youI feel exhausted. I always do after a panic attack. “My mother was the coordinator of clinical experiences at the medical school. She placed the medical interns at doctors’ offices and hospitals around the region. She must have been in her mid-fifties by the time she died, but she never looked a day over thirty. No wrinkles. No grays. She didn’t sweat. It was so strange. And she was a monster.”
Luke’s gaze sharpens. “What do you mean?”
I have to stop to breathe again as images of my flawless, cruel mother transforming into something unspeakable try to rise. Fever dreams. Pay them no mind. “She hurt people. Used them. My therapist says she sounds histrionic, which is a cluster B personality disorder, though she stopped short of posthumously diagnosing her. At any rate, there was someth
