Dominic arrived within the hour, grief-rot creeping up past his collar toward his jaw.
Ellis opened the brownstone's door and saw the evidence of withdrawal mirrored in Dominic's deterioration. Four days without cleansing had turned the rot aggressive—black tendrils spreading across Dominic's throat, visible pulse beneath the decay. Dominic looked hollowed out, eyes sunken, skin too pale against the corruption consuming him.
"Come in." Ellis stepped aside. No preamble. No professional distance. Whatever boundaries Ellis had tried to maintain over the past four days had burned away in the discovery that changed everything.
Dominic followed Ellis to the living room, moved like walking hurt. Probably did. Advanced grief-rot ate more than skin—it consumed energy, appetite, the body's will to function. Ellis had seen clients deteriorate this fast before. Never cared this much.
Ellis held up her phone, showed Dominic the text. He's getting too close to the truth. If you care about him at all, you'll keep him away from our house. —T
Dominic read it twice. Shook his head. "That's impossible. Thea is dead. I saw her body. There was an autopsy—"
"What if the body wasn't hers?" Ellis paced the living room, mind racing through possibilities. "Or what if she has Lazarus Syndrome? You found her research on it."
"Lazarus—" Dominic sank into the armchair, processing. "People who can mimic death. Stop their heart, lower their temperature. But that's rare. Incredibly rare."
"So is grief-rot that behaves like yours." Ellis stopped pacing, faced Dominic directly. "So is a wife who researches artificial grief induction six months before her supposed murder. Nothing about this is normal."
Dominic's hands gripped the chair arms, knuckles white. "If she's alive... if she faked her death... why? Just to frame me?"
"Not just frame you." Ellis pulled the second chair close, sat facing Dominic. "To torture you. Think about it—you wake up believing you murdered your wife. The guilt manifests as grief-rot so severe no one's seen anything like it in twenty years. You need a cleanser. Enter me. She knew I'd become addicted to your grief. She's been manufacturing it, making it irresistible."
"But why go through all this?" Dominic leaned forward, desperate for logic in the insanity. "Why not just leave me? Divorce me? Ruin my career? There are simpler ways to destroy someone."
Ellis hesitated. The next question would hurt. "I think you need to tell me the truth about your marriage. What happened three years ago?"
Dominic's face crumbled. The controlled facade he'd been maintaining since arriving—since his arrest, probably—fractured completely. "How did you—"
"Thea's journal entries. She referenced something you threw away." Ellis kept her voice gentle but firm. "What was it, Dominic?"
Silence stretched. Dominic stared at his hands, at the rot spreading up his wrists beneath his shirt cuffs. When Dominic finally spoke, the words came out broken.
"Maya. A colleague at the firm. Not your Maya—different woman. I never—" Dominic stopped, started again. "It never became physical. But I confided in her about my marriage. Problems Thea and I were having. Communication issues. I felt distant from Thea, felt like we were just going through motions. Maya listened. We'd have coffee, talk for hours. I shared things that should have stayed private. Intimacies about my marriage that belonged between me and Thea."
Ellis watched emotions cycle across Dominic's face—shame, regret, self-loathing.
"Thea found emails between us. Nothing explicit. Nothing sexual. Just... emotional infidelity. That's what the therapist called it later." Dominic's voice went hollow. "Thea was devastated. I ended the friendship immediately. Went to therapy, individual and couples. Did everything I could to rebuild trust. It took months, but we got there. Or I thought we did. The last two years, we seemed happy again. Really happy. I thought we'd moved past it."
"She was planning this for three years." Ellis stood, moved to the window. Outside, the street looked normal. Cars parked, streetlights glowing, nothing threatening. But Thea was out there somewhere, watching. "The car accident that caused your blackouts—I'd bet money if we investigated, we'd find she sabotaged your brakes. She needed you vulnerable. Needed your memory unreliable."
Dominic made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Jesus. Three years. She spent three years planning to destroy me."
Ellis returned to the table where she'd spread evidence earlier—printouts of Thea's research, notes on chemical compounds, timeline reconstructions. "Look at this progression. First, she creates the blackouts through the accident. Then she starts researching artificial grief induction. Six months before her supposed death, she's deep into cleanser addiction patterns. She's building a blueprint."
Dominic joined Ellis at the table, studied the evidence with architect's precision. "These searches about psychic bonding. What is that?"
