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THE PROTECTOR

I sit in the rental car, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. The air conditioner hums weakly, fighting a losing battle against the oppressive warmth pressing in through the windshield. I run a hand through my short-cropped hair, the dampness at the nape of my neck a constant reminder of the suffocating summer day. My black suit, once sharp and neat, now clings to my broad shoulders, wrinkled and damp with the weight of the journey.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder, snapping me out of my thoughts. I glance at the screen, already knowing who it is. I pick it up and press it to my ear with an exhale.

“Jamie,” Carter’s voice comes through, sharp and no-nonsense, “You said you’d be back in a week, which was nine days ago.”

I can already feel the weight of the place pressing down on me.

“I’m on leave, Carter,” I reply, my voice steady. “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”

“You only took a week off, Jamie,” Carter presses, his tone firmer. “What’s going on? Yesterday, was Director Jefferson’s funeral, we all thought that you would be there.”

I would have, but it was the last place I needed to be, I shouldn’t even be using my phone! After finding out that Ruslan was dead, I called to say that I was on leave for a week, because I didn’t want anyone to come looking for me. I nearly messed up, by saying my brother had been in an accident, because my mind is fucked up with grief, and all this pressure and dead ends of trying to find Ruslan’s killer is not helping at all.

My head is hurting, I’m in this town with a Sheriff that clearly doesn’t want me to be here, and the only witness is being drugged up like crazy in the looney bin and as for Noah, if he’s not smoking then he’s drinking and everything’s leading to a dead end so he’s on edge too.

Everyone is.

The last thing I need is a call from work to ask when I’m coming in, the truth is, I don’t know when, because I’m still trying to figure out if I’m ever going back there again.

I clench my jaw, fingers tightening around the wheel. “My cousin died,” I mutter, the words bitter on my tongue.

There’s a beat of silence before Carter responds, his voice soft but steady. “I didn’t know you had a cousin or any family, because you never talk about them.”

Because it’s none of yours or anyone else’s business. Just because I don’t go to work with photos in my wallet or on my desk doesn’t mean I don’t have any. Besides, everyone has family—whether they are part of their lives or not, is a different matter.

I grind my teeth, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Carter. I’ll be back when I’m back.” I end the call without waiting for a reply, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. It lands with a dull thud, the screen briefly flashing back at me—a reminder of everything I’ve been avoiding.

The heat hits me like a wall when I step out of the car. I adjust my sunglasses and make my way toward the entrance, the gravel crunching under my boots in rhythm to my heart beat. My suit jacket feels heavier now as sweat pools at the small of my back.

If it didn’t have the sign, "Maplewood Institute for Behavioral Health," I'd mistake this place for a luxury spa or a corporate retreat. The building's sleek glass and steel facade gleams under the overcast Ohio sky, a modern monolith that stands in stark contrast to the turmoil roiling inside me.

As I approach the entrance, the automatic doors hiss open, releasing a blast of cold, sterile air that prickles my skin. The scent of antiseptic assaults my senses, with the faint aroma of institutional coffee.

A receptionist sits behind a glass partition, her expression impassive as she glances up. She has dark hair in a bun, with lines on her face which shows that she isn’t young, but then the sadness in her eyes feel as if they are a reflection of my own. As if she bears the same grief that I’m carrying. I nod, a silent acknowledgment, and she returns to her screen The doors close behind me with a soft whoosh, sealing me within this facade of tranquility.

The official story about my boss's death—a supposed suicide in a Manhattan café, which doesn’t add up. He was too confident, too controlled to go out like that. No leads, no investigation—just an open and shut case.

And my brother? Gone the same day. Two deaths, one day, and I'm supposed to believe it's all coincidence? No. This isn't coincidence; it's a message. A calculated move in a game I never intended to play.

I feel like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, the ground crumbling beneath my feet. The world I knew has been dismantled, piece by piece, leaving only questions and a burning need for answers.

The receptionist looks up once again as I approach the desk with her tired eyes meeting mine. “Mr. Turner?” she asks, her voice polite, but distant.

For a second, I forget that I’m using an alias. Noah even warned me about turning my phone on, but I have a job. Even if I don’t feel like going in or being a part of it right now, I still have one. So, I have to keep the lines open. The last thing I need is for someone to come looking for me.

The first few days here, I decided to keep low, because I was in shock. Then, Molly came to keep Noah company.

She came to comfort him, after the loss of his dad, my brother Ruslan. Seeing them together in the housemade me jealous, even more than when I first went to the house, to discover that Hunter and Noah have been acting as father and son for the last few years.

My brother’s still in the freezer, because I told the funeral home, I’m not ready to bury him yet. Even in death, I’m being a shit brother. I’ll bury him when I’m ready and I’ll be ready when I kill, whoever killed him.

I flash my badge without a word, slipping it back into my jacket as I respond. “I’m here to see her.”

The nurse hesitates, then purses her lips, her expression unreadable. “I’m afraid there’s been... an incident. She doesn’t sleep and we had to strap her to the bed the other night, because thinks that some men are trying to kill her, and one is a shadow and the other a ghost.”

