Authors: Minka Kent
“Honestly, I haven’t the slightest clue.”
“Was I friends with Brienne? Outside of work?” I ask.
Niall swallows. “You hired her on at your insurance agency originally. The two of you hit it off. Became friends outside the office—against my advice, I might add. Mixing business and pleasure is almost always a recipe for disaster. Anyway, you were introduced to her friends, and she was always around after that. Until, you know . . .”
“How long did she work for me?”
“Not long. Less than a year. Things kind of went south between the two of you when you started acting strangely.”
“I became her? Just like that?”
“As strange as it sounds: yes.” He switches lanes, adjusts his mirror. “Everything about you, Kate . . . was her. You became Brienne in every way possible. You started cutting your hair like hers, buying the same clothes and shoes as her. You started wearing the same perfume. Even your mannerisms, your drinks, your music tastes. At first I thought it was a phase, that you were assimilating yourself into your new group of friends, but after a while, I realized you’d taken it further than that.”
I peel my cheek from the window and roll it down.
I need air.
“You doing okay?” He looks toward me, and I don’t have to see the pained expression on his face to know it’s there.
“No,” I say. “I’m not doing okay.”
And it just might be the truest thing I’ve said in a long time.
CHAPTER 22
“We don’t have to go in yet,” Niall tells me, letting the engine idle when we arrive. “I mean, if you want to sit here for a while, we can. I know this must be difficult for you.”
The Crestview Psychiatric Center isn’t at all what I expected. It’s a hundred-year-old Gothic Revival manor in the middle of a half-gentrified residential neighborhood. A weatherworn wooden sign hangs from a post in the front yard, and there’s a small parking lot in the back; otherwise, there would be nothing differentiating it from the other homes on the block, something I assume is intentional given the fact that it’s a private facility.
I study the exterior, noting the fresh-cut grass and its diagonal pattern, the century oaks that line the street and shade the sidewalks, the potted plants and planted perennials that offer a splash of color to an otherwise foreboding brick-and-black frontage.
Sitting in the car, I watch staff enter and exit from a side door. I watch an older woman and her husband disappear inside. I watch a man lead a small mutt across the street, stopping to chat with a neighbor. And then I watch Niall—watching me.
“I hate this,” he says, breaking his silence. “Almost feels like I’m abandoning you.” Niall’s generous hands splay across his thighs, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s just as nerve-ridden as I am. “Didn’t think
I’d be doing this again.” He turns to me. “But everything’s going to be fine. Just like last time. And we’ll be together again before you know it. You’re resilient, Kate. You’ve been through more than anyone else I know, and you always come out on top. We’re going to beat this. We’re going to get our life back.”
Taking his hand, I thread my fingers through his.
“I’m ready,” I say, even if it isn’t true.
I think about the other Brienne—the real Brienne. And how awful it must be for her to have experienced the horror of someone taking her identity.
I can’t do that to her again.
And I can’t do that to Niall.
He’s clearly still in love with Kate—with me.
And he deserves to have her back.
PART 2
N
IALL
CHAPTER 23
“Here we are,” the center administrator says, inserting a set of keys into the lock on the door. Her name is Cynthia Braddish, and she walks like a woman on a power trip, but she drives a dented Kia—I saw her climbing out of it when we first arrived. Still, I don’t hold it against her. In fact, I find those kinds of contradictions fascinating. Everything you need to know about people can be found in the things they
don’t
talk about. “We’ve assigned you to room seventeen.”
The room is small, ten by ten if that. She’s got a decent-sized window, fixed of course, with room-darkening curtains, and there’s a bathroom in the hall that she’ll share with three other rooms, much like a college dorm setting.
Crestview is a twenty-eight-bed operation in the middle of some South Dakotan town no one’s ever heard of, and it’s 100 percent private pay. They cater mostly to the well-to-do, those wanting to hide away while they get better, those wanting to fly under the radar—and that’s exactly what we need, or the entirety of Quinnesec Bluff will know our business by the end of the weekend.
I wheel her bag to the corner of her room and park it beside a small dresser that appears to be secured to the wall.
