The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

26

My butt's stuck up in the air, my face squashed into carpet as I jam myself in the gap behind the sofa and run my fingers across the skirting board. Disappointingly, I come away with no more than a thin layer of dust.

"Sienna, don't you think you're being a bit..."

"Paranoid?" I ask Harleen. "Dramatic? Overkill?"

"I was going to say neglectful to your spine health," she finishes.

I shake my head. "There's a microphone somewhere in the apartment, Harleen. There has to be. It's the only explanation. And don't you dare bring up the spirits again," I threaten.

She holds her hands in the air. "I wasn't going to. But... don't you think it could be a coincidence? Maybe the photographers felt bad. Or maybe Rachel Dawes felt bad. Put together a hamper."

I glower at the curtains as I unhook them. "That was no hamper. Look at it."

Harleen turns, to where we've stacked half the food across the countertops — there was too much to fit in the cupboards and fridge. She sighs, walks across to the loot, and pulls out a bucket of candy. "Do you mind?" She asks.

I pause my search for bugs to fix her with a glance. "I can assure you I won't starve."

"Sienna..." She frowns, sitting herself on the arm of the couch and chewing on candy. "It doesn't make sense. If someone has bugged this apartment, why would they make it obvious? Why would they risk revealing themselves so they can send you food? There has to be more going on here."

"I agree." After my thorough and fruitless inspection of the curtains and the rail, I begin to hook them back up again. "Which is why I'm going to find the mic."

But even after hours of searching, I come up empty. That is, except for a few Bobby pins and a suspicious looking set of seeds germinating beneath a grow light in Harleen's room.

"Maybe we need to get a special device, like a metal detector that pings when we've found one."

"Or maybe," Harleen says evenly, placing her hands on my shoulders, "You need to eat something you feel like from the plethora of options, have a big drink of water, and get some rest."

"Fine," I sigh. "But I'm looking into the bug detector first thing in the morning."

"If you must." Harleen's eyes light up. "You want to open the gouda and those fancy crackers we found in the bags?"

I allow Harleen to indulge while I pick at olives and squares of chocolate. My stomach churns uncomfortably. Everything else, up until this point, has been excusable. Plausible. Now there's cold, hard proof right in my face.

Somebody is interfering.

And I don't yet know how nefarious he might be.

"I'm gonna go to bed," I tell Harleen. "Leave the mess. I'll clean it in the morning."

"You always do," she says happily,

***

Every possible suspect runs through my mind as I lie beneath the bedcovers, thoughts racing in the dark.

There's Harleen. This could all be one big facade on her part. But to what end? Is she working with the crime bosses, trying to gaslight me into thinking I'm going insane?

No. I've seen Harleen try to tell a lie, when I ask her how many egg sandwiches she's eaten, or if it's true she went to see the Joker three times that day. And she's the best friend I've ever had. She'd kill for me, I don't doubt it.

Next on the list is Doctor Crane. There's a chance he could have worked with crime bosses — Rachel Dawes said as much, though I'm not sure if she's to be believed. But Doctor Crane wouldn't need to manipulate events to get under my skin. He'd have enough opportunity during our sessions. And, aside from an invitation to the ballet which I now worry may have been out of guilt after the fear toxin episode, he's not shown any intensity of personal interest in me.