time. You’re not ready for that yet. I’ll let you know when you are. You’ve a long way to go.’
    ‘Have I?’
    ‘Oh yes. Now. As I was saying. You get a thrill from being transgressive. There’s no point denying it, because