Page 24

Everyone keeps calling me Emma Faust.

But my name is Eve Palmer. My current residence is 3709 Heritage Lane. My partner, the love of my life, is Charlie Bastion. We’ve been together for the better part of the last decade. I don’t care what my supposed birth certificate says, what my ID reads—my name is Eve Palmer, but everyone keeps calling me Emma Faust.

And somehow, according to more “official documents,” Thomas owns the house. “Our” parents left it to him, and he’s presumably lived there with his family for over a decade. All the neighbors vouch for him, Heather included. Of the few people I’ve been able to contact from my old life, none of them know who I am. Not even my own “parents.” And Charlie? I’ll get to that.

As far as I can tell, I look the way I always have, but everyone treats me like I’m a completely different person. It’s like I’ve been forced into a different reality altogether. Or maybe everything around me changed. I’m still figuring it all out.

But whatever happened, now, beyond all logic, all justice, I’m locked away in Greenwood Asylum, a criminal psych ward in downstate Washington. Cooped up in a room no bigger than a walk-in closet. Beige walls. Cold light. Rickety bed. My only solace is a barred window overlooking a pond of turtles. I’ve memorized their routines, their hierarchies, who gets the best spot on the toppled log (that would be Greg). I’ve been here almost three years now. Feels like ten.

And thanks to the televised trial and the never-ending parade of tabloids, that horrific night was transformed into a nationwide spectacle. The vultures with cameras and microphones tastefully coined it the Faust Family Bloodbath. I suppose there’s a ring to it. But still, many of those headlines are forever burned into my brainstem:

“AFTER GOOD SAMARITAN brOTHER THREATENS EVICTION, MANIAC SISTER brUTALIZES FAMILY”

“RUMOR ALERT: AVOIDING RESPONSIBILITY? EMMA FAUST CLAIMS SHE WAS ‘HAUNTED BY AN EVIL SPIRIT THAT BENT REALITY’ AND… REARRANGED FURNITURE?! FIND OUT MORE IN OUR EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH A NEIGHBORING COUPLE AT 8 P.M. PST”

“FROM YOUNG FAITHFUL PROTESTANT—TO VENGEFUL PSYCHO-KILLER. THE EMMA FAUST STORY. A FIVE-PART MINISERIES”

I will spare you the rest.

After that night, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I was charged with one count homicide and one count attempted, but the jury found me “not guilty by reason of insanity.” Somehow that felt worse than a conviction.

Though, after the trial, a small but loyal group of supporters formed. Some of them even wrote me letters and sent gifts. (I’m pretty sure more than a few of them are suffering from actual delusions, but still, it’s nice to have support, no matter where from. No matter how fleeting.)

And circling back to Greenwood Asylum, let’s just say, it’s not what I’d expected. Before all this, I’d half imagined these places to be sprawling Gothic compounds: gargoyles, pointed roofs, swirling bats—all of it stowed away at the top of a perpetually stormy mountain, but…

Greenwood is across the street from a dairy farm and a Dollar General. And aside from the “secure-cell wings,” it looks more like a low-cost nursing home than a baroque prison. Sky-blue walls, nonslip flooring. There’s even a small library and a room with puzzles and board games for “lower-risk” residents.

But don’t let all that fool you: this place is hell. Overcrowded, underfunded hell. No pits of fire, but those secure-cell wings are a close substitution. I spent my first three months in one of those underground nightmares—screaming and… I can’t even talk about it without snapping back into full-blown terror, so let’s not.

Of course, everything here, no matter the wing, is carefully controlled. Obsessively curated. Cameras in every corner, guards in every hall. Door handles are slanted downward to prevent hangings, and all the cutlery is made of flimsy plastic to prevent… well, you can imagine.

Now, my daily routine consists of pills at 8:00 a.m., a supervised “nature” walk at 9:00 (ten minutes of standing in a gravel courtyard next to a dying tree), pills at noon, group “therapy” at 2:00, pills at 6:00. And, once a month, a fifteen-minute debrief with the lead doctor, Preston Karver.

A name that about matches the way he looks: a tall, graying wisp of a man with a severe way about him.

I learned pretty fast (once I’d broken out of my three-month mania) that if I ever wanted to see the light of day, I needed to be strategic about how I talked with Dr. Karver, how I acted in general. When I first came in, I was frantic, desperately trying to prove my side of the story. Rambling about my past life, Charlie, Shylo, the evidence back at the house, photographs and the like. Things that would prove I was Eve Palmer—prove my version of events.

Soon enough, it became clear none of this evidence existed anymore. And even if it did, I’d need a lot more than a box of photographs to convince anyone with actual authority. So I learned to play along, to pretend my so-called delusions were just that: fantasies. Nothing more than a complex narrative I’d spun to “cope with my heinous crimes.” I pretended I was getting better, bit by bit. Saying anything I could to shorten my time locked up here. To avoid those secure-cell wings.

