Grimm Little Obsession

Chapter One-Part 1 Jax

Nine Years Later

Westbridge Forensic Hospital

Elgin, Illinois

JAX

“Well, I thought this day would never come,” Dr. Wilson announced, releasing an exaggerated breath as he settled back into his leather chair and folded his hands beneath his chin. “Nine years you've been with us here at Westbridge. Nine years. I've had the privilege of watching you grow into such a…” His gaze traveled over Jacqueline with an unhurried familiarity that made her skin crawl. “Beautiful young lady.”

Jacqueline suppressed the urge to recoil, instead arranging her features into the bright, appreciative smile she'd spent the better part of a decade perfecting. She even tilted her head slightly, because apparently that made her look more sincere. Or innocent. Or whatever the hell these people wanted from her.

“I'm so grateful for everything you and the staff have done for me over the years, Dr. Wilson,” she enthused, injecting just enough warmth into her voice to make the words sound believable. If she smiled any harder, she was fairly certain her face would crack.

Dr. Wilson's small, beady eyes narrowed as he studied her over the rims of his glasses. He had a habit of looking at people as though he could peel back their skin and inspect whatever lay underneath, although Jacqueline had long suspected the only thing he was particularly interested in finding beneath hers was a lack of clothing.

“You were convicted of murdering your mother at sixteen years old, Ms. Hayes, and subsequently committed to psychiatric treatment,” he reminded her, adopting the solemn, authoritative tone he reserved for occasions when he wanted to remind her just how much power he held. “Your release is contingent upon a determination that you no longer pose a danger to yourself or others. I'm putting a great deal on the line by recommending you for discharge. My reputation, my professional credibility, perhaps even my career, should you find yourself giving in to any of those unfortunate violent impulses.”

Jacqueline nodded with what she hoped was an appropriate amount of remorseful understanding, resisting the temptation to point out that her most recent violent impulse had involved imagining how satisfying it would be to introduce his forehead to the corner of his mahogany desk.

Repeatedly.

“I completely understand the pressure you must be under, Dr. Wilson. I would never dream of jeopardizing your career after everything you've done for me.” She pressed a hand to her chest for emphasis, because subtlety was apparently something she'd left behind in the juvenile wing. “Honestly, I've come to think of you as a father figure over the years. And the staff here? They're practically family.”

The kind of family that made you consider changing your name, fleeing the country, and possibly setting the house on fire on your way out.

But she kept smiling.

Jacqueline knew the rules of this particular game better than she knew the back of her own hand. Smile sweetly. Sit up straight. Maintain eye contact, but not too much eye contact, because apparently that could be interpreted as aggression. Express gratitude. Demonstrate remorse. Recite whatever self-reflective, therapeutic bullshit they'd spent nine years drilling into her head. And, above all else, kiss so much institutional ass that the people running the place could no longer distinguish their own opinions from the ones she'd carefully fed them.

Seven days.

That was all that stood between her and walking through Westbridge's front gates as a free woman. Seven days until her next eligibility date, provided the greasy little bastard sitting across from her finally signed the recommendation he'd been dangling over her head for years.

She wasn't foolish enough to mistake his sudden willingness for generosity. Dr. Wilson had made an art form of promising her freedom, usually in exchange for favors that had absolutely nothing to do with psychiatric treatment. When she'd refused, those promises had evaporated, replaced by disciplinary reports, restricted privileges, and stretches in isolation long enough to teach her exactly how little her objections mattered within these walls.

She'd learned a great many things during her time at Westbridge. How to recognize the sound of an approaching staff member by their footsteps. Which patients were worth listening to and which ones were best avoided. How to swallow her anger until it stopped showing on her face.

And how to make a man believe he held every card at the table while she quietly counted the ones he'd forgotten were missing.

So, she sat in the chair opposite Dr. Wilson, her ankles neatly crossed beneath her, and offered him another dazzling smile.

Seven more days, you disgusting little prick.

She could manage seven more days.

Dr. Wilson leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his considerable weight as he regarded Jacqueline with an expression she had come to recognize as the precursor to something unpleasant. He tapped his pen against the folder resting on his desk, taking his sweet time before opening it to a page covered in notes she suspected contained more creative fiction than the entire Westbridge library.