She takes a seat on the side of a twin mattress. There are no headboards. Nothing metal or ornamental or potentially hazardous. A
frameless oil painting on simple canvas is mounted to the far wall, but other than that, it’s austerity at its finest—which is exactly what she needs after everything she’s gone through in the last twenty-four hours.
“How long was I away last time?” she asks. There’s a childlike sadness in her eyes as she stares up at me with her deep-set gaze.
“It wasn’t longer than a month,” I say.
“We’ll do our best to make your path to wellness as efficient as possible,” the center administrator says from the doorway, her posture rigid. “But we do ask that you try your best to take it one day at a time.”
Cynthia’s gaze passes between the two of us, like she’s anxious for me to leave before one of us changes our mind. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner she can bleed us dry. This place isn’t cheap. Six hundred twenty dollars a night, last I checked. I could put her up at a Four Seasons for less than that, but this is what she needs.
It’s the way it has to be.
It’s the only way.
“Mrs. Emberlin, we have you scheduled for your complete physical evaluation in an hour and a half. They’re getting ready to serve lunch in about twenty minutes. I can walk you to the dining hall now if you’re hungry?” Cynthia motions for us to exit the room. “Dr. Emberlin, you said you had some records for me?”
“Right,” I say. “I’ll grab them as soon as we’re finished here.”
“Perfect. I have a few forms for you to sign before you leave as well.” She redirects her attention, pivoting on the ball of her foot. “And Mrs. Emberlin, you do understand that your husband is acting as your agent in accordance with your psychiatric advance directive, and that while your stay technically falls under voluntary committal, you are not permitted to come and go as you please.”
“It’s just a technicality,” I add. I go to her, taking her hands in mine. “And I’ll come see you every weekend. You’ll be home before you know it.”
“Thirty days, Niall,” she says. Her glassy blues squeeze shut, and she bites her lip to stop it from quivering, a far departure from her determined mind-set in the car a short while ago.
“You can do this. You’ve done it before,” I say. I almost add, “Remember?” But then I catch myself.
Of course she doesn’t remember.
She won’t.
She can’t.
And she’ll never.
Because it never happened.
“I love you,” I lie, cupping her cheek before depositing an unfeeling kiss on her trembling mouth. She doesn’t want to be here, and I don’t blame her. I saw the medicated zombies perched on chairs in the “social hall” on our way in here. I heard the wailing screams coming from behind closed doors. I saw the orderlies running down the halls with syringes full of tranquilizers in their hands. I felt the burn of airborne bleach and antiseptic as it filled my lungs.
She doesn’t belong here.
But she doesn’t know that.
“Mrs. Emberlin,” Cynthia says, “I’d hate for you to miss lunch as we don’t serve dinner until six PM. Why don’t you come with me?”
She throws her arms around me, clinging to me like a child silently begging not to be left at summer camp, and then she lets me go.
I watch her trek down the hall, my chest bursting with pride at the fact that I’m a goddamned genius and I pulled this off—not that I doubted myself for one second.
CHAPTER 24
“If you’ll just sign here.” Cynthia presses a garish red fingernail against a highlighted line at the bottom of a legal-sized sheet filled with fine print.
I have no idea what I’m signing. I haven’t read any of it, only pretended, ensuring it seems as though I’m taking my time. All I know (and all that matters) is that I’m committing her, and they won’t let her leave without my permission. By the time they realize what’s going on, I’ll be long gone. Unreachable and untraceable, my pockets fat with Dougray dollar bills.
“And did you have a preferential method of payment?” Cynthia asks. “We accept all major credit cards as well as personal and bankers’ checks.”
I retrieve the cashier’s check from my wallet that I’d had prepared yesterday afternoon as I was putting the finishing touches on this piece of my plan. It took a bit of finagling, transferring money from one of Brienne’s accounts to another and stopping into her local bank branch armed with Photoshopped documents designating me as Brienne Dougray’s power of attorney, but I managed to move twenty grand around without getting any guff.
It’s amazing how easy it is to get people to trust you when you’re dressed in hospital scrubs and offer a compassionate “good doctor” smile to anyone who so much as looks your way.
