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“Or I’ll scream.”

He yanks me to him. “Will you?”

With that one utterance, my worst fear is confirmed—my fear that Donny, with whatever built-in dirtball radar he possesses, has detected that I don’t want to draw attention to myself, that I’m maybe even up to something.

It’s not implausible that a newbie would peek in the office thinking somebody was there, not implausible the door would be left unlocked, but Donny smells the lie.

I wrench my hand from his and stomp on his foot, grabbing for the knob.

“Oh no, you don’t.” He pulls me back.

My belly coils with panic. I try to twist free. I knee him, hitting his thigh, and twist away from him.

He grabs my shirt as I pull out, ripping it before I get the door open.

I go out and run like hell, slowing only at the corner, nearly colliding with a trio of orderlies coming around.

I smile, pulse pounding. “Whoops!” I mumble something about being late.

I’m within sight of the secure admittance desk. I head toward it, like an oasis of safety. I plaster on a smile for the night guard as he lets me into the secure wing.

I sweep in and get to the general room. Donny comes in right behind me, but he won’t try anything here. His uncle might not care what he does—that’s probably the reason he’s even still here. But in this room there are cameras. People.

He comes up next to me, talking at me with his fish lips. “What are you hiding, Ms. Saybrook?”

“What the fuck would I be hiding? I’m looking to get through probation without making waves, buddy, but I’ll lodge a complaint if I have to.”

He cracks his knuckles. “I’m watching you.” He has letters tattooed on his fingers that say F-U-C-K T-H-I-S. That’s nice. A real top-quality guy.

I get the fuck away. Donny is going to be a problem and a half, but if I stick to patient rooms and public spaces, I should be okay. The pharma rooms could be a problem.

I go through my duties. Patient 34 doesn’t break character. I can’t tell whether he’s surprised to see me in the place at night. Mitchell has the flu, so I spend extra time with him. When I get a moment alone, I move out of camera range and pull out my second cell. I send the images to myself on two accounts and delete them from the obvious areas.

I get home at seven in the morning and start digging.

I’m not turning up much. No surprise there—I need access to official records that won’t be on the web, but I do get the name of the psychiatrist who testified at 34’s initial commitment—one Dr. Roland Baker III. He’s around sixty years old, attached to a large regional health center in Duluth.

His office opens at eight. I make a quick call, posing as a court clerk, asking for confirmation on the dates of the original hearing, mumbling something about lost data. Really, I just want to make sure he really was there. Because what if the whole hearing never happened? His admin tells me he was present.

I’m disappointed.

I imagine hopping in my car after my shift and driving to Duluth to question the man, but no psychiatrist is going to divulge anything to a stranger. They don’t even have to talk to the cops in most cases.

I have a better route, anyway—contacts from years of reporting.

I wait until nine to call in a favor from a colleague who owes me—he’s done some public beat investigations and knows the Health and Human Services scene. I’m not sure what kind of record I need.

I get him on the phone. When he realizes it’s me, he’s cagey. I have this reputation now for spinning out.

“Dude,” I say. “Come on. Who put you together with the Iranian Consulate? I’m doing a thing inside of a place, and I really do need this.”

“For who?”

“Stormline.”

He’s polite and doesn’t say anything like, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen!”Stormlinereally is the lowest. “What you need is the 24A from the case.”

“So you can get it?” Silence. “Is this a HIPAA problem?” That regulation makes getting health-related info hard.


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