“Now, Jacqueline, before I can make my final recommendation, there are a few things I'd like to revisit.” He adjusted his glasses and gave her a smile that was probably meant to reassure her. On his face, it looked like something a man might wear while offering candy from an unmarked van. “We've spent a great deal of time discussing the importance of accepting responsibility for our actions, haven't we?”

Oh, wonderful. We're doing this again.

“Of course, Dr. Wilson.”

“And part of that responsibility involves acknowledging the harm we've caused, even when remembering those events is uncomfortable.”

Jacqueline kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, though her fingernails had begun to press small crescents into her palms. She knew where this was going. She always knew where this was going because the man had asked her variations of the same question for nine f*****g years, apparently hoping she'd one day give him a different answer.

“Tell me,” he continued, lowering his voice into that practiced, syrupy tone he seemed to think made him sound compassionate. “When you think about your mother now, what do you feel?”

For one brief, treacherous moment, Jacqueline wasn't sitting in a padded chair beneath the fluorescent lights of a psychiatric hospital. She was sixteen again, kneeling on cold bathroom tile with her mother's blood on her hands, begging a woman who would never answer her to please, please, open her eyes.

She could still remember the scent of lavender soap.

The damp strand of hair against her cheek.

And the sound of Claire telling her she loved her.

Jacqueline blinked once, forcing the memory back into the locked room in her mind where she'd spent nine years trying to keep it.

“Sadness,” she answered softly. “Regret. I think those feelings will always be there, but I've learned that I can't change the past. All I can do is focus on making better choices in the future.”

Dr. Wilson nodded approvingly and scribbled something in his folder.

There you go, you overfed little sewer rat. Put a gold star next to that one.

“And the anger?” he asked. “You struggled quite extensively with anger during your earlier years here. Do you still experience resentment toward the people you believe contributed to your circumstances?”

Jacqueline almost laughed.

Resentment?

What an adorable little word for the things she'd imagined doing to the people who had stolen her mother, her childhood, and nine years of her life. Resentment was what you felt when someone ate the leftovers you'd been saving. What she felt required an entirely different vocabulary, preferably one that came with a warning label and a very understanding defense attorney.

“I've learned that holding on to anger only hurts me,” she replied, her expression serene enough for a self-help book cover. “Forgiveness doesn't mean excusing what happened. It means choosing not to let those feelings control my future.”

Dr. Wilson looked positively delighted.

If you start clapping, I swear to God I'll bite you.

“Excellent, Jacqueline. Very well said.” He made another note, then folded his hands over the file. “And what about the belief you once held that you were innocent of your mother's murder? Do you still find yourself returning to that narrative?”

There it was.

The question she'd been waiting for.

Jacqueline felt the familiar tightening in her chest, the instinctive surge of fury that had gotten her dragged into isolation more times than she cared to remember. In the beginning, she'd screamed the truth until her throat was raw, demanded lawyers, begged people to listen, and fought anyone who tried to tell her that her memories were unreliable. Every protest had become another entry in her file, another example of her inability to accept responsibility, another reason she supposedly wasn't ready to leave.

Eventually, she'd stopped arguing.

Not because she'd forgotten.

Because she'd finally understood that the truth would never open those doors for her.

“I understand now that trauma can affect the way we remember things,” she said carefully, choosing each word as though she were stepping across a floor scattered with broken glass. “I've spent a long time working through my feelings about that night, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life trapped in the past.”

It wasn't an admission of guilt, but it was close enough to the answer he wanted that she saw his shoulders relax.

“And do you forgive yourself, Jacqueline?”

She looked at him across the desk, taking in the smug satisfaction on his face, the expensive watch peeking from beneath his cuff, and the folder containing nine years of carefully documented reasons why she couldn't be trusted to make decisions about her own life.

For what? Not being strong enough at sixteen to overpower a grown man? For believing someone would help us? For surviving when she didn't?

Her throat tightened, but she refused to let him see it.

“I'm learning to,” she whispered.

Dr. Wilson smiled, evidently mistaking the tremor in her voice for a breakthrough rather than the last thin thread of restraint keeping her from launching his decorative paperweight through the window.

“That's what I like to hear.”

Jacqueline lowered her eyes, allowing a small, appropriately vulnerable smile to touch her lips.

Seven days.

She repeated the words silently, letting them settle over the anger burning beneath her ribs.

Seven more days, and you can all kiss my clinically evaluated ass.