Third Time's a Charm (Crimson Cove Mysteries Book 3) Page 5

  “Who was Lucinda Wentworth to our families?”

  Her tired face flinched. “The Wentworth family used to live here, in Crimson Cove I mean. We were all friends or acquaintances with them. They moved away a long time ago.” She cocked a dark bushy eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard someone mention her here. They said it like I should have known her. I was just wondering if you knew her.” I hoped it sounded legit—no, I knew it did. I could lie better than anyone.

  “She was a disturbed girl, one I didn’t know well. The family kept her sort of separate from the crowds. Then they moved away abruptly.” Mrs. Swanson shrugged it off but the expression on her face suggested she knew more than she was saying.

  Mrs. Henning sat up, wiping her cheeks. “She was a crazy, disturbed child. I knew her when she was younger. Sociopath, I think. She tried escaping the institute several times. She was eventually locked up.”

  “From here?” I glanced around the wide-open grounds, deciding that would be quite easy.

  “God, no. She was at the Hatton Head Mental Institute in Massachusetts. A town called Ellisville, I think. I know her mom, Kathleen, quite well. They were devastated that their daughter was so troubled.” Mrs. Henning sniffled. She didn’t seem to be troubled by the fact she had a disturbed psycho as a kid as well. Either she was in denial or she honestly hadn’t been told. “They thought they had a handle on her so they brought her here. But in a fit of rage she attacked a nurse, killing the poor woman. She was settled shortly afterward. Her parents made a hard choice but it was the right one. They left after that, never came back here. I don’t think they do much outside their apartment. I never see them out at anything in New York. I’ve popped by a few times to visit. Kathleen is a shell of the woman she once was.” She was the pot calling the kettle black.

  Rachel’s mom seemed nervous. “Lucinda babysat for a friend of mine, the Haussenger family. She gave their baby a bottle of bleach and killed her friend who was babysitting with her. She went to Hatton Head after that. I didn’t know her parents well but, apparently, she was a terrible child right from birth. Not someone people like us associate with.” She widened her eyes and darted her gaze at Mrs. Henning. I realized she was trying to tell me that Mrs. Henning didn’t know anything about Andrew.

  I nodded. “Creepy. Have you spoken with the family about it?” I asked Mrs. Henning.

  “I have. Kathleen said Lucinda is still a problem for her.”

  “A problem?”

  “Yes.” She sniffled again. “She’s an adult baby. Needing to be fed, changed, bathed, and entertained. She never leaves her wheelchair and requires full-time nursing, around the clock. We have told them time and again to put her in an institution but they won’t.”

  “Yikes.” The more she spoke the less I suspected Lucinda was responsible for any of this. “Well, I better get back to my room. I don’t want them to think I’m outside too much on my first day on the good side of this place.” I hugged both of the frail women and headed back across the crunchy grass. The guy with the glasses was gone, taking his watchful stare with him.

  Lucinda Wentworth was off my list of suspects.

  Which meant the list was empty. Andrew and Tom might have been party to the offense, but they weren’t the mastermind.

  And I doubted there was any way a chubby, disabled, mentally delayed Lucinda was plotting our deaths. I would need much stronger evidence for Linds and Lain than what they had revealed. I still had to find the records room, a task I wasn’t certain I was up to.

  Chapter Six

  The Silence of the Lambs

  Meals on the crazy side of Silver Hills were served in a cafeteria, sort of how I imagined prison would be. On the normal side it was more like a Hilton Hotel, not amazing but still around four stars if I were totally honest.

  The old lady sat in the corner, discussing her meal with her imaginary friend and laughing quietly. I couldn’t shake her. Something about that level of delusion appealed to me. I wished I had someone that hardcore who kept me company even after their death. Or the opposite: someone who loved me so much they still saw me everywhere they went.

  It was weird being jealous of a crazy person.