Ellis pulled out her own research—the texts on cleanser addiction she'd been studying at four AM, trying to understand what was happening to her. "When a cleanser repeatedly consumes manufactured grief from a single source, it creates something called a psychic bond. A triangular connection."
"Between who?"
"The source of the grief—the person who created it. The afflicted person carrying the manufactured grief. And the cleanser consuming it." Ellis traced the triangle on paper, three points connected. "In this case: Thea, you, and me."
Dominic stared at the diagram. "What does the bond do?"
"Eventually?" Ellis met Dominic's eyes, needed him to understand the full horror. "The person who created the grief gains control. Can influence emotions, decisions. In advanced stages, can force the bonded people to hurt themselves or each other."
The words hung in the air like poison gas, contaminating everything.
"How do we stop it?" Dominic's voice came out rough.
"I don't know." Ellis hated admitting ignorance twice in one conversation. "The bond might already be forming. I can feel you in my mind even when we're apart. Can you feel me?"
Dominic nodded slowly. "Yes. Like you're a presence in the back of my consciousness. Thought I was going crazy."
"You're not crazy. We're being connected against our will." Ellis sank back into her chair, exhaustion hitting. "This isn't just about framing you for murder. It's about creating a triangle of suffering where Thea has complete power."
They sat in silence. The brownstone's old radiator ticked and hissed. Outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping across the ceiling. Normal sounds. Normal night. Nothing about this was normal.
"We should go to the police." Dominic broke the silence.
"And tell them what?" Ellis's laugh came out bitter. "That your dead wife is alive, has been chemically inducing your grief-rot, and is creating a psychic bond to control us? They'll think we're insane. Rivera already suspects I'm too involved with you. This would confirm it."
"Then what do we do?"
Ellis made a decision. The kind that couldn't be unmade. "We find her. We confront her. We end this before the bond completes."
"That's dangerous."
"Everything about this is dangerous." Ellis held Dominic's gaze. "But I'm not walking away. She chose me to be part of her revenge. I'm choosing to fight back."
Dominic reached across the space between them, took Ellis's hand. The contact sent electricity through both—familiar jolt from cleansing sessions, now present without ritual. Just touch. Just connection.
"Thank you." Dominic's voice dropped to something raw. "For believing me. For helping me when you could just walk away."
Ellis should pull back. Should remember every warning about cleanser addiction, about manufactured feelings, about losing objectivity. Should remember that everything between them might be Thea's design.
Instead, Ellis threaded her fingers through Dominic's. "We're in this together now."
The moment stretched. Dominic's thumb traced patterns on Ellis's palm. Their hands fit together too well. Dominic leaned closer, and Ellis didn't move away. The space between them collapsed inch by inch.
Ellis's phone buzzed.
Both flinched. Ellis pulled her hand free, grabbed the phone. Another text from unknown number.
I can feel you two getting closer. How sweet. By all means, fall in love. It will make destroying you both so much more satisfying. You have two weeks before the bond completes. Enjoy your remaining free will. —T
Ellis stared at the screen until the words blurred. Read them again. Showed Dominic.
"Two weeks." Dominic's voice came out flat. "We have two weeks before we become her puppets."
"Before the bond completes and we lose our autonomy entirely." Ellis set the phone down like it might explode. "She's watching us. Knows we're together right now. Can feel our emotions."
"The bond's already working." Dominic stood, moved to the window, looked out at the empty street. "She's in our heads. We're exactly where she wants us."
Ellis joined Dominic at the window. "Then we use it. She wants us to fall in love? Fine. But we stay aware. We don't let her control us. We find her before the two weeks end."
"And if we can't?"
Ellis didn't answer. Couldn't. The alternative—losing free will, becoming Thea's puppets, hurting each other under her control—was unthinkable.
They stood together at the window, staring out at shadows that might hide threats. Neither noticed the woman across the street, half-hidden behind a parked car. Red hair catching streetlight. Face pale in the darkness.
Thea Ashford watched the window. Watched the two figures standing close together, backlit by the brownstone's warm interior light. Watched them talk, argue, plan. Watched them believe they had choices.
Thea smiled.
Two weeks. They had two weeks to run, to fight, to resist. Two weeks to make the bond stronger with every moment they spent together, every touch they shared, every time they chose each other over safety.
They thought they were fighting back.
They were doing exactly what Thea designed them to do.