Page 23 of The Locked Ward

You awaken abruptly to find someone shining a sharp beam of light under your chin.

You blink, disoriented. You’re suspended in the hazy transition between sleep and wakefulness. Then the knowledge of where you are comes smashing into you.

You can’t believe how badly you’ve messed up. You’ve fallen asleep. You’ve let yourself become vulnerable.

You know the checks are performed every fifteen minutes because you’ve counted the seconds between them.

It’s reassuring to know about the C15s. It’s also terrifying.

All the cameras and eyes on this floor should be enough to ensure the safety of patients. But clearly patients have been able to circumvent these security measures. They’ve been able to slip out of their rooms undetected and harm themselves. Or others.

The medical staff no longer believes you are an imminent suicide risk. You’ve been moved to a new room, one without an overhead camera, and you’re left alone at night now.

When you first came here, you thought things couldn’t get worse. You were wrong.

Nine hundred seconds. That’s how many ticks of the clock compose fifteen minutes.

There are so many ways a person can be hurt or killed in nine hundred seconds.

A hard blow to the head could erase you instantly, like it did to Annabelle.

Suffocation takes only a few hundred seconds, which means Josh could seal his hands over your nose and mouth and be back in his room, feigning sleep, by the time an aide shone a flashlight on his chest. Josh could do plenty of other things to you first.

You’ve tried to think of ways to protect yourself.

The measures you’d take at home if you felt threatened—a deadbolt on your door, a can of Mace and cell phone on your nightstand—aren’t options here.

Anything that could be turned into a weapon has been removed from the patient areas.

No sharp objects. No glass. No furniture you can lift. No phone to summon help.

The only line of defense you have is to lie awake at night and catch catnaps during the day on the couch in view of the nurses’ station.

But you’ve failed at that, too.

You have no idea what time it is. It could be 10 P.M. or 5 A.M. You never realized what a privilege it was to have your phone charging on your nightstand while you slept, always ready to tell you the time, giving you a tangible way to orient yourself in the darkness.

You miss your soft bed and fluffy comforter. You miss the cold glass of Sancerre you enjoyed at the French bistro across from your apartment after a long day of work. You miss your neighbor’s bulldog with the underbite, the one who joyfully snorted while you scratched his head.

You miss your life . You didn’t appreciate it while you had it. You were too busy, too stressed, too distracted.

What you would give to have just one hour back of your old life.

You’re spiraling, your chest growing tight, which is a luxury you can’t afford. Panic is your constant companion, hovering behind a gauzy screen, always threatening to break through and consume you.

You conjure up a talisman to ward it off. You envision Mandy.

She came to pick up your keys today and told you she’d be back soon, which sent relief flooding through your body.

She must have gone to your apartment, which means she is getting to know you.

Did her gray eyes roam across the books on your shelves?

That was always your favorite trick for getting a shorthand glimpse into someone’s mind, by discovering what they read.

Did Mandy look into the drawers of your bathroom vanity, smoothing on a bit of your face cream and sniffing your perfumes in their delicate glass bottles?

Did she imagine what it would be like to be you?

And the most important question: Will Mandy help you?

All the evidence you’ve gathered indicates she will. Unless she believes you are guilty.

In that case, you may need to do something else to draw her in.

You stare into the dusky nothingness and will your mind to empty so you can try to tap into the link between you and your twin.

But before you can conjure the connection, an aide appears in your doorway again. The circular beam of light shines on your chest, like a target. A bull’s-eye.

Don’t fall asleep , you instruct yourself.

And then you send up two prayers, the most heartfelt ones you’ve ever willed. Each prayer is directed to a different sister.

Save me, Mandy.

And then: Forgive me, Annabelle.