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CHAPTER 92
After Hannah’s outburst, Jordan makes a decision. He finds Renée, the charge nurse, and gives her his best sad, wan face. He tells her he doesn’t feel well and asks to go home early.
Lame as it is, the act works. Renée tells him to get to his bed, stat, and to make sure he drinks plenty of water.
“You bet, boss,” Jordan says, keeping his voice weak. He gathers his things and leaves, looking as miserable as possible until he’s all the way down the block. Then he breaks into a run, heading for the nearest subway station.
God bless Google and the iPhone: Jordan had figured out what foster care center Mark was talking about in under twenty seconds.
Fillan House is a group home in Inwood specializing in trauma-informed care for children between the ages of seven and seventeen, the website read.Our trained staff offer twenty-four-hour supervision in a safe and supportive environment, and focus on behavior modification, skill development, counseling, and crisis intervention for youth in need.
It sounded like a real picnic.
And on the face of it, Fillan House is even grimmer than Jordan could’ve imagined: a dark, hulking building that looms over Broadway and 196th, on the border of Fort Tryon Park. The stepsare covered with scattered take-out menus and fallen leaves, and the massive wooden door is flanked by pots of dead mums.
Jordan jabs his finger into the buzzer, and to his surprise, he hears the lock click. Shouldn’t a group home for troubled kids take its security a little more seriously?
He pushes the door open and steps into a huge, echoing foyer with cracked marble floors. There’s dust in the corner and folding chairs stacked against the wall and not a soul in sight. Only three of the light bulbs in the old chandelier are shining, and music comes faintly from somewhere. Bach, maybe—something old and baroque.
This place creeps him out. Bad.
“Hello?” he says.
A broad-shouldered young woman in cat-eye glasses comes out of the doorway to his left. “You’re late,” she says briskly. Then her eyes fall on his empty hands. “Donottell me you don’t have the food.”
“Food?”
“The khao man gai and the pad kee mao that I ordered anhourago!”
“Oh—ah, yeah, sorry—I’m not the delivery guy,” Jordan says.
Her face instantly darkens. “Then you’ll have to leave.” She starts walking toward him like she’s going to shove him outside.
Jordan takes a couple of steps back and holds up his hands. “Actually, if you could wait a second—I’m just looking for information about someone who lived here.”
She seems to notice his scrubs for the first time. “Are you a doctor?”
“No, but—” he says.
The woman’s mouth tightens. “Then you’d best be going.”
“I work at Belman Psychiatric, where your former resident is a current patient.” He decides not to mention that he’s an unpaid college intern.
“I’m sorry,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Our clients’ records are sealed. You need to leave.”
But Jordan can’t—not yet. The keys to Hannah’s past are within reach, he can feel it. He can imagine her upstairs in one of those rooms, looking out one of those tiny windows. A scared little girl without a home or a family.
Hannah, what happened to you?
The woman is picking up a phone receiver on the wall. She’s getting ready to call security.
Jordan says, “Okay, okay, I’m leaving! You can’t talk to me, I get it. But could you give information to her doctor?” He’s halfway out the door now, his voice pleading. “To Belman’s medical director? If it would help with her care?”
The woman gives an almost invisible nod of her head. “We would share pertinent records with the proper authorities.” Her hand goes to the glass, pushing it closed on him. “Doctors, lawyers—police, if necessary.”
CHAPTER 93
On Jordan’s way back to the subway, his phone buzzes with a text. It’s Ellie.
