Bloody fucking hell.
Over the next few days, all the arrangements were completed, and we made plans to leave Seattle within two weeks.
Chapter 7
Marcel
A Visit To Bethlem
Sunlight flickered through thetrees like static as I drove, more focused on the tight coil in my chest than the road in front of me. Street signs came and went, swallowed by motion and fogged-up thoughts I couldn’t outrun.
I didn’t remember grabbing my keys. Didn’t remember backing out of the drive or what the last song was. I just knew I was halfway to the hospital before I realized it. Things were off. There was no news on Kinsley. She was still gone. And every time I talked to any of the guys, it was there. A quiet, ticking desperation.
The damned lot of them were one breath away from breaking. But the good news was they were coming home. It would be good to see them. It had been too long. With the escort agency nearing launch, they were needed here. Bash and I didn’t know what to make of the events that had unfolded in Seattle.
With our last session ending badly, my concern for Kinsley was high. Her file sat on my desk, mocking me daily. I didn’t have the heart to file it away yet. Fuck, her case perplexed me in more ways than I cared to admit. I wrestled with unresolved guilt, knowing I hadn’t been able to help her. The fact she had somehow worked her way beneathmyskin only intensified my emotions.
And now Ivan was tormenting himself, shutting down entirely. He even refused to open up to me, which was a first. Nik and Alek had no idea what to think about her disappearance. As I pulled into the car park, I shifted my focus away from Kinsley and back to my practice. I had a full caseload today, so I grabbed my bag and headed inside.
The strong scent of antiseptic lingered in the bustling corridors of Bethlem Royal Hospital, mingling with the sounds of hushed conversations and echoing footsteps. I approached the front desk, pulling out my badge. The floor manager, a familiar face, greeted me, her voice cutting through the noise. Engaging in briefsmall talk, we exchanged pleasantries before she led me toward the room where my patient was waiting.
I’d spent the last two years working with her. But she had stopped taking her meds, resulting in a psychotic break. After spending an hour with her, I reset her medication regimen and assured her we’d get her back on track.
I was back at the front desk, adding notes to her chart so the hospital team would have a plan of action to follow, when my head snapped up. Someone was singing. It was quite faint and melancholy, which, given the location, made sense.
As I put the chart up, I was stopped by a colleague. “Dr. Marcel, it’s good to see you.”
“Dr. Anthony, it’s been a minute. How’s the family?”
“Good, good. Are you here to take a crack at our unidentified?” he asked with a chuckle.
“No, actually an overnight admit. Do you have a new patient who won’t talk?” It was a well-known joke in our circles that if there was a patient who wouldn’t talk, I could get them to simply out of sheer determination and annoyance.
“She’s a nutcase, but aren’t they all?” He snickered, and I frowned. I often wondered why he stayed in this field of medicine. He had become more and more cynical over the years.
“Tell me about her,” I said, both intrigued and sad at the thought of someone being locked in their own world with no one to talk to.
“She refuses to speak at all. She’s young and quite pretty. Word is she killed someone. She was raped and went on some kind of killing frenzy. Here’s her file.” He pulled it from the shelf.
“Unidentified female,” I read. “Cuts and scrapes on her arms, face, legs, and feet indicative of running a long distance and falling. A slash mark on the right hand was possibly obtained when attacking the assailant. No assailant has been found, but the amount of blood on her clothing indicated he would be deceased. Hasn’t spoken a word since being admitted two weeks prior.”
Looking at the other medical information from her file, I noted the marks seemed to line up with rape. I made a mental note to see about making extra time in my schedule to offer her some counsel. It never ceased to amaze me the level of sickness in this world. Dr. Anthony spoke once again, getting my attention.
“Crazy thing is, though, she sings, and her voice is angelic. She’s more than perfect for you—you love your music therapy.”
He wasn’t lying. I found that the patients who participated in music therapy processed their anxiety, emotions, trauma, and grief differently. It was an amazing tool, and one I loved using.
“I really wish I had time. But maybe I could come back tomorrow.” I looked at my watch. I had another appointment in less than an hour and needed to get back to the office.
“She’ll be here, I imagine,” he said, slapping me on the back.
Then the haunting melody hit. “Amazing Grace.” My heart raced as I walked over to where the voice was coming from. I had missed her entirely because she was sitting in a high-back chair, her frame hidden from my view. Her voice was soft and low as she sang.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Kinsley?”
She had lost weight. Her usually bright eyes were dull and flat, surrounded by dark circles that gave her a haunted look. Immediately, I could tell she was in terrible shape. But even if she had been singing a different song, there was no denying that the vivacious woman I’d only ever met over FaceTime was slipping away.
Curled up in a chair that swallowed her, she continued singing. Tears slipped down her cheeks. She was even tinier in person. I called her name once more, to no avail.