  The server, a girl about my age with chestnut hair and soft-brown eyes, walked to me. She smiled sweetly, blushing a bit. “Hi, Miss Casey, uhm, Sierra. So this is going to sound weird, I swear I’m not a crazy—I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with being crazy.” Her face flushed as she sputtered, “I-I, uhm, I’m your biggest fan.”

  I froze. Fan? What the actual fu—

  “I stalk you and your friends.” She paused at just the wrong moment. “You know, for fashion and—just everything. Your Instagram is like my own version of heaven. Can I show you some photos I took that are totally inspired by yours?” She reached into her back pocket for something, making me flinch. My mouth lowered and I wanted to speak or scream or something, but I couldn’t. My eyes twitched as they waited for whatever she was reaching for in her back pocket. My hands rattled the table, they gripped so hard.

  “Miss Casey is not supposed to view any form of social media. She’s actually here for her addiction to it.” A guy stepped between me and the gushing girl.

  “Oh my God, I am so sorry. I didn’t know that. That’s a thing?”

  “It’s fine. She just can’t be around phones or anything. It’s why she’s not posting lately. She and her friends are all on a break from social media.” The guy blocked her out and lied like it was his full-time job. He sounded like my dad but I knew it wasn’t.

  “I’ll go. I’m sorry.” The girl leaned around the guy and waved, wincing when she saw the look on my face. “I’ll PM you.”

  The guy turned, sitting down at the table with me. He didn’t smile or offer anything. He just reached forward, lifting my trembling fingers from the edge of the table where I was digging them in so hard one of my nails had broken off.

  The contact of his skin against mine lifted my gaze to his.

  It was the guy with the thick black glasses. He turned and looked back at the girl. “She must be new here. Did she honestly just say crazy? Aloud?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t know what else to say. I tugged my hands from his and put them under the table, cradling the finger with the broken nail. As the shock and fear wore off, the pain of it started to throb.

  Another server came into the room, peering at me. I winced as she got closer but the guy across the table waved her over and spoke, “We will have the chicken with the garlic mashed potatoes.” He glanced back at me, checking.

  “I’ll have that.” I said it before I realized he’d already ordered and I sounded and looked crazy.

  The server nodded and left, not looking at me again.

  He sighed and got comfortable in his chair once more. “Don’t take it personally. That girl asked a hockey player who was here for sex and drug addictions for his autograph, on her boob. She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, I don’t think. I heard she’s one of the administrator’s daughters.” His words faded at the end. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for you. I’m just starving and you looked sort of worried she would ask to take a selfie with you.”

  “I was.” I smiled, suddenly feeling like myself again. The girl recognizing me had thrown me off balance.

  “I don’t understand selfies, but I know enough to know no one wants one taken here.” He didn’t laugh when he said it. He didn’t laugh at all. He spoke like we were old friends and didn’t need an introduction. I had a terrible feeling he knew me and I didn’t remember him.

  Had we hooked up?

  I hated that.

  He was cute, in a nerdy way, but if I didn’t recall details it meant I was probably hosed for the whole event.

  “I guess.” I tried to smile but it bugged me. He was familiar, but I couldn’t place where I recognized him from. I didn’t want to ask in case it offended him. He wa
s the first person who seemed normal here and I didn’t want to be alone. “That was fast.” I said the first thing I could think of.

  “What was?” He scowled.

  “Your lie about me not being allowed on social media.”

  “I just tried to imagine the worst thing that could happen to that girl and used it. She sort of seems like a selfie taker.” Again he didn’t smile. I wondered if he was here to fix his smile.

  “I’m a selfie taker.” I forced a laugh, hoping maybe he would join me, but he didn’t.

  “All girls your age are.” He turned and looked out the window, sighing and seeming so at peace with the silence between us.

  It wasn’t awkward. It was just hollow.

  I couldn’t think of a single thing to fill the silence, and yet I wanted to ask things. Things like what his name was and where had we met before. But if we’d hooked up he would be embarrassed and I would be slutty Sierra again.

