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Dinah

Joe’s files are in two cabinets in his office at the clinic.

It takes me almost ten minutes to transfer them into bankers’ boxes and load them into the back seat of the Toyota.

I do a final sweep of his office, grabbing our framed wedding photo and his voice recorder, then lock it up.

Walking down the hall for a final time, I study each door, thinking of the patients on the other side.

Blythe Howard was never a patient here, but she was our first victim. Joe helped me with it. My therapy sessions turned into planning—all hypothetical at first. He called it an emotional exercise.

The exercise made too much sense, and when I realized that we would never be able to arrest her for the murder of her child, I took the actions we had painstakingly mapped out and killed her.

Afterward, I showed up at Joe’s house, emotional and wired, confused at the lack of guilt I felt for such a decisive crime. He brought me in, cooked me dinner, and talked me through every feeling. He told me he was proud of me, and the words were like air in the balloon of my heart.

That night, he kissed me, and it was the sweetest, purest moment of my life.

He quit his job at the LAPD and proposed three months later.

Six months after that, we purchased the land and started construction.

I wanted to put away criminals who were escaping punishment for their crimes. He was fascinated by the possibilities around coercive persuasion and thought control, but unable to conduct proper research with the government’s strict limitations on human experimentation.

It was a happy marriage, our two objectives joining forces.

And he didn’t always kill the patients at the end.

Some of the shorter studies were patients pulled from drug-rehab programs and off the streets—those, we nursed back to health and released, and they were none the wiser over the location or true intentions of our facility.

I hesitate at the exit and rest the two heavy boxes of files, mentally tick through the patients we’d be leaving behind.

They’ll be released, of course. Let back into society with little to no reintroduction therapy or supervision.

Would Patient 7 go back to molesting young students?

Joe had worked with him for almost two years, had the man repulsed at the thought of any female, old or young—but maybe, back among the public, he’d turn his affections to little boys.

Maybe the treatment wouldn’t stick. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I walk out before I have a chance to second-guess the decision.

The worst part is that after all this time, all this hard work, this place will never get the recognition it deserves.

Joe will never get the recognition he deserves.

Instead, they will paint this place as hell, with all the focus going to the process and not the results.

It will be easier in Costa Rica. Their laws are much more lenient—practically nonexistent—on psychiatric testing. Individuals can volunteer for paid trials, which means that with enough money, anything is possible.

I’m backing out when one of the two cell phones in my pocket rings. Putting the SUV into park, I dig out the offending phone. It’s mine, and the first six numbers of the incoming call indicates someone in the LAPD. I silence it and start the engine, then double-check the gas level.

It’s full, as are the tires and all the fluids.

Joe has the vehicle serviced regularly, and in the back is an emergency blanket, a case of bottled water, and a first aid kit.

I used to make fun of him for his excessive prep measures.

Under the back seat are supplies of a different tilt: duct tape, zip ties, gloves, tarps, ponchos, and booties.

This vehicle is one we bought from a surplus auction using cash.

It’s titled under a shell corporation that would take weeks to link back to us.

It doesn’t have GPS or toll meters, which is why it has a glass jar full of quarters in the center console.

The missed caller leaves a voicemail and I play it, steeling myself for Natalie’s voice.

In all this excitement, I haven’t had a chance to go through my phone since I got it back.

Given this new twist, I’m not sure it makes sense to.

We’ll need to ditch both of our phones, anyway, as soon as we hit the main road.

In the suitcases are burners, purchased years ago specifically for this purpose.

Preparation, Joe has always preached, is the key to success.

The voicemail isn’t from Natalie. It’s from an officer I’ve never met.

Chuck Reynolds. He has a potential eyewitness and suspect in the current case for Reese Bishop—her missing daughter, Jessica.

He won’t shut up in his voicemail, giving me his current location and a bit about what the girl is saying.

He finishes by asking me to call him as soon as possible.

So, she made it out. I place the phone in the cup holder and sit back, thinking.

It’s ironic that they contacted me. Later, they’ll laugh about it.

Reynolds will get a ration of shit for calling the kidnapper and telling her where her escaped victim is.

I can’t go get her, though the idea of taking her back and us resuming our clinic protocols is a little tempting, if not completely unrealistic.

Still, I hate the thought of running away and leaving our house that we put so much time and love into.

Never coming back to all our favorite places and the memories of each one.

Joe’s job at the college. Oley’s grave. I’ll lose my detective’s shield, which I worked so hard for.

Joe’s medical degree. My mom’s constant calls and check-ins.

Except for the summer when I had Jessica, I’ve never gone more than a couple of days without speaking to her.

The silence of that summer was hell. Hell with a labor-inducing cherry on top.

I delete the voicemail and shift the SUV into reverse. After carefully backing out, I head toward the house to collect my husband.