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that.”
    â€œNo, you don’t,” snapped Joe. Megan had been right about his nerves and dislike of the group. “You say whatever Hanna says, you always do.”
    â€œI don’t!” Grant said.
    â€œOkay, guys,” Art said. “Let’s not argue. Let’s get back to Hanna. It’s her turn. Hanna, what does the voice tell you?”
    Megan’s discomfort grew as Hanna continued speaking.
    â€œIt tells me I’m a terrible person. Or that other people are terrible and I should hurt them. Like the other day at work it told me to erase one of my boss’s files when he wasn’t looking.”
    Bob laughed. “That’s your own subconscious anger.”
    â€œBob,” Art said. He sounded…pleased. Like this was what he wanted to hear. “Remember who the therapist is here. You’re not a mentor yet.”
    â€œI want to hear more from Hanna,” Grant said. At least, Megan thought it was Grant. It was difficult to know exactly who was talking. Her eyes didn’t seem to be adjusting to the light anymore. In fact, the room seemed to be getting darker, even though she could still see the candles burning.
    â€œThat’s all,” Hanna said. “I’m cursed. I hear the voice, and it’s like I have to believe it and do what it says or it won’t stop talking. It won’t leave me alone.”

Chapter Five
    R egina’s voice echoed in Megan’s head. “They won’t go away, they won’t go away…”
    â€œHanna,” Megan said, not knowing or caring if she was committing a sin by interrupting the session, “do you hear the voice when other people are around?”
    If Hanna was surprised, her voice didn’t reflect it. “No. Just when I’m alone. And not here. Never here, in this building.”
    â€œThat’s because you know this is a place of healing,” Art said. “Your subconscious voice does not speak to you here because you know this is where you get better.”
    Megan wished he would shut up. If there was some kind of connection between Regina and what Hanna was experiencing—and what Grant apparently felt too—she might see it if she tuned in to Hanna. This was no time to be afraid. This was her job.
    She exhaled and reached out with her mind, finding the shape on the floor that was Hanna and feeling it, touching it. Steeling herself for whatever grisly images might come, she probed inside.
    A little house, decorated with old-fashioned furniture, down home ginghams, and country quaintness. Three cats snuggled on the flowered couch next to Megan—next to Hanna—and watched what looked like a Lifetime movie.
    Other than that, nothing.
    Megan tried harder. Now she saw an office interior. People liked Hanna, although they found her a little dull. She was reliable and friendly. Her boss depended on her. It was all very nice, but there was still no grinning face, no blood, no horrible feet. Nothing she saw made Megan think Hanna and Regina were suffering the same problem.
    Then why were their stories so similar? Most people had similar anxieties, but Megan had never heard of two people who didn’t read as organically disturbed having the exact same kind of delusions.
    She read Grant next. His home life was nowhere near as happy as Hanna’s, but just as lonely. Adults—Megan assumed they were his parents—flitted around like moths around a flame, but ignored him. They were there, but they didn’t pay attention. His sister smelled of alcohol and laughed when Grant said something about it. The kids at school ignored him, too. It didn’t paint a pretty or happy picture, but there was nothing to be scared of in the way Megan had been scared by Regina.
    Another voice spoke. Bob. “My voice tells me to burn things.”
    â€œMine tells me to kill people,” Joe retorted.
    Ah. The group members were playing off each other, trying to one-up