  I didn’t want to be her here.

  For whatever reason, I didn’t want to be her with him.

  Something about the quiet calmness of him was relaxing. Even if we were at the nuthouse and he was possibly crazy too.

  When the food came, we ate in peace.

  He didn’t ask questions.

  His eyes never lowered to the bandages on my hands and wrists. His stare never left my eyes when he did meet my gaze.

  It was the weirdest meal, and yet it was perfect. It was what I needed. And either he needed it too or he just knew I did.

  “Thanks for the company.” He finished and put down his fork and got up. “Have a good night.” He turned and left with a subtle wave.

  “Weirdest boy ever,” I whispered as I watched him leave, my gaze transfixed on his back. I tried to be respectful like he was and not notice he had a nice butt, but I was still me and he did. He had the kind of butt you wanted to grab.

  A familiar blush spread across my cheeks as I bit my lip and contemplated the cute and strange boy.

  It brought me back from wherever I was. Maybe it was him, maybe it was flirting, and maybe it was just time for me to feel better.

  When I got back to my room, I curled up on my comfortable mattress and closed my eyes, drifting off to sleep immediately.

  Chapter Seven

  The Funhouse

  “Sierra.” My dream fuzzed and faded as a voice entered it, “Sierra.”

  I blinked, realizing I had been sleeping and someone was in the room with me. Panic forced my eyes open, but when my vision cleared I didn’t worry about the lady in front of me. Her annoyed expression told me she was a real nurse. “What?”

  “You need to take your sleeping pills.” She said it without a hint of irony.

  “You woke me up to give me pills to sleep?” The question went over her head. “Seriously?”

  “Are you being smart? Are you refusing to take your prescribed meds?” She cocked her head.

  Everything in me screamed yes, but I shook my head. Like a pathetic little puppet, I lifted my hand and took the pill cup, tossing the bitter blue pills back. A measure of my annoyance broke through as I snatched the glass of water, spilling a bit on both our hands, and drank it back. I flipped over and sighed my displeasure.

  “Sleep well, your highness,” she snapped and left the room.

  I sighed again but this time it was in relief.

  She hadn’t asked to check in my mouth. Since I’d seen Linds and Lain I’d been cheeking the pills and spitting them out. The twitchy fog was lifting but not fast enough. I contemplated turning over and going to the bathroom, but when I opened one eye, I fought the urge to flinch. The crabby nurse was still in the doorway, watching me. I closed my eye again, looking through just the cracked lid.

  She leaned against the door, like she would be there for a while.

  I snuggled into my covers, faking comfort as the blue pills and my saliva mixed in my cheek. I didn't swallow any of it as the wretched taste filled my mouth.

  She tilted her head, contemplating me, maybe. I realized the blue pills normally made me fall into a deep sleep almost instantly, and wondered if that was what she was waiting for. Pretending I was in a hot yoga class, I relaxed my entire body, letting myself lean forward at a strange angle. I lost her reflection in the window, but after a moment I heard her footsteps and the door close.

  Not wanting to turn right around and look at her, I moved back slowly, so slowly it seemed like forever before I saw the doorway again in the reflection. It was empty and the door was closed. I was alone finally.

  I jumped up and ran for the bathroom, spitting the mouthful of blue slime into the porcelain sink. I rinsed my mouth and scrubbed my tongue with my toothbrush, getting it all out.

  As I stood back up I made the mistake of catching my own stare in the mirror. The image of the girl in front of me was startling. She couldn't be me.

  She was pale, no ashen.

  Her cheeks were gaunt, like those of Euro-trash models that ate cotton balls to be skinny.

  Her hair wasn’t shiny or lush. It was flat, even the color somehow. It had been a beautiful shade of red all my life, but for the first time there just wasn’t anything special about it. It was as if I’d used a filter on myself but this wasn’t a photo. It was real life.

  I lifted a hand to run my fingers through my hair, but I stopped when the heart-shaped burn marks came into view.