Perception is everything.
And at the end of the day, people believe what they want to believe, and no one wants to believe someone who looks so nice could be anything but.
“Perfect.” Cynthia records the check number in her computer and places the check in a nearby leather pouch. “And you’d mentioned medical records?”
I produce the manila folder I’d grabbed from the back of my car when we first came in.
I’m nothing if not prepared.
“Oh.” Cynthia nips the inner corner of her lip. “These aren’t sealed. Technically they have to be sealed, or they have to come directly from the previous provider to us; otherwise we can’t use them.”
I’m well aware.
But I need to buy some time.
“Yes, well, everything happened so quickly. All I had on hand were our personal copies,” I say. “This should hopefully get you by until I can put in the request with the last hospital.”
Cynthia gives me a nod and nothing more. Legally she can’t use these records, but she’s not about to discharge us and lose out on this easy windfall.
“If there’s no further paperwork, I should head back to Iowa.” I stand and check my watch. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long.
“Of course,” Cynthia says. She walks me to the front door. “Your wife is in good hands, Dr. Emberlin. We’ll take excellent care of her. Dr. Schneider is one of the best; in fact, he’s published several papers on dissociative identity disorder.”
I clear my throat.
That fact was one I wasn’t exactly aware of when I chose this facility.
I reply with a quick and cordial, “Why do you think I chose Crestview?”
“Feel free to call for updates anytime you need, day or night,” she says. “Mrs. Emberlin did sign a release and you’re listed on her directive, so you’re privy to any and all her treatment plan and progress notes.”
I manage a polite smile despite the fact that this woman is wasting my time.
I’ve got quite the to-do list.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for the door, which happens to be locked. A small sign on pink paper instructs me to press the button to my left to be buzzed out.
This might not be Fort Knox, but it’ll suffice, and Brienne’s so tame and obedient, she’s not going to try something crazy—like escaping.
I’m not sure how long this will take or how the hell these people are going to convince her she’s someone who never existed in the first place, but by the time anyone gets so much as an inkling that something isn’t adding up, it won’t be my problem.
A woman from behind a glass window buzzes me out, and I greet the Saturday late-morning sun with a shit-eating grin on my face.
Climbing into my glistening Volvo, which is a far cry from anything I’d ever drive by choice, I start the engine, roll the driver’s side window all the way down, and crank the volume on the classic rock station buried behind the NPR channel in my presets.
The wind messes up my perfectly coiffed hair, and for a second it feels good to be a little less than polished.
The rush.
I live for this rush.
And I can breathe again.
God, I can breathe.
I drive two straight hours, high as a kite on a cocktail of adrenaline and self-satisfaction, and I don’t think of Brienne.
Not once.
CHAPTER 25
The banks are all closed by the time I get back to Quinnesec Bluff that afternoon, but it doesn’t matter. It just gives me more time to get everything in order for next week.
There’s a locked file cabinet in Brienne’s office, one that I’m positive contains more bank statements and any and all account numbers I’ve yet to locate.
If only I could find a damn key.
Worst-case scenario, I’ll call a locksmith.
But this is exactly why I needed to have her committed—so I could gain full access to every file, every drawer, every record she has. It’s impossible to go rifling through someone’s private effects when they never leave their home. A handful of times I’d considered doing my dirty work when she was out cold with one of her migraines, but one misstep and all this would be for nothing.
When I get home, I’m famished. I snatch a coupon from a stack of mail and order a pizza. It’s too bad they don’t deliver beer. If I have to swirl and sniff another glass of cabernet, I’m going to gouge my eyes out with one of those flimsy self-defense weapons Brienne carries around on her key chain.
Grabbing my phone again, I text Samantha the address to Brienne’s house and tell her to grab a case of Old Milwaukee on her way. She
replies in an instant, ever the accommodating girlfriend, and I settle into the couch in the room Brienne refers to as “the back parlor.”
So many times I wanted to scream in her face when she referred to the
parlor
or the
scullery
or mentioned washing the windows in the third-floor
turret
.