Page 2 of Waysider
The buzzing was still grating in her ears. It felt strange to thank the woman, so Cass just turned away, pocketing her license. She grasped the long door handle and pulled it open. The buzzing finally stopped. At the same moment Cass stepped over the threshold, the woman’s voice stopped her.
“You want to know the fucked up part? I mean, more fucked up than him eating her ear?”
“Jesus,” Cal muttered.
“I guess,” Cass answered, ignoring him again. She stood with one foot on each side of the doorway, her head turned toward the waiting room and the woman behind the glass. The redhead took another puff of her cigarette, her eyebrows drawn together. Smoke floated around her face and made her eyes hazy as she said, “Even after that happened, she kept sending him letters.”
Cass’s expression didn’t change. She lingered there for another moment, looking back at the woman too calmly for someone that was about to do what she was. Anyone that knew Cass would’ve recognized this for the tell it was.
She was terrified.
But Cass still turned away from the woman and her warning. From Cal and his silent worry. She went through the door and walked deeper into the shadows. Cal slipped in behind her, and the door closed with a resounding thud.
A doctor awaited on the other side, a small, dark-skinned man wearing thick glasses and a white coat. The lights were even dimmer here, gleaming weakly on the tiled walls. The doctor murmured a soft greeting. The name tag on his chest read, DR. HARPER.
“Where is Dr. Phillips?” Cass asked, scanning the tiny room. It was practically empty except for a metal table. “He’s the one that called me, right?”
The doctor’s expression remained neutral. “Dr. Phillips left for the evening. He asked me to extend his apologies—he had an unexpected family issue arise. May I see your bag, please?”
Unexpected family issue? Cass thought, frowning as she handed over her backpack. As promised, Dr. Harper rummaged through all her stuff and conducted a physical search, as well. The man’s touch was light and efficient, but Cal was still stiff, his eyes zeroed in on every movement. Cass rolled her eyes at him.
Overprotective ape, her expression said.
Reckless idiot, his said back.
Thankfully, Cal didn’t interfere while the doctor finished his task. Once the man had straightened, his hands tucked firmly in his pockets, he bid them to follow. Cass’s fingers twitched, fighting the urge to muss her bangs. She propelled herself forward, leaving the safety of the lobby behind. Cal’s long legs matched her stride effortlessly.
They went through a set of barred doors, then down more stairs. At the bottom of these, there was a second set of barred doors. A long walk after that, and they arrived at an even bigger set of barred doors.
If Cass had been nervous before, she was fighting the impulse to turn around now.
The lights were red in this part of the hospital. The walls were brick, and at the end of this hallway, the next set of doors was completely metal. The three of them stopped again. They waited in silence, no one uttering a single word. Cass struggled not to fidget. She traced the metal grooves in the door with her eyes, noting the rust, the scuffs and marks. As if someone had clawed at it.
Thankfully, they’d only been standing there a few seconds when there was a piercing sound, and the enormous doors opened. Fans circled lazily overhead as the doctor led Cass and Cal down a wide, sloped hall. At the bottom of this, there was yet another barred door. They halted here, too. The doctor finally spoke again.
“Last cell on the left,” he directed, pulling the door open. His meaning was clear—he wouldn’t be going in with them. His expression was neutral, as it had been from the first moment they saw him, and yet… Cass couldn’t shake the sense that he was afraid. The fine hairs along her arms stood on end. Her mouth was as dry as a dead leaf skittering over concrete.
For the hundredth time, Cass thought of why she’d come to this horrible place.
She forced herself to turn and face a long, narrow hall. Florescent lights shone down from the stained ceiling, one of them flickering and buzzing. Cass moved forward, her ears filling with the sound of her own heartbeat.
She’d only taken a handful of steps before the door closed behind her with a menacing clang. The breath hitched in Cass’s throat, and Cal’s hands clenched into fists. But Cass kept going. Her footsteps were loud in the stillness, as if she were the only person in here. She knew that wasn’t true, though.
Because Cass could see the prisoners.
Their cells lined the left side of the hallway. From what Cass could see at the edge of her vision, they were all men. All of them hollow-eyed and pale, like creatures that had lived in the dark too long. Almost every inmate turned at the sound of Cass’s boots. She didn’t look over, but she could feel the press of their attention. Like an oily touch upon her skin. One of the men started muttering, and it startled her—Cass’s gaze darted to the side. She saw the man’s pronounced spine curve like the edge of a seashell as he hugged his knees and rocked. The bedsprings beneath him squeaked, faster and faster, and the sound followed Cass down the corridor. Another prisoner rushed to the glass wall and smashed his face against it as she passed. He didn’t utter a word, or make a single noise, and somehow that was more chilling than anything he could’ve said.
Cal stuck so close to her that Cass felt the brush of his sleeve. The soft contact made some of the tightness inside her ease, and she could breathe again. After that, Cass kept her gaze fixed forward, her chin raised, and she walked steadily all the way to the end, where a single chair awaited. Cass slowed in front of it and faced the clear wall, shutting out the voice inside screaming to run.
The room was small but clean. There was a bed on one side, with a black frame, the covers neatly made. There was a toilet on the other, along with a square sink. Between the bed and the sink, there was a wooden desk, and the chair matched the one behind Cass.
A figure sat at that desk.
“Please, Cassie,” Cal said under his breath, trying one last time. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
But it was too late. The figure at the desk turned around, and only then did Cass’s calm facade crack.
Patrick Doyle looked different from his pictures. Granted, the ones Cass had seen were from the sixties. Decades in this cell had changed him. The round, baby-like cheeks he’d been known for were gone now, replaced by dark hollows. His hair, which had once been dark, was streaked with gray. It was longer than he used to keep it, too.
