Regan shivered, wanting to look back at Chris, ask him why he had thought to use Camille’s name, but not wanting to take her eyes off the recording. Chris squeezed her shoulders from behind as he leaned forward to see the camera better.
“I want him out of my house,” was the answer to Chris’s question, the plea coming from what should have been Regan’s mouth, but wasn’t. The lips were thinner, the voice hers, yet higher. The words were angry, yet not commanding. There was a desperate quality to them.
“Who?”
“That awful Mr. Tradd. I threw dirt at his door to keep him away and yet he’s here.”
Mr. Tradd ... The journal entry. The dream. He was the dreaded fiancé Camille wanted to be rid of. But what was real and what was the workings of Regan’s overwrought imagination? “Oh, my God,” Regan breathed. “Is that really her, or is that me?”
It couldn’t be her. It wasn’t her. That just wasn’t her face. Even if she was sleepwalking, even if she was the one over-embellishing the journal entries in her dreams, she couldn’t produce that effect strictly from imagination.
Someone was inside her, in possession of her body, her voice.
Felix’s hand enclosed hers, though she barely noticed. She couldn’t stop staring at the video, at the horrific image of herself with another human being layered over her like Saran wrap.
And she had no memory of it.
“Okay, we can get rid of Mr. Tradd, no problemo. Consider him gone.”
Her head tilted on the tape and she frowned. “What?”
“Stop using slang,” Nelson whispered, not visible but his voice clearly audible since he was so close to the camera.
Chris looked back at the camera with an apologetic shrug, before turning to her, Camille, whoever the hell she was.
“I’ll have Mr. Tradd escorted out immediately,” he said. “Is there anything else you want?”
Camille nodded, making Regan’s hair shake forward onto her cheeks. “I want to die.”
Regan grabbed her throat, suddenly feeling like she couldn’t breathe. She made a gasping sound, well aware she was having a panic attack, but unable to stop it. I want to die... It echoed in her head, a horrible, agonized cry of a woman in severe emotional pain. Inside Regan.
Felix murmured, “You’re okay, it’s okay.” He shoved her head down between her legs and said, “Take a deep breath. Just open your throat and relax.”
Feeling the sting as her nails finally broke the skin on her knees, Regan closed her eyes and tried to relax, tried to drag in air. Spots danced behind her eyelids and hot saliva filled her mouth. She was going to pass out.
But if she did, would Camille take her over again? Would she, Regan, ever get back?
Oh, my God. Hysteria swept over her, and she fought for air, forcing her eyes open, pulling a breath into her lungs. She gasped and coughed, the blackness receding, her chest heaving as she sucked fresh oxygen in and out, throwing herself back up into a sitting position, wanting control.
“Okay, that’s good.” Felix massaged her back. “You’re okay.”
Not really. She wasn’t even close to being okay, but she was going to stay conscious if she had to slap herself alert. There was no way she was going to just let someone—something—take her over without a protest.
“Rewind it,” she asked. “I want to see what I just missed.”
“I want to die,” played again, and this time Regan narrowed her eyes and drove back the panic. She studied the face on the screen.
“I want to be with them. I don’t want him to own me anymore.” The first part made sense to Regan. Camille wanted to be with her deceased family. The latter was more confusing. Was “him” Mr. Tradd? And why did Camille feel like he owned her?
“Okay,” Chris said.
“Okay?” That was Nelson from behind the camera. “That’s the best you can come up with?”
Chris made a face. “I panicked!”
From behind Regan now on the bed, Chris added, “I didn’t think it was wise to piss off whatever was in your face, literally.”
“Thanks.” She patted his hand on her shoulder as they watched her image on the tape grab her head, double over, then stand back up, her face normal, mired in confusion.
“How long do you think that lasted?” she asked, feeling like the only way to process this, to stay sane, was to ask questions, apply some kind of logic to something that was illogical.
“What, like two minutes, tops? There’s a timer on the tape, we can figure it out,” Nelson said.
“How is she doing this?” Regan asked Felix. “How is she getting inside me? That is what’s she’s doing, right?”
“It certainly seems that way. I don’t know.” He shook his head, frowning. “Something is a conduit. This house, the journal . . . I don’t know.” He turned to Nelson and Chris. “Would you guys give us a minute? I’d like to talk to Regan for a second in private.”
“Sure,” Nelson said, standing up.
Chris looked to Regan. “Is that okay with you? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Well, as fine as I can be.” She gave him a small smile. “Please make sure everything downstairs is going smoothly, and if you see Beau—”
“Throw him out? Throw a drink in his face?” Chris asked eagerly.
That actually came close to making Regan laugh. She couldn’t quite manage it yet, but it was important to recognize that even though it felt like everything was shifting and changing around her, some things were static. Like Chris’s hatred of Beau, and his sense of humor.
“No. I was going to say if you see Beau, don’t start anything with him. Just ignore him.”
“Damn.”
“Chris.” Regan grabbed his wrist as he started to leave. “Thanks.”
His face softened. “For what?”
“For not running away like I’m a crazy person. You too, Nelson.”
“No problem. And this,” Nelson patted his camera, “will be under lock and key. We aren’t going to tell or show anyone.”
“Thanks,” she said.
Felix seconded the sentiment. “And thanks for getting me. Regan is lucky to have friends like you.”
Regan knew Chris had been suspicious of Felix’s intentions toward her, but he thawed a little at the flattery. “Yeah, you, too,” he said begrudgingly.
They walked out and Regan watched them go, unsure what to say to Felix, or where to start. Her emotions were shredded, her thoughts jumbled.