Ah, so she’s dreaming about Ruslan and I. When I entered the interrogation room, I knew that it wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t thinking straight, because I just learned that my brother had been killed. I've had time to calm down since then, but it still doesn’t change the fact that someone wants her dead, and my brother died saving her perhaps.

“And?” I ask.

“We had to take precautions!” She snaps. She works in a mental institute. This is the first place that she should expect drama, because most of the people here are mentally unstable. Maybe she missed the brief when they were explaining all this to her. She irritated me, from the moment I met her and she called me “Mr. Turner”, even if it is not my real names he should have called me Agent Turner. Clearly, she doesn’t understand the meaning of respect.

I cut her off with a sharp glance. “So, what did you do to her?”

Without waiting for a response, I walk up to the first set of doors, my boots echoing down the empty hall.

“Give me the code!” I demand.

She doesn’t say anything, but then I’m soon met with security who enters the code. The corridors feel endless, the doors uniform, white, and unmarked with small wire-reinforced windows.

The security guard—a man in his early fifties, with a shaved head and a build that suggests years of physical labor—approaches silently. His uniform is crisp, the badge on his chest catches the sterile overhead lights. Without a word, he swipes his access card and enters a code into the keypad beside the door. The lock disengages with a soft click, and he gestures for me to proceed.

Every door we pass is identical, sometimes a shadow moves behind one, a fleeting reminder of the lives contained within.

The guard walks a pace ahead, his footsteps echoing softly on the linoleum floor. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t speak. We reach another secured door. He repeats the process: swipe, code, click. The door opens, revealing another stretch of corridor. I realize then that this place is a maze, designed not just to contain, but to disorient. I follow the guard deeper into the facility, and remind myself that he’s not taking me on a tour, but to see Penelope.

Then he stops at the door, uses his access card and then points to it. It’s her room, still we don’t exchange words, and he doesn’t leave my side as I open it. With a slow breath, I push it open, and someone is over a nearly lifeless Penelope trying to shove a needle into her arm.

I storm into the room, my heart pounding, my vision sharpens, and a snarl rips from my throat, primal and unforgiving. She lies sprawled on the cold floor, her breaths shallow, her body too still. The sight ignites something savage inside me, a wildfire of rage and desperation.

I wrap my fingers around his neck and wheeze whatever breath he has coming from it, out of him.He stills his arm extending in a show of surrender.

I relax my hand on his throat, but I don’t take it away. The man sucks in large breaths.

“What the fuck!” I snarl.

My eyes dart to the door, to see that the security guard I came with, is no longer there.

Fuck!

They are probably in this together.

“Don’t hurt me. I need the money…” His dark eyes are full of tears. He has fear in him. Fear of what I’m about to do to him, or what will happen if he doesn’t kill Penelope.

I chuckle, as if he thinks I’ll believe him. But this nurse. Or auxiliary whatever they call them nowadays isn’t the one who killed my brother. He could be telling the truth. Maybe.

“I got a phone call. Give this to her, and then ten thousand will be deposited in my account.”

I don’t want to believe him, so I grab his phone and sure enough the messages are about money. I toss him and the phone to the side. I don’t have time for all this, she’s supposed to be safe here, but someone is going to such great lengths to make sure she dies.

The question is who?

I need to find my brother’s killer, but instead all I’m thinking about is protecting her at all costs. Someone has put a price as low as ten thousand on her head, which makes me feel sick.

She’s not safe there, she’s not safe anywhere unless I am protecting her. First, I’ll get her out of here, because she’s not staying another night. There’s no way I’m going to be organizing two funerals, one is enough for me to handle right now.

“Go tell the Sheriff your story and see if he can help you.”

“What are you going to do?” The nurse asks as he remains on the floor. My fist crashes into his jaw, one clean, brutal swing—and he drops like dead weight. No hesitation. No mercy. Just silence.

And right on cue, the suits swarm in—security and muscle, all too late to stop me.

I break my one rule and work on a case that I have no business working on and to make things worse, I walk out of the asylum with Penelope as if she’s fucking Jane and I’m fucking Tarzan. It’s as if I’m on a spiral downward when it comes to all my rules.

Why does she make me feel this way?

Her face becomes a vision before me, but in my vision she’s not sitting across the table from me eating breakfast. She’s on her hands and knees ready to satisfy me. I think this is the reason I’m drawn to her, it has nothing to do with my brother, but everything to do with her innocence. Her heart being pure and untarnished with all that she has been through. Whereas there's a darkness in mine. I didn’t just want to hurt the nurse for injecting poison into her and trying to kill her. I wanted to tear him from limb-to-limb. Whenever, I was Ruslan then I could act out my sadist acts and no one would judge me, or even put me behind bars.

Penelope can’t handle the thoughts that run through my mind.

Then again, I remember the way Penelope looked at me as I stepped into the integration room. It’s as if she could see the darkness in me. She needs to stay as far away from me as possible, but she can’t, because I rescued her from the fucking asylum and I have no intention of letting her go.