Page 121 of Desecrated Saints
“We have spoken to Professor Lazlo. Are you familiar with this individual?” Agent Barlow asks.
“He was my therapist last year before my care was transferred to Doctor Warren Augustus. He later imprisoned me for several months and began a lengthy period of psychological torture, abuse and manipulation.”
Sliding a glossy photograph over to me, I’m faced with the icy, intelligent eyes of my oppressor. Augustus looks slick and well-groomed in the image, dressed in his usual tailored suit and tie. He seems to be leaving a lavish fundraiser event for Incendia, captured climbing into a fancy sports car.
“This man?” Agent Jonas speaks for the first time.
I meet his steely brown gaze beneath a head of thin, silver-grey hair and defined wrinkles. He’s older and seems sterner somehow, his entire posture geared towards aggression. My hackles immediately rise.
“That’s him.”
“Several serious allegations have been levelled against this man by other patients. We have spoken to Lucia Killmore and Patient Two. Both credit their imprisonment to Doctor Augustus.”
“Did they tell you what else he did to them?”
“We’re not here to discuss them,” Agent Barlow interrupts. “Professor Lazlo has admitted to tampering with your medication during solitary confinement and later dosing you with unregulated experimental drugs for a long period of time.”
“He tried to have me killed.” I watch several hands scribble down notes. “Another patient was on Incendia’s payroll in Blackwood, tasked with maintaining a steady supply of contraband into the institute for clinicians to observe and document. It was a social experiment.”
Turning to a fresh piece of paper in her overflowing notebook, Agent Barlow offers me a small smile. “Start from the very beginning. The more you tell us, the better equipped we are to offer you a deal.”
“How can I trust that you will?”
“We’re here for the truth, Brooklyn.”
Sparing Enzo a panicked look, he gives me a nod of reassurance. It does nothing to abate the fear wrapping around my vocal cords. I just got my family back; I can’t lose them again. We have no way of knowing if a deal can be made. These suits are not taking my guys away from me.
“Mr Rodriguez and his firm have secured your protection from immediate incarceration,” Agent Barlow explains, each word like a gut punch. “We have dozens of unconfirmed reports of fatalities and a very small pool of suspects. Actions have consequences.”
“I… I was under duress.”
“For all of them?” Agent Jonas supplies.
“Do you have any idea what they did to us?” I snarl back.
He crosses his arms, looking unimpressed. I doubt my case will be helped if I break his nose, despite the temptation. We survived by fighting tooth and nail, no matter this asshole’s opinions. They will never know what we went through in the dark.
“Brooklyn,” Agent Barlow says gently. “I came into this process feeling sceptical. Incendia has a spotless reputation and, as I’m sure you are aware, many connections across the country. I’ve come to realise there is far more than meets the eye in this case. I want to help you.”
“Does your colleague feel the same way?”
Releasing a huff, Agent Jonas nods. “We’ve been assigned to this task force to find one thing—the truth. If you can give that to us, we can take it back to our superiors. This is the only way to help yourself.”
Biting my lip, I glance between them. “What if myself and my friends vanished?”
“We would be forced to pursue and charge you with a very long list of crimes that would ensure your lifelong imprisonment. Until we have enough evidence to the contrary, you remain a convict.”
“What the hell happened to innocent until proven guilty, huh?”
“You were guilty long before you stepped foot inside Blackwood Institute,” she states plainly. “That much is indisputable. Help us prove that you’re a victim here, not the perpetrator.”
Fresh out of options, I slump back in my seat. My mind winds all the way back, past late-night kisses and broken-hearted reunions, bloodied hook ups in graveyards, and glimpses of real, tangible hope that were swiftly extinguished. I turn back the clock on the best and worst year of my life.
I’m back in Clearview.
Just another statistic, praying for death to come.
The whole filthy tale takes hours, each revelation of horror dragging onwards. Endless questions meet multiple shocked silences. Notebooks are swapped out, fresh pens are retrieved, and litres of coffee consumed. When the clock strikes on my seventh hour under examination, I’m struggling to hold it together.
