Two orderlies dressed in white scrubs with high necks and sleeves that hang over to their fingers turn as she passes them. Like loyal dogs, they are subservient and aware of every step she makes as their bodies mirror hers, they move in sync a few steps behind her like two halves of one entity, almost gliding, their hunched postures shaving off a few inches from their already imposing heights.
Nothing here feels like anything you would classify as‘normal,’not that I’m a fan of that word. I’ve always considered‘normal’as an overrated term for boring people. I try to push away the unease that has latched itself to my throat like a leash, my tongue darting out to wet my lips.
Heat trickles down the nape of my neck, the looming feeling of being watched firing alerts in my overworked brain. His eyes are on me from across the room the second I enter, steady and unhurried like he is in no rush to look away, my skin prickling under his perusal. When I give into the pull, a flicker of something unreadable passes over his face. Intrigue maybe, or amusement. A strange warmth curls low in my belly, unexpected but not unwelcome. I’m not sure why he’s watching me, but I can’t say I hate it. I know I shouldn’t like the intensity of his attention as much as I do after the little time I’ve known him. Surrounded by the unfamiliar, he seems to be the only anchor that unravels the knotted ball of nerves low in my gut. My chest tightening as though I’m submerged underwater. Unable to break eye contact with him now as a stuttered inhale burns my lungs, my heart thumping in my ears and drowning out the rest of the world. Does he know what he’s doing to me?
‘Don’t fall for the insane patient, Cara. Your father taught you better than that.’
The irony in my current thought process is that my father only ever taught me two things: how to bail and how to identify shady people—neither of which are helping me right now because all I want to do is climb inside Ezra’s head, shuffle around in the lingering darkness, and find out what makes him tick.
I have a sneaking suspicion my life here at Blackwood will be anything but normal.
CHAPTER FOUR
EZRA
There’s something about her—something indescribable that holds my attention in a way I’m not used to. For all intents and purposes, I’m a one-man band, surviving this shit show alone just the way I like it.
So why can’t I shake the thought of her from my head? It isn’t just a fleeting attraction, it’s deeper, more unsettling. Who was she, and why did I feel like I already knew her? I watch her ravenously as she moves around the space like a lost bird. It must be clear to everyone with eyes in their heads that she doesn’t belong. She’s too soft, too naive, too pure to be summoned to this hellhole. Her wide eyes takeeverything in with an air of wonder filling her expression as she shares her smiles with everyone she comes in contact with.
Does she know what this place does to people? What it has already done to me? When I’d approached her on the driveway, I hadn’t intended for it to go as far as it had. I hadn’t expected it to be so easy to talk to her. The strong silent type was a usual descriptor for me, so chatty and playful shot right out of left field and almost knocked me on my arse. It was as though something had shifted within me—a dormant piece of my warped psycheclicking into place as I lost myself in those beguiling blue eyes of hers.
With Cara distracted and Lenora reeling off the rules, I head over to the reception desk. Clive, the forty-something orderly who clearly still lives at home with his mother, shies away as I rest my tattooed forearms on the splintered wood top—his only protection from me. My towering height means reaching him would be easy, but I can see in his eyes that Clive is hoping the partition will slow me down. It won’t; if I wanted to throttle the fucker, it would be a piece-of-piss.
“Miss Morgrieves needs to change rooms,” I state, leaving very little wiggle room for him to argue. The idiot seems to have forgotten his senses because he chooses on this occasion to answer back. There goes my wiggle room theory.
“Matron Blackwood explicitly said room 103.”
“And I’m telling you to change that to room 127.”
“I feel like I should follow the boss’s orders.” He cowers back as he says it, nervously biting the frayed skin around his nails, the fingers of his other hand neatening the greasy comb-over slicked to his forehead.
“And I feel like you still owe me a favour. I did turn a blind eye to you smuggling out crazy Cathy last week. How was your quick fuck in the barn?” I hiss, the smirk on my face doing nothing to soothe the man who is on the cusp of shitting his pants where he sits. I want to ask whether he wishes he could change his original answer, but I decide this is more fun.
