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So whether he meant to hurt my mother or they planned it together, the undeniable truth was that two people went into that bathroom, no one left—at least, not according to the footage—and I was left to fend for myself outside of a gas station when I was barely a year old.
The papers caught wind of the story. Back then, they called me Baby Jane Doe and my picture was everywhere. Didn’t help. No one came forward with any information about me. They didn’t seem to know who I was, where I came from, or how two people could enter a single bathroom and disappear without a trace. I had no family, no name, no record. Neither did the woman.
I was the biggest news story in Black Pine for the rest of that summer.
Hundreds of people called in, wanting to adopt the poor, abandoned, mystery baby. The news ran nightly segments at first, then weekly, all trying to make sense out of something so damn senseless.
They never did, and eventually I became yesterday’s news.
I’m what happens when the cameras turn off and the cops run out of leads. Baby Jane was a nuisance, her mother an escape artist who didn’t want her kid. In the end, I got tossed into the system. I only managed to break out of it when I got put in the asylum.
It’s always amazed me that my story started in that backward little town and, fifteen years later, this is where I ended up again.
My first foster family gave me a name—Riley Thorne—and a birthdate—the day I came to live with them. They were a nice couple and they tried their best to shield me from the truth of it all. I don’t blame them for trying. Or giving me up five years later when it became clear that I wasn’t like other little girls.
Name stuck, though. That’s something, at least.
I’ve always liked Riley better than Jane, anyway.
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Doctor Gillespie is not what I’m expecting.
He’s younger than I thought he’d be, for one thing. Thirty, maybe thirty-five. A babyface. White guy with pasty skin. His short hair is a brassy red that clashes with the green and gold plaid button-down shirt he’s got on. Bright blue eyes shine from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He even has a small goatee covering a pretty weak-looking chin.
He stands up and comes around his desk to meet me, holding out his hand.
I don’t take it.
“Ah… that’s right.” His voice is nasal, like he has a cold or something. “I remember that from your file. The haphephobia.”
My hands clench inside of my gloves. I hate that word.
“I don’t like to be touched,” I tell him, not bothering to hide my scowl. “That doesn’t mean I’m afraid of it.”
“Let’s call it a poor choice of words on my part then, shall we?” Getting the hint, Dr. Gillespie pulls his arm back, folds his fingers into a fist, absently rubs the side of his pressed khakis, then gestures for me to step into his office. “Come on in, Riley. Take a seat.”
I have half a mind to pretend that I’m not Riley. Something else I hate? How all of the doctors and the techs act like they know everything about me when they wouldn’t even be able to pick me out of a line-up unless someone else pointed out who I was beforehand. Just because I’m the first patient Amy sent to see him, that doesn’t automatically make me Riley Thorne.
And that’s when I remember the whole haphephobia exchange. Yeah, I totally gave my identity away when I refused to shake his hand. Plus, the leather gloves stretching past my wrists are probably a pretty big clue, too.
He’s got me.
Annoyed, I ask, “Where?”
“Excuse me?”
I wave at the three seats haphazardly positioned in front of his cluttered desk. Every flat surface in the room is completely covered: mountains of books, folders, reams of paper, half-packed moving boxes. It looks like a bomb went off in here.
This used to be Dr. Waylon’s office. Before that, Dr. Froud. Dr. Calvin, too. Dr. McNeil. None of the real big doctors—the ones who have convinced themselves they can fix… no rehabilitate us wayward juveniles—seem to stick around Black Pine for long. I swear, it’s like every time I’m finally getting used to one, it’s time for them to leave. And then the next shrink wonders why my abandonment issues never get any better.
I’ve lost track of how many people have occupied this corner office. Each one left their stamp while they used it, but it was always clear it belonged to a medical professional. This disaster? You could’ve fooled me. This is definitely the messiest it’s ever been. Boxes are stacked everywhere, all in different stages of being unpacked. One of his diplomas is hanging crookedly behind the crowded desk. The desktop is covered with manila patient files.
Dr. Gillespie’s cheeks turn the same color as his hair. Mumbling an apology under his breath, he swoops down and clears the seat closest to me. His arms full, he turns in a circle before moving his pile next to the filing cabinet by the window.
“Don’t mind the mess,” he says with an awkward laugh. “The facility director thought I was going to start tomorrow, but I wanted to do an informal session with a few of you juveniles since I arrived a couple of days early. I had hoped to be moved in before they started but I guess we’ll both have to make do.”
Once his arms are free again, he motions for me to take my seat. I do, perching my gloved hands royally on the arms of the chairs as soon as Dr. Gillespie slumps into his seat behind his desk. My back is straight, my gaze locked on the nervous doctor. I don’t break eye contact, purposely watching him the way a cat would watch a mouse.
