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“Don’t touch me. I’m safe.”
“No.” He shakes his head with a slight chuckle. “You look just like them. You’re not safe. Plus, you’ve been spending time with the wrong person. You have a target on your head now.” His words give me pause. How does he know this?
“Why? What do you know? Do you know North Abbott?” He doesn’t answer. “How about Cain Archer?”
His pupils widen. “You’re playing a dangerous game, lady,” he warns.
I pull back my shoulders and stand taller. I won’t have him or anyone else intimidating me.
“I’m not doing anything wrong. There’s a story here, and I’m just investigating it. I won’t be scared off. I could be the only person who can finally stop the killer, and I’m following through.”
He laughs humorlessly at my words. “You have no clue what you’re doing, and it’s going to get you killed.”
I can’t hear any more of this. I’m done. I start to walk away again.
“Wait.” He huffs. “Damn it. Here.” He thrusts a file that I didn’t even notice he was holding. “If you won’t walk away, read this, and maybe you’ll piece it all together.”
I take the file and head straight to my car.
When I get into the seat, I let out a deep breath. I pull down the mirror and look at myself.
My hair is disheveled, and my face looks extra pale from lack of sleep and water.
Maybe that guy was right. Perhaps I am in over my head with this story, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not trained for going toe to toe with a serial killer and should probably leave this to the professionals.
I need to turn over everything I have found to the police.
Not the local ones around here. It’s obvious they want to bury everything under the rug, but maybe I can go to the FBI who’s looking into The Compass Killer.
The idea of going to the police about Cain doesn’t sit well in my heart. There’s just this ache to make sure I’m right before I make a report. Not just for Cain, but what kind of journalist will I be if I don’t check my sources?
Turing the car on, I’m ready to drive back home when I remember the folder I set in the passenger seat. With the car still running but parked, I open the folder. My eyes try to understand what I’m seeing.
Holy shit.
Is this for fucking real?
How can I trust this?
Better question, can I trust a man I don’t know to give me accurate information? Who was the man on the steps, and how does he even have this detailed information?
At the top of all the sheets is letterhead reading “Pemberton Psychiatric Hospital”.
That’s where I need to go, and they will have answers for me.
43
Layla
Driving to the hospital, I feel out of sorts like I’m having déjà vu.
It reminds me a little of The Elysian, set out in the woods in the middle of nowhere.
I’m close to Kittatinny Mountain. It’s not that it’s that far from Somerset, only about an hour, but still, it feels like I’m in the middle of no man’s land.
If the location weren’t eerie enough, the building does me in. Straight out of a horror story. Looming in the distance, large, weathered red brick with a limestone entrance, covered with overgrown shrubs.
I have to shake off the feeling I’m being watched as I enter the building. The whole place creeps me out to the point I’m breaking out in goose bumps. This place is right out of a TV show where ghosts roam the hallways.
I’m certain they do.
My imagination couldn’t have come up with a scarier version of this place. Yellowed walls and stained linoleum floors. I’m surprised this place still exists. Most old hospitals like this were shut down by the state years ago.
Good news is it’s still here and maybe will help me close my investigation. Hopefully, the staff will be helpful . . . and not be creepy like the building.
Entering the main room, there are few chairs set up, none that look comfortable, and a woman sits behind a plexiglass window.
Stepping up to the window, I ask, “May I speak with the superintendent of the hospital?”
“Do you have an appointment, Ms. . . . ?”
“Ms. Marks. And no. But it’s very important. A confidential file has come into my possession, and I’m sure they will want to speak to me on the matter.”
“Very well. Have a seat.” She gestures to the waiting area.
Walking over to one of the metal chairs, I sit down. It’s as uncomfortable as I knew it would be. Something tells me this place doesn’t get many guests. Or if they do, they won’t want to come back ever again after sitting here.
Not long after I sit, the door on the right of the receptionist’s desk opens.