But all the while, I knew what the truth was. You don’t need a PhD to know that actual psychotic delusions and hallucinations don’t resemble what I experienced—so sudden and impossibly intricate. These weren’t hallucinations. These weren’t delusions. Somehow Thomas, or something in that house, twisted reality around me like a frayed wire. And maybe his “sister” Alison was in on it too. As for the rest of his family—Paige, Newton, Jenny, Kai—I’m not sure if they were mindless puppets, hostages, or something in between. Who knows?

In the weeks following the… incident, I thought everyone was playing some terrible trick on me. Even the doctors. But I soon dropped that conviction. For the most part, they were all just as confused as I was. Like I said, neighbors, friends, my own “parents,” almost no one recognizes me anymore. And the few who do insist my name is Emma Faust.

Charlie included.

About half a year into my incarceration, after dozens of tries, I finally got ahold of her, or rather, this “Charlotte” version of her. It was a Monday, or maybe a Tuesday. I was sitting alone in the ward’s windowless phone room. Nothing but the sound of the creaky ventilation, the buzz of lights, the murmurs of the staff outside.

As I held the phone to my ear, the dial tone rang out three times, and then—

“Hello?”

Even knowing it wasn’t my Charlie, simply hearing her voice filled me with hope. Like I’d been lost in a desert, dying of thirst, and come across a stale puddle. “Charlie,” I said. “It’s Eve, er, Emma. I, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”

“I know.” Charlie (Charlotte) paused, the silence heavy. “I’m sorry, I just, it’s been a lot with the news, reporters, and I’ve been— I…”

“Charlie, er, Charlotte.” Several thoughts came out at once: “I’m, I— I didn’t, what they’re saying about me it’s not, it’s…”

I refocused, calmed myself. Breathe in. Breathe out. “I’ve been gathering evidence, and soon I’ll be able to prove my side of the story. I— I’ve found articles online, documents—bread crumbs. There’s even a doctor in Norway, he had this patient with a similar thing, and, and, I’m not the only person this has happened to, I—”

“Emma,” she cut in, sounding on the verge of tears. “I love you, despite how things ended between us, despite all this, I always will, but I can’t. I just—I can’t. I only answered because… I hope you get the help you need and—” Her voice cracked. “I can’t do this, I have, sorry, I have to go—”

“Wait, Charlie, please, please, don’t hang up. I…”

No response. Charlotte’s breathing. And then, a soft voice in the background, an unfamiliar woman. “Is… everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte replied, her voice turning from the phone. “I’ll just be a second. Go back to bed.” More silence. Had the call dropped?

“Charlotte…?”

“… Yeah?”

Almost to myself, I said, “What— Why did we end things?”

“… You really don’t remember?”

I shook my head, “I don’t…”

“It’s…” Charlotte sighed. “I don’t think it’s a—”

“Just… tell me.”

Another painfully long silence. The buzz of lights. A ticking clock. Charlotte relented. “I— I woke up one night; your side of the bed was empty. You were in the living room, packing up your things. You barely said a word, you just… you just left.”

Dead air.

Voice hushed, I said, “Why…?”

“Why?” Charlotte absentmindedly clicked her teeth, just like Charlie used to do when she was stressed out. “I…” Charlotte sighed again. “I’ve been wondering that for the last few years, Emma.” A short pause. “Look, I need to get—”

“The locket,” I suddenly remembered. “Paige, she was wearing your locket. She was—”

“Locket?”

“The brass one, the one with the photo of me, the—”

“Paige was…? Emma, I don’t have— You need to let this go. All of this. You need to listen to the doctors, focus on getting better. Okay? I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more to—”

“No, wait, I—”

CLICK.

And with that, Charlotte ended the call. I didn’t burst into tears. I didn’t even slam the phone into the receiver. Instead, I gently set it down, took a deep breath, and exhaled. My resolve to get out of here only grew stronger.

If Greenwood Asylum didn’t have a library, there’s a good chance I would’ve actually lost my mind. And for patients who showcase “exceptionally good behavior,” there are computers with internet. Slow internet, ten minutes a day, but still. That’s where I was doing my research, outlining the real version of events, putting together my case. Like I said to “Charlotte,” I was gathering evidence, documents. Nothing big enough to convince skeptics, but…

Eventually I just stopped. I stopped because the more bread crumbs of “proof” I found, the worse I felt. Like something was toying with me, giving me rays of hope, only to send me plummeting into more panic spirals. Hell, after coming across a stupid forum post about the Mandela effect, I fell into a state of terror so profound, I nearly got thrown back into the secure-cell wing. There’s no telling what will set me off these days. Maybe Charlotte was right, I had thought. Maybe I should just listen to the doctors, focus on getting better.

So I went back to simply playing along, pretending like I was just another patient. Taking my pills. Going on my “nature” walks. Staying away from those library computers. Waiting until I could finally get out on probation. So long as I could avoid the secure-cell wing—stay stable, say the right things to the doctors—if nothing set me off, then maybe I could, at the very least, escape Greenwood.

