Page 30 of The Locked Ward

It isn’t until after Caroline leaves and I go to put the creamer back in the refrigerator that I notice it.

The invitations on the side of the fridge include one for an event tomorrow night. I slide the card out from beneath the magnet and study the thick gold script across the top of the coal-black invitation.

It’s a black-tie fundraiser for ALS, with cocktails, appetizers, and a live auction, held in the ballroom of Charlotte Country Club.

There’s a private website for the gala with a password printed at the bottom of the invitation.

It’s easy to access it on my phone. It’s even easier to find the box where I can type in my name and RSVP.

I blink hard when I see the price of a single ticket is $500.

That’s far more than I spend on social activities in a month.

But if I want to learn about Georgia, I need to travel deeper into her world.

At least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is more complicated. I guess I also want the chance to live a little bit longer in Georgia’s shoes.

Still, $500 is a lot of money.

Then I notice something else on the event’s website: the names of the chairs and sponsors, and a link to the list of those who have already RSVP’d.

There’s only one way I can justify sneaking into this event.

I walk into Georgia’s office and sit down at her desk.

I slide open the top drawer and find a silver Montblanc pen in a velvet case and a stack of thick note cards embossed with Georgia’s initials at the top.

I touch my phone’s screen, pulling up the guest list for those who have already RSVP’d to the charity gala.

Then I begin the slow process of cross-referencing those names against the ones in the guest book I took a picture of at the Cartwrights’ house.

By the time I’ve finished, I have seven matching names written on one of Georgia’s note cards—including Colby Dawson, the son of the US senator.

According to the tabloids, Georgia briefly dated him, and she’s known him all her life.

Not only is he attending the fundraiser, but he’s a co-chair of the event.

There’s another co-chair whose name appears on my list from the funeral reception, a guy named Harrison. I google him, noting his prominent nose and teeth and his broad-shouldered physique. If I can’t get to Colby directly, maybe I can get Harrison to introduce me.

I type my name and credit card number into the RSVP box and buy a ticket.

Even though I have a lot to do at home and it’s a ninety-minute drive away, I’m not ready to hit the highway yet. I need to bring Georgia the things I packed for her. But I’m not going to drop them off with a nurse.

I want to see my sister again.

I look up the number for the hospital’s psych ward and dial it, then walk around flicking off the lights in Georgia’s apartment.

The protocol for setting up a visit with a resident on the locked ward is surprisingly easy. A nurse reminds me that I’ll need to bring ID and go through a metal detector and hand-wand check before being allowed onto the floor.

“When would you like to come?”

“Twenty minutes?” I suggest.

“That should work well. The other patients will be starting group activity then. Georgia is taking her shower now, but she’ll be finished and ready for a visit—”

Her voice cuts off as a woman’s long, wailing scream sounds in the distance. I hear someone shouting, then a huge commotion—it sounds like a stampede erupting—before the phone abruptly goes dead.

An electric bolt sears through me. I don’t realize I’m running until I’m halfway down the hall.

I don’t know how I know this, but Georgia is in trouble.

I need to get to my sister.