“What were you doing in Ferndale? In the woods?”
“I was fucking going home to visit,” he grits out, his black orbs challenging me.
I narrow my gaze and cock my head to the side. “Your parents? I find that hard to believe.”
“Fucking believe it, Pierce.”
“What were you two doing in the car together?”
There’s a long tension-filled pause before Vincent barks out a wet laugh. “That’s what you’re worried about right now? If I fucked your girl, Sebastian? Of course, it is.” He scoffs, shaking his head dismissively.
“No, I’m trying to figure out why nothing you’re saying makes any fucking sense, Vincent.”
“She tried to kill me! Do you not understand that? The psycho bitch followed me into town and lured me into her car, then drove us off a cliff. If she wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her myself!” he barks like a rabid dog, venom spewing from his lips.
A strange sensation enters my chest at his words. Like a block of dry ice has been dropped into my chest cavity, making it impossible to breathe. It feels like something is crumbling to pieces on the inside, but I curl my hands into fists, holding myself together outwardly.
“What are you saying?” I keep my tone calm and even. My expression remains void.
Vincent goes silent, staring down at the bland sheets on the bed, avoiding my gaze. “I’m saying we went off a fucking cliff, man. She tried to kill me before I got out. I don’t know where she is now. All I fucking know is, she was dangerous. And she needed help. This was for the best.”
I process in silence. I feel the heaviness settle around the room, the weight of their eyes on me. Likely waiting for whatever it is I’m going to do next. No doubt, they expect me to lash out at this news, but I won’t do that. I glance at Vincent, my brother, lying in that bed, and I come to a conclusion about all of this.
“I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?” Marcus asks, pushing up from the chair.
“Releasing a statement to the press. This could be good publicity for Kings so might as well use it.” Marcus’s face eases with relief. He obviously thought I was going to do something drastic instead—and he wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Baz is right. We need to stay ahead of this and spin it to our benefit,” Zach pipes in, getting everyone on board.
I push out of the room, and with each step I take, I feel the tension building and the anger consuming me. My stomach twists with that foreign sensation again at the thought of Mackenzie being gone. I think about the last conversation I had with her, and my eyes slam shut.
Fucking Christ.
I need answers. And I need to hear them from her. I just hope that’s still a viable possibility. Because if she really is gone? I don’t know what I’ll do.
There’s pent-up rage brewing deep inside me as I leave the hospital. I feel it boiling just beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over in chaos. The second I step out into the cool early morning air, I have the urge to punch something. To hurt someone.
Nothing makes sense.
I meet Dan at the car parked along the curb and slide in. The anger seeps off me in waves, changing the atmosphere in the vehicle immediately. My hands curl around the leather of my seat. I hear the leather creak beneath the force of my grip, and it’s a wonder I’m not driving my fist through the glass window.
“I need you to find out why Vincent was in Ferndale last night.”
We lock gazes in the rearview mirror, and something passes over his eyes. It’s quick, but not quick enough. It gives me pause. I’ve never had a reason not to trust Dan, but I’m starting to question every person around me. There’s something I’m missing. I can feel it.
And I’m going to figure it out.
Groggily, I stir on the flat surface and peel my eyes open. I blink rapidly, clearing the fog that’s clouding my thoughts. When my vision steadies, fear squeezes the air from my lungs. I try to jolt my body forward, out of this bed, but I can’t seem to move. My eyes widen, horror snaking down my spine, as realization sets in, and I fidget, trying to figure out what’s happening. Trying to find a way out of here. I let out a choked, fearful sob when I glance down and realize I’m strapped to a bed. My good wrist and my good leg are being held down with straps to keep me in place.
“Where the hell am I?” The words scratch at my throat when they leave my lips. I dart my gaze around the sterile room as panic fills my chest. The walls are so white, it looks like someone comes in daily to layer a fresh coat of paint. The lights are a blinding fluorescent that make you feel anything but comfortable. The door suddenly opens, a blast of cool air following. It groans on its hinges, almost as if it’s not opened very often. I press my body flat against the bed, trying to disappear, wishing it would swallow me whole, as everything starts coming back to me in flashes.
My parents really sent me to a fucking mental institution. The bastards.
“Good morning, Ms. Wright. I’m Dr. Poppy Aster, the head of psychiatry and psychology here. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Did she just say Poppy?
Poppy?
The woman in charge of my mental health at this moment is fucking named Poppy. Christ.
I stop trying to fight against the binds. I’m sure that’s what they want you to do. They want you to fight it, so you can look crazier—like you actually belong here. And I refuse to look any crazier than I’m sure I already do. This feels like a new low, strapped here with a stranger staring down at me, questions filling her eyes.
“How are you feeling today?”
I swallow the sudden lump blocking the airway in my throat. I’m unsure of how to respond. Part of me wants to demand that she let me the fuck out of this place, but if it doesn’t go over well, I need to at least have one person on my side. I clear my throat that feels overly worked and scratchy. “Tired mostly.”
She smiles down at me placatingly as she walks deeper into the room. She seems to be taking extra caution, slowly creeping farther and farther inside, as if I won’t notice. What does she think I’m going to do, hop off this bed and attack her?
“I’d imagine so. Are you up for a chat?” she asks, when she’s at the foot of the bed. With perfect porcelain skin and silver hair, Dr. Aster looks like the villain in every movie, well, ever. She has on square-framed glasses, but there’s no hiding the calculating gleam in her bright blue eyes. From the second she walked into the room and looked at me, I’ve felt the calculation—her working on internal solutions or ways to get me better. Little does she know, I don’t need to get better. I don’t need a doctor. I just need to get the fuck out of here.
I nod my head minutely, not trusting myself with words. She smiles. It’s not soft; yet, it’s not cold either. It’s just a smile she’s pasted on her face to make me feel comfortable, even though it has the opposite effect. With a wave of her hand, two nurses slip into the room, each releasing me from the binds. It’s not like I can get out of this bed, but it’s better than being strapped down like an animal. The two nurses are young. Maybe a few years older than me, closing in on their early thirties I’d imagine.
“Sorry about that,” Dr. Aster says, eyeing my reddened wrist that I’m massaging on the pillows on the bed, since I can’t use my other hand to rub it out. The bulky cast makes that impossible. “When you were brought in, you were sedated, but I wanted to take some extra precautions in case you woke up not so…calm.”