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When I wake, it’s with jolting suddenness. My eyelids don’t flutter open. There’s no lazy, dry-mouthed yawn. I simply go from darkness to light in an instant, feeling the same way I did before I went to sleep.
Panicked.
I understand the situation with neon clarity. Chloe is in danger. Ingrid, too, if they ever find her. I need to help them.
Right now.
I look to the open door. The room is dark, the hallway silent. Nary a whisper or sneaker squeak to be heard.
“Hello?” Thirst has distorted my voice, turning it into an ungainly croak. “I need—”
To call the police.
That’s what I want to say. But my throat seizes up, cutting me off. I force out a cough, more to get the attention of a nurse than to revive my voice.
I try again, louder this time. “Hello?”
No one answers.
The hall, for the moment, appears to be empty.
I search the table by the bed for a phone. There isn’t one. Nor is there a call button with which to summon a nurse.
I slide out of bed, relieved to discover I can walk, although not very well. My legs are wobbly and weak, and my entire body is gripped with pain. Butsoon I’m out of the room and into a hallway that’s shorter than I expected. Just a dim corridor with doors leading to two other rooms and a small nurses’ station that’s currently empty.
There’s no phone there, either.
“Hello?” I call out. “I need help.”
Another door sits at the end of the hall, closed tight.
It’s white.
Windowless.
And heavy, a fact I learn when I try to pry it open. It takes an extra tug and a pain-flaring grunt to finally get it to budge.
I pass through it, finding myself in another hallway.
One I think I’ve seen before. Like all my recollections of late, it’s vague in my mind. A half memory made hazy by pain and worry and sedatives.
The hallway turns. I turn with it, rounding the corner into another hall.
To my right is a kitchen done up in muted earth tones. Above the sink is a painting. A snake curled into a perfect figure eight, chomping on its own tail.
Beyond the kitchen is a dining room. Beyond that are windows. Beyond them is Central Park colored orange by the setting sun, making it look like the whole park is on fire.
Seeing it sends a stark, cold fear pulsing through me.
I’m still in the Bartholomew.
I have been the whole time.
The realization makes me want to scream even though my throat won’t allow it. Fear and thirst have clenched it shut.
I start to move, my bare feet smacking the floor in worried, hurried steps. I get only a few feet before a voice rises from somewhere behind me.
Hearing it opens my throat, despite the thirst and fear. A scream erupts from deep inside me, only to be pushed back by a hand clamping over my mouth. Another hand spins me around so I can see who it is.