Despite everything, I was hopeful. At least, I was until a few days ago…

I was lying on my bed when my eyes caught something—up on the white stucco ceiling: a solitary ant wandering in aimless circles—

“Emma?” A voice snapped me out of my daze. I turned. Standing in the doorway was a nurse with two security guards behind her. “Someone’s here to see you.”

Cold fluorescent light flickered over the family visitation area. White brick walls. Checkered tile floors. Spaced-apart tables. In the far corner, a play mat covered in long-neglected toys. Duplo, Lincoln Logs, stuffed animals. Guards stood at attention in every doorway.

The main door buzzed open and in walked:

Thomas Faust.

My so-called brother. A cold chill ran down my back, and my heart spasmed with a nauseating lurch. He caught my eyes from across the room and gave a bleak smile. The side of his face was gashed with a familiar scar, but considering the injury, it was surprisingly well-healed. And all his teeth were back. Dental implants?

I looked down at my handcuffed wrists, avoiding eye contact. Thomas padded over, pulled up a chair, and sat across from me. A long silence passed. Those buzzing lights. Distant weeping, muffled and sorrowful, slowly turning into maniacal screams, then falling silent.

“Emma?” Thomas nudged, finally breaking the silence.

I didn’t look up. My eyes traced back and forth along the handcuffs’ chain—it was attached to a metal hook in the table’s center.

He cleared his throat. “They didn’t tell you I was coming?”

I remained silent.

“It…” Thomas spoke softly. “It’s okay if you’re still not ready to talk. I understand. I just, I needed to share a few things.” Again, he waited for me to acknowledge him. But I kept my eyes down, kept quiet. After another long stretch of nothing, he continued. “This, I’m not good with this sort of…” He tapped a finger against the table. “This was kind of a while back, but… you remember Buckley, right?”

Nope.

Regardless, Thomas went on. “Buckley,” he said, “the chocolate Lab we got from the neighbors… I told Mom and Dad I’d take care of him.” He breathed out his nose. “For two years, he was so good and then he just, out of nowhere, attacked me, bit my arm. We tried to put him up for adoption, but… well, you know.” He paused. “Everyone kept trying to make me feel better. Except Dad: he said I needed to get over it by the end of the week.” Thomas chuckled bitterly. “Mom told me pets come and go all the time, it’s part of life. Buckley’s up in heaven now.” Thomas sighed, shifting his weight. “You— You were so young back then, I don’t know if you remember this, but… you’re the only one who actually made me feel any better.”

Leery, I looked up.

Thomas was gazing down at the table now. “You just sat beside me,” he continued, “wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and let me cry. That’s it. No lessons. No advice. No ultimatums. You just sat there quietly, and that reminded me it’s okay to feel like shit sometimes.” He sniffed a little, eyes starting to water. “Gosh, Emma. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened lately and…”

He looked right at me. I looked away, focusing on a pockmark in the wall.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk,” he repeated. “I get it. I just wanted to let you know that…” He fell silent, thinking over his next words carefully. “I’ve been working on myself a lot, and through all this… recovering after my injuries, Paige’s passing, raising the kids. I’ve rejoined the church. Don’t know if you even knew I’d lost my faith, but…” He paused, again expecting me to say something. And still, I remained silent. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been talking with the doctors here, and they said you’ve made a lot of progress… They said as long as you keep at it, keep improving, following their guidance—as long as nothing unexpected sets you off—you could be out on probation sooner than you think.”

In the corner of my eye, he kept staring at me, a blurred visage. Again the sincerity in his voice sent a cold wash of doubt into my psyche. Was I truly insane after all? Maybe I was supposed to be here. No, that—

“Look,” he said. “I’ve come to accept you weren’t in control of your actions. You have a condition. A condition you’re being treated for and—I just wanted to let you know that… Emma?” He leaned in slightly. “Emma, could you look at me?”

Slowly, I turned and stared blankly into his eyes.

He stared back and then, with a sad smile, said, “I forgive you.”

The words lingered between us like a rotting stench, but my expression remained neutral. A few tense seconds went by until he nodded slowly and put up his hands in a little surrender. “I understand. We can talk when you’re ready.” He stood up, turned to leave, and froze. “Oh… I almost forgot.” Stepping back, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a manila envelope. “The guards said I could leave this here.” He placed it on the table. “I know it meant a lot to you and Charlie.”

Charlie?

For the last time, I looked at him. His somber face twitched, a barely perceptible movement below his right eye. Then he knocked the table twice, turned around, and went for the exit. Footsteps punctuated the silence. The door buzzed shut as he left.

I just sat there, staring at the envelope. I already knew what was inside—but I couldn’t bring myself to look. Once again, seconds dragged by like minutes until finally I reached forward, opened it, looked inside… Just as I expected, it was the locket. Charlie’s locket.

I pulled it out, flicked it open, and…

There it was. The blurry photo of me. The one Charlie took when we first started dating. The one she put up in her gallery on that rain-soaked day in Rochester all those years ago. The one in which, at the last second, I’d turned away, held up a hand, and hid my face.

The only known photo of Eve Palmer.