Page 72

Jessica

“Miss, I’m going to need you to stop crying.”

I nod and grab another napkin out of the dispenser that is on the center of the picnic table.

Pressing it to my eyes, I try to control the wave of emotion that is pushing up my throat.

A sprinkler system—that’s what my mom used to call me, and the realization that she’ll never call me the nickname again brings a fresh round of tears.

The dam has officially broken. As soon as the officer pulled in and wandered over, all skeptical and wary, it shuddered. When he asked me my name, it cracked. When I told him I thought my mom was dead—that I had seen a police file with her photos—it burst open.

I still don’t know, with everything they told me and showed me, if I actually did do something to her.

I don’t think I did, but I saw those crime scene pictures and the receipt where I bought poison, so maybe I did and he’s about to arrest me and take me to jail and whatever.

I don’t even care, because at least it will be real.

The problem is, I wasn’t ready to lose her yet.

I had too much I wanted to say, too many questions to ask, and had been writing them all down, asking her a few at a time, spaced out so it wasn’t too obvious but also so that I could digest each bite of information before I took the next one.

Three months—that’s what the doctor had said at her last checkup. She had three months left.

Except now she’s gone. And now, with the fog of medicine starting to lift, it’s like all the emotions have hit me at once.

I hate it. I’d almost rather have the numb cloud of chill I had at the mental hospital. In there, I didn’t really care when he told me my mom had died. I understood that I was sad, but it was like I was a hundred miles away from the emotion, like I couldn’t reach it.

This is different. This is heart-wrenching. I’ve never understood what that meant before, but now I know. It feels like your heart is being pulled apart at the seams, and all your feelings are fighting among themselves to be heard.

The police officer clears his throat. “Now, when you called, you said you had escaped from somewhere.”

I take another handful of brown paper napkins and blow my nose. “Yes. It was— Well, I thought it was a mental facility.”

“What do you mean, like a nuthouse?”

I make a face at the term and wonder if this guy knows how toxic he is.

“Like a psychiatric treatment clinic,” I clarify.

“They told me I had admitted myself, but I think it was all lies. They must have kidnapped me and were keeping me there, because I sure as shit didn’t find my way into the woods and check myself in at that place.

” I swallow and wipe at my wet cheeks, ordering myself not to start in again with the tears.

He looks at my bandaged wrist and holds out his hand. “May I see your wrist?”

I hold it out and he turns it over, then peels back the bandage. “This looks like a suicide attempt,” he says sternly, as if I’m in trouble over it.

I yank back my hand. “The woman nurse—she cut my wrist at the clinic. She was going to stage it as a suicide attempt.”

He points to the other wrist, where the original cut still had a knotted row of black stitches. “And that one?”

I sighed. “I think they were trying to make me think I had tried to kill myself.”

“Right.” He lifts his clipboard and goes to write something, then stops. “I’m sorry, I’m confused here. You’re saying that a hospital kidnapped you, cut your wrists, and admitted you for treatment?”

“Yeah, I get it. It sounds crazy. It’s a fake hospital.” I rest my elbows on the table and drop my head into my palms. “The nurse—she’s married to the doctor, I think—she’s the one who tried to kill me again last night.” This is ridiculous. I don’t make sense to myself, and I know what I’m saying.

“Tell me your name again?”

“Jessica Bishop. Just go to the place and help the other patients there. I met one on my way out. Her name was Tricia. Tricia Higgins. She said she had kids.” As I ran out of the building, I passed so many doors that looked like mine. How many others had someone behind them?

He digests the comment, then continues on. “There’s an APB out for you. They’ve been looking for you. You’re aware of what happened to your mom?”

Pentobarbital is what was given to her. You likely put it in her orange juice.

You told us that you ordered it online. The more I remember, the more sure I am that I didn’t do that.

I might not remember how they got me to the clinic, but I remember the days leading up to her death, and I damn sure wasn’t planning a murder.

“Yes.” I nod. “Well, they told me she was poisoned.”

He tilts his head to the side, regarding me, and I can tell he’s struggling with what to say.

He starts speaking, then pauses. “Miss Bishop ... do you realize how all of this sounds? You’ve been missing for six days.

You’ve been a suspect in your mom’s death.

Now you show up with a story about being in a fake mental institution, with evidence of self-harm—”

“You need to go to the building,” I repeat. “Arrest them. The nurse was trying to kill me.”

“This is the same nurse who you said attacked the doctor, is that correct?”

I blow out a frustrated breath. “Yes. Just ... whatever. Arrest me if you want, but go find these people.”

He sighs. “Okay. You got a facility name? Address?”

“No. It’s like, in the middle of the woods.

But close. I can probably find it.” I pinch my eyes closed and try to remember how far I drove down the state highway and any landmarks where I entered it.

Head north and use the key fob remote at the gate.

The gate had been hidden from the road, back down a dirt path a ways.

I’d have to find the place to turn off. God, why hadn’t I paid more attention?

“Well, I’ve put a call into the detective on your mom’s case. Let’s get her down here, have her talk to you first.”

A woman. That was a good sign. “Okay.”

“And you don’t know the name of the people who you say were keeping you?”

“The doctor’s first name was Joe. I don’t remember his last name.”

“And the nurse?”

“I think her name was Diana. My mom knew her.” I pause.

This guy already thinks my story is far-fetched.

If I bring up the idea that I might be adopted and that the nurse might be my mom .

.. he’ll just throw up his hands and ignore the entire thing.

Maybe I’ll tell the detective that, depending on how she takes the rest of this story.

I always thought it’d be cool to be a detective. I think I’d be good at it too.

A car pulls into the parking lot, and I turn at the action. My gaze catches on the Excursion, still parked by the gas station doors, and I straighten. “Oh, that’s their car.” I point to it. “So can’t we just look at the registration?”

His gaze follows to where I’m pointing. “That’s their vehicle?”

“Yeah.”

He stands up from the table and gestures for me to stay put. “I’ll go and look in it. Hey!” He whistles for the second deputy and points to me. “Watch her.”

Joke’s on him. I found twenty dollars in the center console of the SUV and bought a king-size Reese’s Cup and a mega-giant cup of soda.

It’s the first sugar I’ve had in a week.

I’m in the shade, eating something that isn’t a protein shake, and there’s a restroom I can use whenever I want to.

I wouldn’t move from this spot if the building burst into flames.

I watch him walk over to the SUV and wonder how long it will take the detective to get here.