Page 2 of Exposed (The Wellard Asylum #1)

T he asylum is bleak and washed out, as if a thin layer of gray paint glazes every surface. The longer I study the facility, the colder it is, like the damn place is already sucking the life out of me.

Even though we have the heater on in the car, my fingers are blocks of ice.

I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands, protecting myself from the cold, and…

maybe the asylum too. My boyfriend, Benji, parks the car, sighs deeply, and runs a hand through his wavy brown hair.

His nose is angled with a large bump, and it gives him this innocent demeanor, like he could be a schoolteacher, the kind of selfless person who deserves deep love.

I can’t give him that. Not until I do this.

I shift in the car seat and face the asylum. I’ve driven past this place more times than I can count, but I’ve never been this close to it before. For a long time, it was like a ghost waiting at the edges of my mind, always out of reach. Now, I’ll embrace its full weight.

This is where my mother died. It’s up to me to make things right for her.

As I stare up at the asylum, my intestines tangle into screwed-up knots.

I clutch my stomach and try to ignore the pain.

Different sections of the property range from two to six stories tall, and a chain-link fence circles close to the buildings, slightly higher than average, locking everything inside.

An instinct inside of me knows there’s something ominous lurking beneath the facility too, an underground nightmare ready to swallow me whole.

The Wellard Asylum is not a shelter; it’s a prison.

And in a way, I’m surrendering to it.

“This is it,” Benji says. I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s just announcing our arrival, but the words are different now, like this may actually be the end of me.

I have to be here. I owe it to my mother and myself.

“Great,” I say. The word comes out snarky. I grimace and roll my eyes. I need to be nicer to Benji. I fix my tone: “Thanks for doing this with me.”

“Anything for you,” Benji says.

I smile weakly. Benji is always polite and considerate. Sometimes, I wonder if I deserve him.

Before those doubts begin to fester, I change the subject: “Will the doctor have me stay after the initial examination?”

“You mean overnight?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“I mean, I’d prefer not,” Benji says. “But yeah. Between the videos and losing your job, he might think you need extra help.”

Benji told the doctor I was found masturbating with a knife handle at work and was fired, which is similar to what the records say about my mother. Whether her records are truthful is another story.

As for me, I was actually fired because I stopped showing up for my shifts. After I became obsessed with finding out everything I could about my mother and the Wellard Asylum, work, my relationships, sleeping, even eating regular meals were no longer my priorities.

Then came the videos.

My cheeks heat. I turn to the side, away from Benji. We did a lot of messed-up things to be here, like pissing and choking videos. It’s embarrassing. I’m not a toilet or a victim; I’m a person, and I only asked him to do those things so I could get the chance to kill my mother’s murderer.

But I just?—

I just?—

“You okay?” Benji asks.

I gnaw on the inside of my lip. My mother’s file says she was into strange sexual acts, including arousal from urine; I don’t know if it’s true or if it was something Dr. Ambrose might have made up.

Based on my research, Dr. Ambrose seems like the kind of person who would lie about anything to keep someone under his control.

I know he lied about her death; I wouldn’t be surprised if any notes he took on her were based on his own disgusting interests.

What if I like those disgusting things too?

I shudder. My fingers link and unlink rapidly in my lap. I can’t sit still. People have said I’m a freak like my mother, but even if I share her blood, it doesn’t mean I’ll be like her.

This isn’t about my desires. This isn’t even about me. This is about avenging my mother.

I’m going to kill Dr. Ambrose.

“Violet?” Benji asks .

I shake my head. “I’m fine. I’m fine, ” I say, more to myself than to him. “And it’s not his assistant doing the appointment, right? It’s just him?”

“I don’t know.” Benji lifts his shoulders. “His assistant is here and there. Plan it like he will be there, and either way, you’ll be good to go.”

Because of our long-term preparations to get me admitted under a fake diagnosis, Benji knows the asylum well.

During the consultations about his concern for my sexual fantasies, Benji mentioned my connection to a past patient to Dr. Ambrose, and the next time he visited, my mother’s file was on top of Dr. Ambrose’s desk. It was easy for Benji to take the file.

The photographs in it were hard to stomach though.

The monochrome pictures were close-up shots of her body, as if the images were records of her progress.

I had to piece them together. Based on my birth certificate and the timestamps on the photos, she was only a day past childbirth, her belly still round and her bruising visible.

Black patches marked her breasts and arms. There were even small wounds on her inner thighs, close to her sex.

Her death records claim she died from childbirth; it was obviously more than that.

And Dr. Ambrose was her only caretaker back then, so he’s responsible for whatever happened to her, and back then, he was only Nurse Ambrose.

According to his notes, he kept her in isolation to keep her perversions from escalating.

