Page 158 of Her Wicked Plan

The smooth walls in this area match the walls in the rest of the building. Although the windows lining the outer walls give us a slight view of the lake we aren’t allowed to visit. It isn’t a better view than Leo’s office window provides, but it is still pretty. From here, I can see some trees have bloomed.

April had came and gone at an agonizingly slow pace, and now May is finally here. Buds sit on the edges of the branches, flowers beginning to grow and share their beauty with the rest of us.

Peeling my gaze away from the window, I stare at the lights. They are vibrant and hang from the ceiling—chandeliers, of course—because nothing says, “This isn’t a normal asylum; we are fancy” like chandeliers.

It’s not overbearingly bright, though; I’m thankful for that. I’m sitting in a cushioned chair, thanking Dr. Bennett for not choosing to put metal ones in here.

The square table I’m sitting at is made of dark antique wood, which I’m sure is on its last leg of being used. Around the room are tables of the same size, all shades of brown, made from different woods, but still emit the same feeling: homey.

That’s how he decorates the inside of the asylum, seeing that it is our home. I guess he might as well extend the decor in here.

To my left sits another table, longer and the lightest shade of wood in the room. On top are trays of treats and, at the end, a lemonade dispenser. I chuckle to myself.

If someone were blindfolded when they arrived at this place, walked inside, and were taken to this room where, then and only then, they could remove the blindfold, they wouldn’t suspect it to be an insane asylum.

They’d probably think it was a conference room at a hotel. Only smaller.

Staring down the food, my stomach churns. Eating is the last thought on my mind. I couldn’t eat this morning at breakfast, and I sure as hell can’t eat... I peek at the options on the trays.

Cookies. Store-bought, I’m sure, because the homey feeling only extends to the decor. Picking at the skin around my fingernails, I nervously swallow the lump in my throat.

Leo brought me here, telling me I’d only have to wait shortly before my sister arrived. Well, it feels like an eternity. She probably changed her mind and decided that coming here to see me was a mistake.

The quiet conversations around me between patients and visitors suddenly become too loud. Having enough of wasting my time here knowing she won’t show up, I scoot the chair back and stand.

When I turn around to leave, Leo opens the door and brings my sister in.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of her. She looks the same, yet different. Her short, dark brown hair that sat at the top of her shoulders has grown below her breasts. She only kept it short because that’s how he liked it.

What made her want to grow it? A change from the sickening reality that her boyfriend is dead? Her skin is tan, which is undoubtedly fake. She always hated how pale we were. She thought no boy wanted a ghost. I flick my eyes to Leo, who is standing behind her.

How wrong she is about that statement.

Leo stares at me, deep green eyes telling me to behave before leaving us. I return my gaze to my sister and find she is taking in the sight of me like I was to her. Dark eyes roll down my body, inspecting every inch of me as if she is looking for wounds.

“Should we sit?” I break the silence, causing her eyes to dart up to mine.

She agrees with a nod, stalking over to the other side of the table. As she sits, she gets comfortable before finally looking at me again. “You look… healthy.”

“Did you think they starved us in here?”

“I’m not sure what I expected of this place,” she tells me honestly. “It’s warm.”

“You can thank Dr. Bennett for that. It wasn’t always like this,” I state. “Some of the other girls who have been here way longer said the walls used to be pale white, and the lights would be so bright it would give them migraines. When Dr. Bennett took over, he changed all of it.”

She nods slowly, taking in the information. “Do you like it here?”

What kind of fucking question is that? “Beats prison.”

We fall silent, and neither of us is sure what to say. It’s been a little over two years since I’ve seen her. She watches me cautiously like I’m about to do something destructive at any moment. She speaks before I assure her I won’t be doing such a thing.

“Do you remember when we were little, and Mom put us both in ballet class?”

“Yeah...” I say hesitantly, thinking back to our childhood. They always forced me into the extracurriculars in which Stephanie took an interest. There was ballet, piano lessons—of course—and then karate. She had watched Karate Kid at a friend's house when she was fourteen and begged our parents to allow her to take lessons.

They were weary at first because fighting wasn’t lady like but what Stephanie wants, she always gets. I was ecstatic about being involved in this particular activity. I got to be physical, which was, unfortunately, my downfall.

I was too physical with the other kids. I’d hit them too hard, kicking them in the legs to the point the other students would complain about their legs hurting too bad to continue.