When someone dies mysteriously during a Psych experiment, Rhiannon becomes enmeshed in a conspiracy that includes both the survivors and the killer.
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Short on cash, Rhiannon...
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FREUD
( —austrian psychiatrist; originator of psychoanalysis, based on free association of ideas and analysis of dreams. )
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"YOU KNOW, THEY'RE NOT PAYING YOU EXTRA CASH JUST FOR BEING HERE ALL THE TIME," Roman states, standing somewhere behind Rhiannon, and she jumps right where she is, spilling droplets of her coffee to the floor of the kitchen. The lighting there is dim, as the early morning light is more than enough for her, and this is one of the rare times she sees him without his sunglasses on. "I heard you humming."
Rhiannon sets her mug of coffee over a counter and grabs a paper towel to clean the previously immaculate floor. While he has a point, she only remembers there's money involved whenever she checks her bank account (and never to pay her tuition, since Jude's parents are still in charge of it), even though money was the main reason why she signed up for this experiment in the first place.
She's not sure why she still hasn't given up. Maybe it's to taunt her parents, or maybe it's to remind herself she can be in control of her own life without needing constant surveillance (the cameras scattered around the house cease to exist whenever she thinks about the latter reason, obviously). Maybe, maybe, maybe; there aren't many things Rhiannon has ever been certain of during her whole life and this isn't one of them.
"Cat got your tongue?" Roman asks, and, when she looks up, his hazel eyes seem to see through her. With a pang of guilt striking her through the heart, she simply sighs, throwing out the ball of wet paper. "If this isn't Rhiannon, I might have embarrassed myself enough to last me for the rest of the month."
"It's me," she finally replies. "I'm sorry. It just hasn't been my week."
Or her month. Or her year.
"Yeah," he sighs. "I think we all can relate. It really hasn't been easy for anyone." He carefully makes his way inside the kitchen, never giving Rhiannon the opportunity of offering her help; to make it a bit better, she pours some freshly brewed coffee into another mug and douses an apple with water to give to him. "Oh? Thanks. No sugar, no milk?"
"That's how I take mine," Rhiannon confesses, as he sits on one of the high stools.
The house is eerily silent, quieter than she had ever found it, and, though some people might consider it quite comforting, it only reminds her they're never really alone; Beatrice and Frances must be watching them, wherever they are. That knowledge doesn't ease anyone's concerns, as if they ever thought they'd be safer knowing someone's controlling what's going on in this house, and, if anything, dread creeps its way up Rhiannon's spine even quicker.
