Page 25 of The Locked Ward

You lie awake in the endless night. Every moment that passes is excruciating. You have only your thoughts to occupy you, and they take you to a very dark place.

You’ve hit Annabelle before, feeling the satisfying crack of your palm against her cheek. You’ve wanted to hurt her so many other times—to rake your nails down her face, yank at her hair, knock her to the ground.

You’ve wished her dead more than once. Sweet Annabelle, who everyone adored. Who your parents always loved far more than they did you.

She was born four months after you were adopted. A miracle baby.

It happens that way sometimes, people said joyously. As if Annabelle were the prize and you merely the placeholder—a superfluous one now.

You stare into nothingness, hoping daylight will break before you do.

Then you remember the therapist’s words from group today: Think about something to distract you when your feelings seem overpowering.

You call up a memory of the life you used to lead, tentatively bringing up the first image, like a tongue testing an aching tooth. It isn’t too painful. So you let the memory bloom.

Your job was to guide brides, to smooth out any wrinkles in their paths, to make them feel special.

You excelled at this. Whatever curveballs life has in store for your brides, and no matter how their marriage is challenged—because it will be one way or another—at least they’ll always have the gilded memory you designed, directed, and delivered.

What you created, in essence, was one perfect day.

You never promised to give them a happy union or change their lives. That was beyond your powers.

But a strange flip occurred recently. Your client Caroline Evers changed your life—permanently.

It started with a discussion about seating arrangements, one of the many land mines of wedding planning.

Caroline came to meet you alone, without her mother or groom.

You were seated at a prime table of a restaurant renowned for its high tea service.

The table was big enough for six, which you’d requested so you could spread out the various seating charts you’d created.

Fresh scones with lemon curd and clotted cream, cucumber finger sandwiches, flutes of champagne and steaming pots of sweetly fragrant herbal tea, classical music playing—every detail was designed to cultivate a relaxed, elegant mood.

“I have no idea where to sit my birth mother,” Caroline confessed moments after she sat down.

Caroline is a gabber. In the months you’ve been working with her, you’ve learned about her sister’s eating disorder, her colleague’s torrid affair, and her recurring nightmare that she’ll trip while walking down the aisle.

“My mom—who adopted me when I was a baby—will be at the head table, of course. But I don’t want my birth mother and my half-siblings sitting in Siberia, you know?”

“How did you connect with your birth mother?” you asked, your skin prickling.

You always gave your clients your sole focus. Caroline’s simple words ruptured your rule. You were thinking about yourself now.

Caroline paused to take a dainty bite of a cucumber sandwich, and you smiled through clenched teeth.

“I found her two years ago,” Caroline finally replied.

“She was seventeen when she had me, and she and my dad weren’t capable of raising a baby.

They ended up getting married eight years later, though, and they had two sons.

My mom—my real mom, the one who raised me—has been so great about it.

Some people might feel threatened, but she invited everyone to dinner. We’ve all gotten pretty close.”

You masked your impatience. “But how did you track her down?” you rephrased, struggling to keep your tone light. You’ve wondered about your own birth mother, of course—especially since you were given to such a nightmare of an adoptive mother.

Caroline sipped her champagne—vintage Dom Pérignon; only the best for your brides—and leaned in closer.

“I hired a private detective. It actually wasn’t that difficult.”

It was easy to get the detective’s name out of Caroline after she downed another glass of champagne. And the next day, you called the PI.

He was an older man named Tony Wagner who gave you his office address and asked you to bring him several documents: your social security card. Your birth certificate. Your driver’s license.

You showed up for your appointment feeling apprehensive. He had thinning gray hair, a trim physique, and was dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. He could probably read the conflicting emotions on your face as you sat across from him in his cluttered office.

“You sure you want to dig all this up?” he asked.

You nodded, even though you suddenly felt very unsure.

“I ask because sometimes, people find out things they didn’t want to know.

” His tone was a little gruff, but you could tell he had a good heart.

Here he was, probably approaching seventy, working alone in a small, windowless office, trying to locate people who didn’t want to be found.

He didn’t wear a wedding ring, and there were no pictures of kids or grandkids around.

Maybe he needed the money, or maybe he just didn’t have much else to do.

“Find out what kind of things?” you asked.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like he was trying to rid himself of the tension he carried.

“Once, I followed a husband who was cheating,” Tony told you. “The wife insisted she wanted to know. But the other woman was her sister. It destroyed her.”

A shadow fell across his face. It was clear the case haunted him.

“The thing is, it wasn’t a big love affair. It only happened a couple times, and as soon as they were found out, they stopped. I always wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t gotten the evidence. Maybe it would have run its course and he would’ve been faithful from then on.”

You wanted to ask what happened to the wife, but something held you back. Maybe you didn’t truly want to know.

Tony kept talking, like he was in confessional, seeking absolution for his sins.

“There was another case once, a guy in his thirties who wanted to know who his birth father was. Turns out the man was in jail for murder. That did a real number on him. The father kept calling him, wanting things. He was a master manipulator. It turned into a real mess.”

Tony looked at you.

“Are you really sure?”

You thought about it. You were far less certain now, but a tiny part of you still held out hope that your birth mother would be lovely and welcoming. That you could finally have a positive family relationship.

You paid Tony’s retainer and thanked him, then went back to work.

You thought it would take a while to hear from him.

But he called later that same day.

“They’ve been lying to you,” he said.