New Beginnings is a world-class inpatient psychiatric facility in northern Illinois, set amongst several acres of rolling green grass, willow trees, gardens, and even a pond. Rooms are decorated in various shades of calming colors, and the staff do everything in their power to make you forget just exactly where you are.
Trapped.
As I wander away from Miguel, I pass into the common room, where other patients are watching TV, drawing, or playing board games. I usually don’t interact with them, preferring my own company.
After a lifetime of being forced to be near people I didn’t want to be, it’s nice to just be alone.
Even if the loneliness only reminds me of what I’ve lost.
Shoving aside the hovering, ever-present despair, I realize that I forgot to ask Dr. Thornberry when I’ll be going to my grandparent’s house for my first visit. Turning, I go back, stopping just outside her door as I hear her voice.
“No … yes, I understand Mr. Bannerman. Look, I don’t think …” she sighs loudly. Pushing the door open an inch or so, I peek through, seeing her take her glasses off and pinching her nose.
“Mr … sir … please let me finish!” she exclaims, bringing her hand down on her desk sharply. “I’m not sure Rebecca is ready for that yet! I would recommend another two or three months, with home visits on the weekends in the meantime. She is certainly not ready to go to …”
What the fuck?I would almost think she was talking about someone else, if it wasn’t for the whole “go home at weekends” line we had just been talking about. Who is this Mr. Bannerman, and why is she discussing me with him?
“Yes, I hear what you’re saying. No, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you, sir … fine. I’ll consider it. But I still think you will cause that poor girl more harm than good if you persist in this line of reasoning ...”
I don’t bother to stay to hear more. Rushing back to my room, I dodge other patients and slide past orderlies, closing the door behind me with a soft snick. Bannerman. Bannerman—why does that name ring a bell? Granted, it’s only a small one, buried deep in the recesses of my mind—but still. It’s there.
And I never ignore the warning bells. Not anymore.
***
I come awake, gasping for air, my cry muffled by the hand across my mouth. The room is dark, and I can only just make out a figure hovering over me.
“Be still, I’m not here to hurt you,” the masculine voice says with a rough whisper.
I don’t believe him. Men don’t come into your room at night, covering your mouth because they want to discuss the weather or exchange pleasantries. They come to rape you, hurt you. Maybe even kill you.
Would that be so bad?a devilish whisper asks, beckoning me with skeletal fingers towards the darkness.
No. I’ll not fall down that hole again. I’ll admit that I lost it after Trey died. Threw myself wholeheartedly down that well of despair. But I saw that look he gave me that night, the one that told me to fight, to live. It’s taken months of therapy, meditation, and classes to get where I am now.
He wanted me to live, so I will. If his god does exist, maybe he will take pity on us, and one day, we can be together again. Always.
So, I thrash against the man, biting his hand and kicking him. Desperate to not let him win, to not allow him to take anything else from me. He answers by throwing himself on top of me, his face in my hair as he grinds out, “Trey sent me! I’m here to get you out of here.”
I still, disbelief warring with anger at his words. The man leans back, assured of my surrender, and I disabuse him of that notion quickly when I swing my arm around, punching him in the face.
“Fuck!” he groans, followed by a laugh. “He said you were a fighter.”
“Don’t!” I hiss back, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I scoot back and sit up. “Don’t you come into my room and say his name. He’s dead! Is this some kind of sick joke? Come to mock the grieving widow?”
He rolls off the bed, standing up in a swift move that speaks of grace and danger. There’s just enough light from under the door to make out how tall he is. Fuck, he’s a freaking giant.
“Rebecca, he’s not dead. Some men that work with me took him from the cemetery. He’s spent the last few months recuperating from the gunshot wound to his chest. But heisalive.”
No, it can’t be. This is a dream.
“He told me to tell youalways.”
The world goes black.
Chapter 45
Special Agent
