Page 8 of Lethal (Wellard Asylum #1)

I make my way down to the basement in Wellard, my nerves beginning to get the best of me, and twice, I almost turn around and ignore the summons from Dr. Halstead.

The nurse, who informed me that Halstead needed to see me, walks at a slower pace behind me, and it immediately unnerves me.

Did he instruct her to ensure I made it here?

The air is cooler and damp down here, causing a sensation of bugs crawling along the surface of my skin.

I glance around, feeling as if someone other than her is watching me, but I only see an empty hallway, with various old patient rooms waiting for new occupants.

A discarded, old wheelchair sits in an alcove, its surface coated with a thick layer of dust and spider webs.

The rust on the metal surface, and its style, assure me that it’s been here probably longer than I’ve been alive.

The dimmed overhead lights flicker, as if the bulbs are about to expire, and the wall sconces every few rooms reaffirm the post-war age of the building.

It was once used as a factory, and you can still see some of the original elements.

This place needs a giant overhaul, or maybe just a wrecking ball.

The problem is that, when you house this many dangerous and criminally insane patients, there is nowhere to put them while you perform renovations, not that M.B.

Holdings, Inc. and its CEO, Maxwell Brady, give a shit about the patients, or their comfort.

They’re cattle here, just a means to generate revenue from the system, while promising the general public that they’re keeping them safe. What a joke. None of us are safe.

I finally reach the door labeled, Dr. Quinton Halstead, and further nerves assail me.

My eyes briefly connect with a large cockroach scurrying down one of the water-stained walls, and disgust fills me.

“Forget the wrecking ball. They should napalm this bitch,” I whisper to myself, as I force my shoulders back and my head high, and knock on the door, despite the ominous feeling filling me, and my intuition telling me to run.

I look back at the nurse’s patient smile, reassuringly awaiting me to step inside the room, and a sense of resentment rises within me.

I don’t need a babysitter, I’m not going to run.

“Enter,” the deep, commanding voice sounds through the door, and I force myself to turn the bronze knob.

You can do this, Cat. Don’t let him get under your skin.

Don’t let him trick you. I’m immediately hit with stuffy, warm air, which is such a dramatic difference to the temperature of the hallway, that goose bumps rise along my skin.

The office is warm in the wrong way, with too many books, degrees, and old photographs plastered on the walls, too much leather, and not enough air.

It feels like a place where secrets sweat through the walls.

My eyes quickly take in all the furniture and wallpaper.

This room has seen an update that the rest of the facility lacks, priorities , I guess.

Dr. Halstead sits behind his desk, posture perfect, his manicured fingers steepled beneath his bearded chin.

He doesn’t blink when I step inside. Instead, he just stares, like he’s already been watching me before I opened the door.

I wonder if he was. I wouldn’t put it past him to have secret cameras everywhere within the facility. Fucking creeper.

I always thought that he was a cross between a distinguished Benedict Cumberbatch, playing Dr. Strange, with all that lovely silver threaded through his hair and beard, and what I picture a real-life Jekyll and Hyde looked like.

It isn’t lost on me that some of the staff refer to him as ‘Hyde’ behind his back.

This is Wellard Asylum’s leading psychiatrist, and he scares the shit out of me.

I take in his pristine, dark navy shirt, and matching plaid tie, beneath his white doctor’s coat.

Who the fuck still wears those, especially in a place like this?

Can you say dramatic? Yet, he insists all the doctors here have them.

I’ll probably never be caught dead in mine.

“Miss. Vaughan,” he utters, smiling, but it never reaches his cold, blue eyes, and honestly, it gives off the vibes that he would readily sink those perfect white teeth into my flesh, without the slightest hesitation. “Come. Sit.”

I take a seat in the dark brown leather, upholstered chair before his desk, hiding my trembling fingers from his view.

His eyes rake slowly over my form as he studies me.

It’s unnerving, to say the least, and causes my breath to stall in my throat.

I feel like a specimen under a microscope.

What does he see when he looks at me so intently?

Does he know that I believe him to be a monster, hiding in this place with his authority as a shield?

“You wanted to see me?” I question, linking my fingers in my lap.

“I wanted to check in regarding your… progress, and how you’re doing with the.

.. research on the Norwood twins.“ He leans forward slightly, giving me a whiff of his strong cologne, and I have to disguise how it makes me want to gag, and my eyes water. J esus fuck, did he bathe in the shit? “They’re a delicate, complex case, easily mishandled, and can be dangerously persuasive. I trust you haven’t let them draw you in too far into their world, Miss. Vaughan?” He questions.

My lips open and close as my breath catches, just for a second, as I weigh his words.

Halstead notices. He always notices everything.

There are such similarities between him and Bash that it’s amusing.

His dark eyebrow rises just the slightest bit with expectation.

Fuck, I need to be careful here, or he’s going to attempt to trip me up with my words.

