Page 11 of The Locked Ward

The gray-haired man sits across from you in the same room where you met Mandy.

“I thought you’d be comfortable here, Georgia,” he says. “But we can talk in the common area. It’s your choice.”

You don’t reply or make eye contact.

You’ve been in danger ever since you were brought here, but this encounter is your riskiest yet. The man sitting before you is beginning an assessment so he can issue a recommendation of whether you’re mentally fit to stand trial for murder.

North Carolina has the death penalty. But you won’t last that long if you go to jail. You’ll be dead within a week.

Does Mandy believe you are innocent?

You thought the bait you’d dangled would entice her to become involved. But maybe you miscalculated.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’d misjudged a sister.

You thought you knew Annabelle—everyone did, because she appeared so guileless and sweet—but she was full of surprises.

Perfect Annabelle, who got straight As and called adults “ma’am” and “sir” and loved babies.

No one would believe what she’d done if you’d told people about her scandalous secret.

Or they’d find a way to blame you. Your mother always did, and your father was too cowed by her to challenge her.

Your parents never wanted to leave you alone with Annabelle. There were always eyes on you, just as there are here. From a very young age, no one trusted you around your little sister.

The man is staring at you. What does he see?

Your hands are icy and beginning to tremble. You slowly slide them beneath your thighs and rock back and forth slightly.

“My name is Dave Winters and I’m a psychiatrist,” he tells you.

He doesn’t look like a shrink. With his beefy shoulders, beer belly, and lumpy nose, he looks more like an avid Panthers fan. You can almost see him in the stadium, face painted blue, as he screams the crowd-favorite chant, Keep pounding!

But something tells you the mind behind that ordinary face is uncommonly sharp. That he deliberately crafts his low-key appearance—down to his ratty sneakers, plain khakis, and cheap watch—to his advantage.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

You keep your gaze focused just to the right of his face, looking at his temple and deliberately softening the muscles around your eyes. You wish you could adjust your hearing, too, because his questions feel like nails driving into your brain.

“Do you understand the charges against you?” he asks.

You tell yourself to let his words bounce off you, like raindrops clinking onto a roof. They can’t be allowed to reach you.

A person in a dissociative state is mentally disconnected from their thoughts and feelings—and even, in more severe cases, their memories and sense of identity.

You wrote that line in your college paper, the one that earned you an A.

A more severe condition is a dissociative identity disorder, once known as multiple personality disorder, in which an individual can have two or more “identities.”

There’s no way you would have been able to get away with faking the second, more severe condition. But so far, you’ve been able to pull off the first one.

“Georgia, do you know what day it is?”

It’s the day of the Sullivan wedding. A church service with silk bows adorning the end of every pew and a curly-haired flower girl toddling down the aisle, holding the hand of the little ring bearer, to delighted murmurs.

Eight bridesmaids in teal linen, the fabric identical but each design distinct.

Lush cascades of blush-colored roses perfuming the air.

An open bar with a signature drink, a Bali Breeze, in a nod to the honeymoon destination.

A stunning six-tier seafood pyramid. Four dozen bottles of Veuve Clicquot popping open for the toasts.

You’ve got a binder full of details, but you don’t need them to refresh your memory. That’s your signature, like the Bali cocktail. You don’t leave anything to chance. You don’t make mistakes.

Until the night of Annabelle’s party. You never saw the events of that night coming.

The first police officer on the scene, the one who walked into the dining room and discovered you standing over your sister’s body while Honey wept and raged at you, was a family friend—the son of the chief of police, invited for Annabelle’s birthday party.

You briefly dated him when you were nineteen.

He’s been half in love with you ever since.

That must be why he pulled Honey off you and ordered the seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold rather than arresting you. One last gesture from his heart.

“Do you know why you’re here?” the psychiatrist asks again. His voice is mild. His palms are flat against his knees. He exudes calm and patience.

He terrifies you.

Annabelle died moments before her birthday ended. She’ll be forever frozen at the age of thirty-two.

So will you, in a way. It’s as if a giant cleaver came down at the stroke of midnight, a reverse Cinderella effect, separating you into the woman of before and the patient of now. The life of Georgia Cartwright is so far removed from yours that it appears to belong to a different person.

“I’m going to order a fourteen-day stay,” the psychiatrist says. “You’ll be entitled to a court hearing, which will be held in this facility via Telehealth. You will be appointed a mental health representative should you choose not to attend. Do you understand, Georgia?”

You don’t move. You don’t even blink or breathe. You feel his eyes drilling into you. Then he stands up and gathers his things.

“I’ll see you soon, Georgia.”

Maybe you’ve passed his first test. Or maybe he sees right through you.