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“Which one was Lina’s room?”
“We move them around as their needs demand.” The doctor tilts his head. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering. Was she a good patient?”
“That information is confidential. As you know, we don’t discuss our patients. You’ll have to ask Mr. Dalton how his daughter adapted.”
It was worth a try.
We follow the hallway to the end. There are more isolation rooms than the poorly furnished rooms Dickenson calls private suits. On the top level is a bathroom with a row of open showers and toilet stalls. No privacy. For security and safety reasons, the doctor says. The psychiatrist and nurses’ offices are at the end.
According to the good doctor, the food is high quality, the hygiene A-plus, and the weekly exercise compulsory, except in the case of special requests. In other words, it’s an unethical house under the disguise of mental institution where rich people can lock up and forget about the family they can’t kill. Dickenson and his staff are paid not to heal, but to bury people alive.
“Don’t you want to see the dining room?” Dickenson asks when I announce I’ll take my leave.
“I’ve seen enough.”
Misunderstanding, he smiles. “We look forward to seeing your wife soon.”
For the amount they charge, his eagerness is understandable.
The nurse sees me out. I can’t get through the gates fast enough. I imagine Lina in one of those rooms, locked up and alone. Strapped down on a bed. The mental image alone is enough to make me want to murder the lot in cold blood.
This place is going down. Not today. Not tomorrow. Soon, though. I’ll need to gather ammunition, first.
In too much of a state to go to the office, I drive home. Russell is posted at the door. I give him a tight nod and tear at the knot of my tie. My jacket feels too hot. I want to get out of these clothes stained with the stench of contemporary madness and artificial flowers.
Contrary to Willowbrook, my steps are cushioned on the carpet. My house is not white and cold, but its velvet curtains and wood-paneled walls are equally depressing. It’s not a home created over years with memories. Lina had no choice in it. It’s just a place I’d bought in a hurry to give an unwilling bride a roof over her head. That’s going to change. Starting tomorrow, Lina is house hunting. Suddenly eager to see her, I push our bedroom door wide open and freeze. The linen chest is moved to the side and the carpet rolled up. Lina kneels in front of the safe, her night-blue eyes wide and guilty.
Chapter 16
Lina
“What are you doing?” Damian asks.
He can see for himself, but he wants a confession.
On my knees, I give it to him. “I’m trying to open the safe.”
“What are you hoping to find in there?”
“You didn’t put the necklace away.” It’s weak and a lie, and he knows it.
Unknotting his tie, he throws it on the bed. “What are you looking for?” The line of his jaw tightens. “Don’t tell me another lie and make me have to ask again.”
The darkness in his eyes scares me, but I can’t look away from their hypnotizing depths. Even in anger, maybe especially in anger, they’re magnificent, like the black diamonds he mines.
“I’m waiting, Lina.”
There’s no point in denying what he already knows. “The evidence.”
He removes a cufflink and puts it on the table by the fireplace. Clink. The other cufflink drops.
He rolls back first one, then the other sleeve. “What are you planning on doing with the evidence?”
His calmness of voice doesn’t fool me. His anger is like the branch of a willow tree, bent so far, it’s ready to snap.
Walking to me, he gently pets my hair where I kneel on the floor. He smells of citrus and man, of winter and coldness. “I asked you a question.”
I tremble under the caress. “I need it.” If only Zane had agreed to help me, I wouldn’t be in this position. Damn Zane. Damn Damian for coming home early.
“Why do you need it?”
“I can’t say.”
How can I tell him the awful truth without going to pieces, without going to prison, and without ever finding closure? If I tell him, Harold will never give me what I want. Harold is an accomplice. It’s our sordid, deadly secret, and for the first time I wish it never was. I wish I’d been caught and incarcerated, but I hadn’t, and I still have a shot at freedom. Or maybe not.
He offers me a hand. “Get up.”
Taking it is a sentence, but I don’t have a choice. I place my fate in his broad palm. He’s stronger. No one is going to help me. There’s nowhere to run.
“Undress.”
“What are you going to do?” I’ll be stronger if I’m prepared for what he plans.
