Beside

37 - straightjacket

"Fox, if the world was ending, what would you do?"

"Go to sleep."

"..."

"..."

"Fox? Are you okay?"

"No."

"Should we just sit and not talk for a while?"

"Yeah."

ᖴO᙭

The building looms ahead, towering and cold, like they built it to keep the rest of us out. Whispering Pines—it sounds soft, like a brochure for a spa, a place where women wrap themselves in fleece blankets and steam detox for a week away from their cheating husbands. I think I know better.

Places like this are meant to lock things away, hide them. Like people.

I can't believe Gwen landed here. Was she already here when she called me?

Faro pulls the cruiser into the parking lot without a word. He hasn't looked at me since we left. Habit, he said when he shoved my head down as I got in the car.

Habit, my ass.

He's angry with me—blames me for not knowing sooner, for not picking up the pieces he's spent his whole life cleaning up. I'm angry with myself too. I had a weird feeling that day she called, and I ignored it.

We get out and start the trek. Faro's already stalking up to the front entrance, his boots pounding against the concrete, every step colder, angrier. I keep up, my gut twisting as Faro hauls both doors open and we step in.

The place is clean. Too clean. All sterile walls and polished floors. Faro's already at a semi-circle receptionist's desk. Then he's off and I'm jogging to catch up. Fucking hell. He's got a pace that's as relentless as he is. Left, right, left. Left again—

Gwen. There she is through a sea of other patients—older ones muttering to themselves. She's there, leaning against a wall.

She's in what appears to be the standard issue: loose blue pants and a long-sleeved shirt. It's the same colour as her eyes. Her pale-blond hair is tangled, falling over one eye. She's taller and sharper than I remember, like the months took sandpaper to her. But she's got colour in her cheeks, a pink flush that's either health or some twisted insanity. Maybe both.

Faro's trudging ahead. I'm following, nearly tripping on an old guy's cane.

When she spots us, her lips curl. "Go away, assholes. My file says no visitors."

Faro's face goes from worried to stone in half a second. I assume he found a way to bend the rules around his badge.

"Gwen," I say.

"Go. Away."

I shift on my feet, blinking. She's standing here like this is normal. She's calm. I expected volatile, maybe even fragile, but this has me feeling like I've walked into the wrong movie set.

"Gwen," a deep voice warns. A few feet behind her, there's a man—dark skin and hair, built like a wall, dressed in stark white scrubs.

"Fuck off, Richard," Gwen throws over her shoulder. He's hovering just close enough. Hell, is she that much of a threat?

I give the guy a nod. "Sup."

He just stares.

All right, then.