Page 55

Dinah

When I wake up, the overhead light is on, and I blink rapidly, trying to see better. A crusty film sticks some of my lashes together, and I carefully rub my eye with my forefinger, trying to separate the lids.

Oh, my hand is free. I sit upright and realize that my restraints are gone, along with the IV line, though the port and needle are still embedded in the back of my hand. I swing my legs off the bed and wince at the firework of pain that radiates through my temples.

A bottle of water is beside the bed, and I drink it quickly, some of it leaking out the sides as I guzzle it down.

Okay, I can do this. I take an assessment of my surroundings.

No restraints. He must have drugged me at some point in the night or early morning, which means my time frame is fucked.

Is it lunchtime? Afternoon? Morning? I’m in the same clothes as before, the sheets still filthy, evidence of Melonie throughout the room.

Her trash on the table. Her garbage can half-full.

A few empty bottles of protein smoothies stacked by the sink.

At least she was in one of the more equipped rooms. There’s a toilet, thank God, and a sink. No mirror—not that I want to see what I look like right now.

I test my footing, aware that often dizziness and retching is a side effect of pento, if that’s what he gave me. My legs are solid, so I straighten up, then look to the door. The butler’s window beside it has been opened, and there are two protein drinks in the basket there.

I approach the basket and crouch down, picking up a bottle and turning it over.

Dinah Marino is written in neat black Sharpie on the label. Joe’s handwriting.

Underneath it, the words I really don’t want to see:

Patient 14.