“This favour feels more like blackmail,” he stumbles with his words, and my chest heaves at the bubble of fear that taints his voice. He instantly regrets what he said, and his unease feeds that depraved part of me that misses my old life. I shouldn’t revel in making him squirm, but with little else to keep the beast inside of me alive, I’ll take what I can get.
“Well, you’re clearly not as stupid as you look. Either you honour the favour, or I change the rules of this exchange.”
“Rules?” he chuckles uneasily. I see the moment panic rockets up Clive’s spine as he stiffens, my sly smile widening when he realises I’m deadly serious. The last thing anyone wants in here is to owe someone something. Psych patients aren’t known to play fair.
“All I want is for you to make a little room change; whether you eventually comply with the use of both arms is a factor I don’t much mind changing. How easy do you think it is to fuck a girl and hold her down with only one arm? We all know Cathy likes to be manhandled; how thorough would an armless Clive really be?”
“Armless?” I see as the image I’m painting fills his head, his dry lips parting as he gulps. “I can’t do it, Matron would have my throat.” His panicked gaze is trained on Lenora’s retreating back as he whispers through gritted teeth.
The restraint it takes not to gut a man when he crosses me, or in this case doesn’t chipperly agree to do as I’ve requested, has taken me six years to perfect. Being confined in these walls, the taste of freedom just beyond those gates begging to be felt, I’ve had to get creative. I could leave, if I truly wanted to, but after what I did, I deserve to rot here.
“Wrong answer, dickbag,” I snicker, genuine humour adding a whimsical cadence to my gruff tone. The twisted part of me was hoping he’d decline my request. I see the second Clive wishes he could rewind time and take back his answer as a cold wash of fear darkens his fraught face. I run my oversized bronze coin over my scarred knuckles, my gaze trained on his as he watches it fly through the air. Moving around to stand beside him, he audibly gulps as I close my fist around the coin. Peeking down at it; my decision is made. He awaits his fate with bated breath, the fear tangible in the space between us as the stink ofapprehension coats the air like tear gas. I pocket the coin and with a chipper edge, I say, “Seems today the powers that be are ever in your favour, Clive.”
His sigh of relief is premature. I said they were in his favour, I didn’t say the outcome wouldn’t hurt. Grabbing the miniature sand rake from his desktop zen garden, I forcefully embed the spikes into the back of his hand, removing it and repeating the motion twice more as I slap the palm of my free hand across his mouth to muffle his garbled cry. My choice of weapon isn’t big enough or sharp enough to do any real damage, but after the third frenzied stab, it is enough to get my point across. You wouldn’t think so, but for now, Clive is useful to me. Slitting his throat with the letter opener I spotted when I headed over here would be messy, and he wouldn’t be very useful bleeding out over his stash of dirty magazines that he thinks he’s hiding under all that paperwork.
When his spike of adrenaline softens the initial blaze of pain, I remove my palm from his mouth and wipe his spittle off down my trouser leg. Clive could call out to Lenora, but he knows it would do him no good. No one would come running to help him.As well as being untrustworthy psych patients are inherently selfish.
“Let’s try this again.” I rake my hands through my hair and push it away from my face. “Hi, Clive, it seems Miss Morgrieves is in room 127 today—that’s interesting, isn’t it?” I comment with a melodious edge to my sarcastic tone, moving back around and resting my elbows on the counter between us, as though the past three minutes were a figment of his imagination.
Clive grips his maimed hand to his chest, using his sweatshirt sleeve to stop the flow of blood as he shakes.
“I wasn’t lying; fate really was on your side today. You really don’t want to know what the alternative was. Keep in mind, I know where you sleep, and I have access to the gardeningshears.” The implications of what I’m saying hits its mark as he shuffles awkwardly in his seat and crosses his legs. Clearly still in pain, his blotchy skin pale and sweaty, he nods his head in understanding, scribbling out the room numbers on the sign-in sheet with his good hand, like I’d asked him to do in the first place.
‘Demanded, not asked,’one of the many little voices in my head chuckles.
