The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

56

"Doctor Moore."

Anger simmers through me as I approach the sign-in desk. Jonathan's hand rests at the small of my back, his gaze colder than I've ever seen it as he glances at Rachel Dawes. Thank goodness Harleen's at the courthouse today filing documents — I doubt even Jonathan and I combined would be enough to physically restrain her. It's barely enough to physically restrain myself.

Rachel folds her arms across her chest, smirking at our silence. "Interesting testimony you gave yesterday."

I slam the pen down on the sign in desk, ready to unleash, not giving a damn that the orderlies in the room would have to break up a fight between a pregnant woman and a prosecutor. But Jonathan, sensing my distress, turns to shield me from view.

"Miss Dawes, this is a psychiatric care facility, not a hotel. You cannot show up whenever you please."

"I have the authorisation documents right here, signed by the district attorney." Rachel juts her chin. "I'm here to see the Joker. And when I determine he should be in jail for his crimes, I'll be returning with my own independent psychiatrists."

"You are not the prosecutor on the Joker's trial," Jonathan says.

"No. But I will be speaking on the class action lawsuit I'm about to slam down your throats."

Jonathan's face turns lightly amused. "Is that why you published the article in the Gazette? Trying to lay the foundations of the PR work early?"

Rachel's eyes flash between us, down to my stomach. "I'm not here to discuss that. I'm here to see the Joker."

"Hmm." Jonathan feigns a concerned face. "And could you show me the paperwork authorising this visit once again, please?"

Rachel, still looking smug, reaches for it on the desk. Hands it over to Jonathan. Jonathan's brow furrows.

"Forgive me, Miss Dawes. This is a set of instructions for using the reception fax machine."

Rachel's face drops. She begins frantically picking through the sheets of paper across the desk, rifling through the sign-in book, glancing all across the floor. Her eyes darken.

"Give it back, Crane."

Jonathan's eyebrows raise. "I don't know what you're talking about. And I can't let you in without the proper documentation. I'll have Rowe here escort you back to your car. Good day, Miss Dawes."

Jonathan's doing the smart thing. I know this. Turning her away. Where there are freaking witnesses. I'm the one who suggested playing the long game.

Even so, I don't move. Even while Rachel's glowering and packing up her bag and muttering. Even when Jonathan takes my hand. I'm filled with the same adrenaline I felt when murdering half a dozen people in the street. I run through possibilities in my mind — my hands wrapped around her throat. Squeezing and crushing her windpipe. I try to calculate how much damage I'd cause before the orderlies step in. I eye the heavy typewriter on the desk. I could hit her over the head. Stab her in the chest with a pen. Grab Jonathan's keys and run to the Bentley and hit her walking through the parking lot.

"Sienna," Jonathan says gently.

I close my eyes and take a breath. Force myself to rein it in.

"I'll take you home," he says.

"No." I pull myself together. "No, it's fine."

I can't do it here. I have to think of Jonathan. Of our baby. He chooses that moment to nudge me from the inside, like a gentle reminder.

We'll get Rachel Dawes later, I think, as Jonathan kisses me goodbye and we begin our workday.

***