Page 45 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
“It was decommissioned as a prison a long time ago. A private medical firm converted it to a mental institution for high-risk patients about five years ago.”
The schematics show a large decagon, a shape with ten sides, built into a forest. The closest thing for miles is a small national park. I wonder how many hikers know what’s nearby? Cells are marked off along each side of the polygon. At the center there’s a hexagonal room marked Security Headquarters.
“Why was it decommissioned?” I ask, wondering if anyone ever escaped.
“The Quakers designed the prison to punish its inmates, basically creating solitary confinement for each of them. Unfortunately their idea of religious penance literally made men crazy.”
I suck in a breath, imagining staring at the wall every single day. Alone. “Did they renovate it when they turned it into a mental institute?”
“Possibly, but this is the last floor plan we can find.”
Indignance rises in my throat. “It was considered too cruel and unusual for criminals. How could they keep patients here? This is supposed to be a place that helps people.”
Agitation becomes a physical thing, my heart jolting and batting against my ribcage, nerves pinging around inside me. Hearing about this hospital only makes it worse. Only makes it real.
His profile looks severe. “Private institutions aren’t subject to the same oversight that government-run prisons have. And with the amount of money this place charges, people aren’t likely to complain.”
My eyebrows press together. “What does that have to do with it?
He glances at me, dark humor lighting his black eyes. “Do you think celebrities don’t have a crazy uncle? Or that the top politicians never had anyone in their bloodline go insane? These people need to disappear. And death—well, that’s far too public.”
Shock washes over me like ice water. “You’re saying these people are being held against their will.”
“Aren’t all permanent residents of a mental hospital there against their will?”
“This is different.”
“I’m not sure whether these people are a danger to themselves or to society. I’m not sure whether they’d walk out the door if it wasn’t locked. What I do know is that Gabriel Miller paid a great deal of money with the assurance that my father would never have access to personnel.”
“So what happened?”
“What happened is that it’s impossible to guarantee that. Someone has to bring food. Someone has to administer medicine and clean his cell.” His voice turns bitter. “And there are other inmates. Someone who thinks she’s just like him, someone who has no idea she’s a mouse living in a lion’s den.”
“Maybe she did know,” I say softly. “Maybe she didn’t have a choice.”
The way I didn’t have a choice when I worked at the diner for pennies. When I was forced to bring Jonathan Scott a piece of pie, even knowing that I was serving a predator.
“A lot of good that did her,” Damon mutters.
I stare at him, realizing he’s talking about someone specific. “Did you know one of the inmates?”
He glances at me, eyes widening in a brief and unlikely moment of shock. Then he turns back to the road, the moment over—or maybe it never happened. “Not here.”
A wooden sign battered by decades of storms and neglect. Weeds coming up around it. I can see the picture clearly in my mind, the place where Jonathan Scott took me.
The place where his son rescued me.
“Tanglewood Mental Hospital,” I say, a chill running through me.
“Yes.” The word is hard. Almost a physical blow.
The more he pushes me away, the more I’m sure that he’s where I need to go. That night is a blur to me, which is a small relief. I remember some parts clearly. I remember Jonathan telling me that he raised Damon in that terrible building, abandoned and dark and littered with torture devices they once thought might actually help.
Had Damon had a friend there? Had there been some young nurse that he was friends with? The thoughts send a course of jealousy through me, which is wrong for so many reasons. Not the least of which Damon is almost ten years older than me. He would have naturally been with another woman before I was even an appropriate age for him.
And wrong because I have no claim on this man. If he was able to find any solace in a horrifying situation, that’s a good thing.
He shakes his head once, sharp. “There was no one.”
The words strike me in the soft flesh of my heart. No one. “Then who—”
“My mother.”
A knot forms in my throat. “You never told me about her.”
“I never tell anyone about her.”
I reach across the console for his hand and squeeze. I’m convinced he’s going to pull away. Probably send me a scathing look for daring to touch him without permission, but he does something I don’t expect. He squeezes back.