Perversions. I hate that word. It’s just like “freak.” Both words imply there is a true normal. A “good” path everyone tries to stay on when the weirdos like me stray.

But there is no “normal,” and I’m not a “freak.”

“What’s the doctor like again?” I ask absently .

“He’s big. Not scary looking or anything. Kind of…” Benji’s gaze drifts off, finding its way to the building’s exterior. He flinches. “I don’t know. It’s like he can get under your skin. A parasite you don’t know is there. The kind that eats your insides.”

I shiver right as a black sedan drives past. It parks near a tree.

A chill settles over my heart. Somehow, I know it’s the doctor.

The driver’s door opens, and a man with broad shoulders and a thin, toned frame stands up. A long, gray ponytail is at the base of his neck, and his lab coat is smudged with dirt.

Dr. Ambrose.

I lurch back as my brows furrow. “Why is he covered in dirt? Did he just come from his part-time greenhouse job or something?”

Benji’s nostrils flare. “I don’t think he’s that kind of person, but who knows. The guy is weird.”

As the doctor heads toward the asylum, he glances at our car. We lock eyes.

He winks.

My throat contracts, and bile rises in my esophagus.

He disappears into the building.

“He’s not a gardener.” I shrink down in my seat. “He would probably rather torture plants to death.”

Or torture me.

“Probably,” Benji says.

Sourness coats the back of my tongue. I swallow it, but it’s like a wad of blood-soaked gauze is lodged under my uvula. I hate that I keep thinking about being tormented by Dr. Ambrose like he’s some angry, all-powerful god, when in reality, he’s just an abusive man in a position of power.

A man who deserves to die.

I haven’t told Benji this, but there’s a strong possibility Dr. Ambrose is my biological father.

I’ve read my mother’s stolen records; she became pregnant after she began treatment at the Wellard Asylum, so my father is probably here or was here.

A patient. A guard. A nurse. A doctor. To be honest, I’ll take any father, as long as it’s not Dr. Ambrose.

If he is my father, then he didn’t just kill my mother; he also abandoned me. Not because he died. Not because of any righteous reason. But because he wanted to.

And that’s another reason to kill him.

I don’t have any confirmation about my blood parentage. It’s easy for Benji to steal a file; it’s a little more difficult to get a blood sample.

Then again, Benji said Dr. Ambrose demanded I go to the town’s clinic to get my blood drawn. Maybe Dr. Ambrose was testing our biological relations for himself.

I sigh. I don’t want to know if Dr. Ambrose is my father. He’s my enemy. Nothing more.

“Did the doctor mention the results of my blood tests?” I ask Benji.

“He said he’d notify me if something came up. No news is good news, right?” He scratches his head. “It probably would have been better if he did find something.”

Then I wouldn’t have to be here.

I soften my brows, and Benji grabs my hand. Though he’s been supportive of me getting closure, he hates the asylum.

But I’m choosing to be here.

He smiles, and there’s a faint sadness underneath it. Even if—I mean, even when —I kill Dr. Ambrose, there’s a chance I could be hurt or end up in jail. Benji obviously doesn’t want either of those things to happen.

A twinge of guilt slithers in my chest. Benji is a good man with a big heart, and he treats me with respect. He hasn’t left me, and that should be enough for me.

But before I can accept his love, I need to love myself, and the only way I can do that is by killing Dr. Ambrose. Because if I don’t do this, I won’t be able to live with myself.

“If I can’t change your mind,” he says quietly, “then we need to get through security now. Our appointment starts soon.”

“You won’t leave me after this, right?” I whisper, my voice quivering. I hate how pathetic I sound. I wiggle my shoulders and strengthen my tone. “You’re not going to ditch me and wimp out, right?”

“Absolutely not,” Benji says. “I’ll be here.”

He pulls a small tube from his jacket pocket. It’s as thin as a linguine noodle and as long as my finger, and it’s filled with acid. With the right aim, there’s just enough liquid to blind someone. I’ve been practicing with water on Benji.

I can do this.

I take the tube and double-check the lid is secure, then I stuff it in my sock. The container is awkward and stiff, but it’s small, so I’ll get used to it quickly. Benji has already tested getting it through security before; no one will notice.

I step out of the car, and Benji does the same.

The cold air whips around us, a chill racing over my skin.

Frost clings to the weeds in the cracked cement leading up to the entrance, and the few trees that surround the facility are sparse, their branches bare.

Ice trickles into my bones and chest. I wrap my arms around myself and burrow into my hoodie.

I peer up at the main building and imagine Dr. Ambrose staring down at me with his dark, chilling eyes.

My insides ache. Until I finish this, I’ll always be empty. Cold. Longing for something I don’t understand.

I may end up dead or in a prison cell, but I have to do this.

I have to kill Dr. Ambrose.