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Slipping from the shadows, I hurry for the door, letting myself into his office.
It’s exactly the same as it was the last time I had a session with Dr. Gillespie. The desk. The books piled up everywhere, though much neater than before. The stacks of manila folders.
I hurry toward the desk. When Dr. Gillespie walked by me on his way out of his office, I didn’t notice if he was wearing the necklace beneath his dress shirt or not. Since it’s not like I could grab him by the throat and check, I figure I should rifle through his drawers first, see what I can find.
If I’m lucky, the necklace will be in here. Since I’m pretty much convinced that—like Carolina—he’s got that necklace on around the clock, I’m really just hoping to find out more about the man.
Like where he lives. It’ll be way easier to lift the crystal without the threat of being caught by the facility’s staff.
I grab the first drawer. It slides open easily.
Good. I was afraid he might have locked them.
A few seconds later, I see why he didn’t bother. There’s nothing of importance in here. Some post-it notes. Pens. A ton of paper clips. Nothing that helps me.
I’m looking for a phone. A wallet. Odds are that he’s carrying both, but it’s worth a shot. What about an address book? Do people still use those?
I tug open the next drawer.
This one is… weird.
There’s a bunch of plants. Some of it looks like grass and leaves, while others are obviously flowers. I see pressed daisies, some red berries, and a yellow blossom. Tucked in the corner, he has a cloth pouch with who-knows-what inside.
When I go to grab it, my glove brushes against something much harder. I scoot the greenery away only to discover a pile of wooden rods lined up neatly near the bottom of the drawer.
I pick up one piece, rubbing my thumb along the worn edge.
I recognize this. When I was a kid, Nine brought me a length of wood similar to this and told me to always carry it. I kept it in my pocket or, more often, in my sock. It gave me blisters, but it was worth it—until my foster mother scolded me for playing with sticks inside.
It’s rowan.
According to Nine, a good-sized length of rowan wood can help hide you from the fae. A type of protection that wasn’t foolproof, but better than nothing.
Red flowers, too, I remember. Wearing your clothes inside out. Daisy chains—I used to weave them effortlessly when I was younger—and even four leaf clovers. They all offered a little bit of a shield.
And Dr. Gillespie has a whole drawer full of this kind of stuff.
Why?
Just as I’m putting the stick back into its place, I hear footsteps heading toward the door, followed by a nasal, whiny, male voice.
“—forgot something in my office.”
Shit!
That’s Dr. Gillespie out there. He’s already coming back.
And I’m standing behind his desk.
I panic. Maybe it’s because I’m back in the asylum again, or maybe it’s because I thought I had a few more minutes to look around, but I lose all sense of reason. Instead of trying to hide in my shadows or even trying to create a portal then and there, I turn around wildly, looking for some way to escape.
Apart from the door that leads back to the hallway, there’s one other one. I always thought it led to the doctor’s private bathroom. Here’s hoping that he doesn’t need to take a piss.
Before Dr. Gillespie walks back into his office, I slam the drawer shut, dart around the desk and lunge for the other door.
I’m kind of right. It’s… it’s sort of a bathroom.
There’s a small sink on one wall. A pot that could possibly be a toilet. And that’s about it.
