Page 46 of The Locked Ward

I stare at my computer screen, watching the video continue to play.

I’m sure of one thing: It wasn’t Georgia who ordered that drink. She would have stood out in my bar like a diamond on a dark surface.

She must have sent someone in to spy on me.

While I remained oblivious, Georgia watched me until she needed me.

My body feels tight and rigid, like it needs to release a violent explosion of energy.

I wish I could grab my sister by her thin, sculped shoulders and roughly shake her.

She sent someone to my town, to my bar, to violate my space.

The video stops playing. But there are two more on the thumb drive. I unclench my fists and click play on the second one.

It makes everything so much worse.

This one is of me in leggings and a T-shirt and jean jacket going into the indie bookstore on our town’s main shopping street.

The timestamp is 11:46 A.M. , again about a month ago.

The camera follows me inside. I see myself browsing the aisles, ducking in and out of the picture as the person tracking me slowly traces my path.

Then I reach for a book on the shelf of “staff-recommended” classics: The Age of Innocence . The one I couldn’t believe Georgia was reading, too.

A dark mist descends in front of my eyes. She set me up. We didn’t spontaneously pick the same book to read because of some eerie twin synergy. It was orchestrated.

The question roars through my mind: How long was Georgia having me followed, and what else did she see?

I take a few breaths, trying to think clearly through the adrenaline coursing through my brain.

I bought that novel recently. It’s possible Georgia told the truth when she said she’d only known of my existence for a month.

But right now, I’m not inclined to believe anything she says.

She also told me she didn’t kill Annabelle.

That could’ve been the biggest lie of all.

I pace around my apartment, yearning to put my fist through the drywall.

Then I come back to the counter, gripping its hard edges with both hands while I look down at my laptop’s screen.

There’s a third video. I’m almost afraid to play it—but not because I’m scared of what I might see. I’m scared of what I might do.

The anger engulfing me feels overpowering, like a rogue wave sweeping me up. I’ve felt like this a few times before, like when a guy in my bar was hitting his girlfriend in the face. I didn’t hesitate; I jumped on top of my bar, leaned over, and dug my fingers into his eyes.

“Was it a case of life or death?” a police officer asked me after the guy had been taken away in an ambulance.

“Absolutely,” I told the cops. But the truth is, it wasn’t—at least not in that moment.

He was hitting her with an open hand, not a fist. He didn’t seem out of control; he probably would have stopped quickly.

But he wouldn’t have been adequately punished.

He would have struck her and other women again and again, sometimes in locations where no one could intervene.

There was one other time in college when that kind of rage swept over me after my roommate, Beth, was assaulted at the fraternity party, but I don’t let myself think about that night very often.

I open the cabinet above my fridge, standing on my tiptoes to reach the bottle of Maker’s Mark.

I take a big gulp straight from the bottle.

It sears my throat and chest, but it helps.

I know I’m going to need a lot more before I’ll be able to sleep tonight, so I take down a glass and fill it with ice and pour a few fingers over it.

Then I start to plan.

First thing in the morning, I’ll head back to the hospital. I’m sick of the drive already, but I have to see Georgia. It may be the last time I ever will, because if she doesn’t answer my questions, I’m walking away for good.

Then I’ll visit the Cartwrights. I’ve already got an idea for a cover story. By tomorrow afternoon, with help from my photo of the guest book signatures at Annabelle’s funeral, it should be perfected.

When I call the nurses to tell them I’m coming in to visit Georgia, I’ll ask if I can bring her a small gift. It isn’t anything that can be used as a weapon. I’ll ask them not to tell her. I’ll say I’d like to surprise her.

I sip bourbon until I feel calm enough to watch the third video.

The focus of this one is an apartment building I don’t recognize. It looks as luxurious as the one Georgia lives in, and although I can see the numbers on the front of the gray stone building—4402—there’s no street name visible.

The video was taken at nighttime; it’s dark out, but the entrance to the building is brightly lit. The timestamp of this one is 11:28 P.M. , and it’s dated a few weeks ago.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then a man hurries out the main door of the building, his head down low. The camera zooms in, swiveling to capture the man’s movements. I lean in closer, noting his hair is silver and he’s wearing a navy blue blazer over a blue-and-white-striped oxford shirt.

When he turns his head before crossing the street, I catch a full-on glimpse of his face. It’s Senator Dawson.

The video stops playing after the senator gets into his black sedan and drives away.

I play it again, scrutinizing it for details I might have missed, but I can’t make sense of why Georgia would have this particular video.

She’d better tell me tomorrow.