Hell, I’m telling it to myself, but I don’t care. I need this guy’s story. I won’t pretend I don’t.
Thus I set my sights on Fancher’s office.
I let my evening and night counterparts know I’m willing to trade shifts. One of them bites right away, asking me to cover his graveyard shift for the next two days.
I come in around dinnertime. The people in the admin wing are gone by six. Donny is there doing a training session, which I’m not entirely thrilled about, but at least it keeps him occupied.
Fancher Institute is slightly lazier at night. The night nurses don’t take blood, but they do everything else, plus some side work.
I’ve brought my lock pick kit shoved into my knee sock with my secret cellphone. The pick set is highly fucking illegal due to the fact that it’s kind of a weapon, but this is a private contract institute, so security is a bit lax.
I take up a position at the bulletin board outside the door to the admin area. I pretend to study the leaflets and notices, getting a feel for the hall and what sounds mean somebody’s coming around the corner. When the coast seems clear, I go at the lock. I get it open on the first try and let myself in. I close the door quietly behind me.
The computer monitor on Pam’s desk pulses an eerie blue glow that lights her owl collectibles.
I take a picture just because.
The ambient light is enough for me to see my way to the door to Fancher’s office, opposite her desk. I pull out my pick kit and get at the knob. I find it’s always best to just do these things without thinking—especially now, with my sleep-deprived mind prone to paranoid thoughts. Still, I’m trembling by the time I get in there.
Moonlight streams in from a high window. Heart pounding, I move to the cabinets, checking them to see which are locked. This shit’s going to be under lock and key. I work open the locked drawer and riffle through. Finally I get what I want—the file on 34.
Too easy,I think. Then,Shut up. Go forward.
I open it on Fancher’s desk. He’s listed as John Doe. Assault on a police officer. Is that why he got deep-sixed? Cop vendetta? There’s a lot of info I don’t take the time to read. I take pictures of each page and fumble the file back, buzzing with adrenaline. I close up Fancher’s office and go back to the outer office.
Pam’s desk. Her cats stare out at me from their photos, little faces glowing blue. Owls standing by.
I put my ear to the outer door, listening for footsteps in the hall. Nothing.
Unless somebody is standing there. Could somebody be standing out there?
I take a deep breath, say a little prayer, and slip out…just as Donny rounds the corner.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for Pam,” I say. “Nobody’s in there. When do they leave?”
“You’re not supposed to be in there.” He comes to me. The hall is empty, dammit. “That door should be locked.”
“It was open.”
He crowds me. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was. I wanted my wellness survey, and…”
He closes an iron grip on my wrist, looking hard into my eyes. I don’t want to call out unless I have to. I think he knows. Fuck.
“You need to let me go.”
In a maniacally quick move, he pushes me into the office and shuts the door with his foot.
We’re alone.
“You know how much trouble you can get in for being in here?”
“Let me go.”
“Or what?”