“They’re... challenging,” I reply carefully. “But I’ve maintained clinical boundaries, and laid the ground rules for productive sessions.” I meet his intense gaze without backing down.

“Have you?” The left side of his lips quirks, in what I’m sure he thinks is a charming smile, yet I feel like a hyena is determining if I’m a worthy meal.

“I’ve reviewed the recordings of your last two sessions.

They seem to only focus on the twins’ progress.

The way you describe Wren responding to your voice is interesting.

It’s almost like how a hound behaves with its master, and Bash.

.. even with all his silence and acute focus, there is a kind of intimacy between you, wouldn’t you agree? ”

My spine tenses straight, and I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, as the biting pain helps me clear my thoughts.

I consider how to respond to his veiled accusation.

I was right, the motherfucker is watching me.

“With respect, Doctor, patient rapport is essential for this line of work. It helps to build trust between the doctor and patient.”

“Ah,” he murmurs, “Yes, rapport .“ His face loses all attempts at charm, as he taps the desk once, a sharp, deliberate sound. “But we both know there’s a fine line between rapport, affection, and curiosity, or worse yet, obsession.” I don’t bother to reply, and it isn’t expected.

I can see it in his demeanor, and the gleam in his eyes.

I force myself to stay still, and not squirm under his scrutiny.

As far as he knows, I have nothing to hide, and I have no intentions of changing that.

If he wants to play games with me, let him.

You need to find the truth, Cat, you need to set me free.

Halstead leans back, his hands folding over his abdomen, the leather of his office chair creaking softly.

“These boys… they were vicious predators, Miss. Vaughan. If they sense even a sliver of emotional leverage, they’ll exploit it, tear it open.

You might believe you’re in control, but predators often let their prey think that.

” His voice dips low, and what I believe might be a genuine smile crosses his lips. “Just before they feed.”

A moment passes between us in silence, as I gather my wits and think how to reply. My pulse thunders in my ears, and beads of sweat slide down my spine, but I manage to keep my face still and passive. “I appreciate your concern, Doctor Halstead,” I reply coolly. “But I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says, almost kindly.

“After all, you chose this asylum, didn’t you, and volunteered to work with these specific patients.

” He tilts his head, his voice softening, and causing alarm bells to ring in my head.

“Quite the coincidence, isn’t it? That your first case here involved rapists, twin serial killers, considering your. .. background.”

My stomach twists and lurches. He knows, or at least suspects.

No, that’s not possible, he’s trying to bait you, fishing for information.

“I’m here to treat them, and all my patients.

That’s all,” I reply with confidence, refusing to be the one to break the connection between us.

Electricity zaps along my nerve endings, but not the pleasurable kind, no, the sort that I had heard he was using down here, in the bowels of the asylum, on unwilling patients.

The type that is filled with the promise of torture, and losing the rest of their minds.

This man sitting across from me is a true psychopath, much like the ones he treats.

Halstead rises slowly from his chair and comes around the desk.

Too close, my self-preservation screams. The scent of his strong cologne, some kind of combination of mint and pine, mixed with the stench of formaldehyde, clings to him.

“Of course,” he says gently, placing a hand on my shoulder, that causes me to bite down on the inside of my cheek, to stop myself from jerking away from his touch.

“But remember, this place has a way of bleeding into people. The walls don’t forget.

And the twins… they don’t forgive. All I ask is that you don’t forget who you are. ”

He smiles again, and all I can see is the other version of him that lies in wait, underneath the polished veneer.

The predatory monster who wants to escape his chains.

How tight is his hold on him, or does he let him roam free?

“You’ll let me know if they become too much for you, won’t you, Miss. Vaughan?”

I nod once and rise, dislodging his touch and preparing to escape this room, but just before I manage to make it to the door, he speaks again, and forces me to turn and glance at him once more.

“It would be a mistake to humanize them, since they were never human, Miss. Vaughan. They have always been monsters, walking around in skin suits, and the only thing that’s ever contained them is the walls of this institution,” Dr. Halstead sneers.

The malice radiating from him forces me to take an unconscious step back, which I instantly regret, as his sharp eyes track the movement.

It’s akin to being trapped in a cage with a dangerous animal, one that scents your fear and blood, and will attack you at any moment.

The desire to turn tail, and flee from the room, is riding through every part of me, but I force myself to hold still.

I don’t bother to respond, leaving the room, spine ramrod straight, until the door clicks shut behind me, and only then do I allow myself to breathe. I take a step forward and then another, my knees trembling slightly, as I put distance between myself and Halstead. Fuck, fuck, fucking hell.

The nurse appears out of the shadows, and smiles an all-knowing smile.

“Everything alright?” She inquires, but I completely disregard her, lost in my own panicked thoughts.

He knows something, or thinks he does. I can’t afford to flinch, not fucking now.

Not with Bash watching me like a reflection, and Wren whispering things I can’t unhear. Not when there is so much to lose.

And not with the truth still buried beneath Wellard’s floors.