  My reflection’s jaw trembled with my fingers against my scalp.

  Together, the reflection’s eyes and my heart lost our fear.

  It was replaced with hatred, so visible that her gaze flashed with my rage. I didn't try to talk her down. I let the rage flow through us both as I pushed off the sink and walked from my private bathroom. I stuffed the bed so it appeared as though someone was in it and turned for the door.

  I didn't pause at the hall, listening for nurses. I opened the door and closed it, turning and heading for the fire exit stairs.

  I couldn’t believe the damage that had been done to me in such a short amount of time. My entire body, face and hair included, was different. And not for the better. And inside—God, I didn’t want to think about the inside. Not when I was about to venture into the basement of the insane asylum.

  I wasn't a fan of horror movies or psychological thrillers but everyone knew where the important things were kept in mental institutes: it was always the creepy basement. The creepy basement where the heroine was attacked. She always got away, but she was injured and usually had to kill at least one person to escape.

  Every bit of me hoped that wasn’t the case tonight.

  I didn’t like basements and I didn’t want to go down there. Not even if that’s where the old records room was.

  And of course, Lindsey knew the best ways to snoop. The fact she’d likely read my diary picked at my annoyed mood. It would have been much worse had some psycho not caged me and read it. Now I didn’t care so much about Linds reading it.

  There was very little of me left to be exposed. Half of that was my fault and half belonged to the bitch with the blue eyes and dark hair. The little bitch I would find and kill, even if I didn’t think I could do it. I could pay someone to do it.

  I nodded and smiled like a complete nutjob as I contemplated that. How easy it would be to pay a hired killer. Jesus, my father probably had several on staff.

  My bare feet on the cold floor made no sound.

  I wasn't one to sneak around.

  I usually walked however I wanted, stomping sometimes just because, but the cocky attitude I’d left my room with seemed to dissipate a little in the dimly lit hall. It felt as if the girl in the mirror had chickened out and bolted back to the room. She was scared of basements and dark places. Dark places had changed her. Her doubt had slithered down the hall and into my heart.

  I couldn't let myself be that girl. I had to fight back.

  A brave whisper in my mind suggested the need to creep back into the dark and find the old me in there. Or at least create a new me. There
was no way I would spend the rest of my life as the scared, gaunt girl from the mirror.

  Her fears were my fears. We were the same person, but the same way I had become her, I could also find my way back to being me. The old me.

  But the bravado of my inner monologue had faded by the time I reached the nurses’ station. Then I was creeping and peeking around corners with my heart racing and my stomach in my throat.

  The hall was cold compared to my room, which made me worry the basement would be downright freezing. That's how it was at our house. Dad had a temperature-controlled basement for the wine cellar and the gym and the hardwoods that had come from some place I didn’t give half a shit about. I suspected he said it was for the wine and the floors, when really he just didn't like running in the heat.

  I hated the basement. I hated being cold.

  Taking a deep breath, I peeked around the final corner, cocking an eyebrow at the one nurse sleeping in her chair as the other two laughed about something and shared a bag of chips. None of them seemed especially interested in the patients. The one who had given me my drugs wasn't there.

  Thinking about her made me angry again.

  I didn't deserve to be in this place and called a liar. If I was being honest with myself I could admit I deserved a lot of things for the way I had acted or behaved in the past, but I didn't deserve this. No one did.

  The stairs to the basement caught my eye as I ducked and hurried past the nurses during a particularly loud giggle.

  All the doors along the long corridor were white and crisp, like the halls on this side. The treatment rooms on the other side were wooden, natural, and relaxing.

  But the basement door was steel, gray, and cold.

  I shivered once as I lifted my pale hand to the long handle and gripped so hard my fingers shook. A whisper of wisdom blew in and out of my head like the wind, leaving before I had a chance to really listen to the caution it spoke of.

  Instead, I opened the door and headed for the stairs that were technically the fire escape.