Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Finnic
“Fin, honey. Do you need anything? Some tea or lemonade?”
Mom placed her hand on my upper back and rubbed small reassuring circles before removing it. I turned to look at her, taking in the way her face was lined with small smudges of her mascara. From the crying, no doubt.
“I’m alright, Ma.”
I gave the smallest smile I could, doing my best to ease any worries she had. But I knew my mom. She wouldn’t give up that easily.
She’d make sure I’d have everything I needed whether that be a beverage, a shoulder to cry on or possibly even a alibi for going to kill the motherfu-
“Are you planning on staying in school?” She leaned down to meet my eyes.
I shook my head, “I’m not really sure I even want to think about school right now.”
She nodded, “Of course, I understand. I just didn’t know with everything going on… People tend to grieve differently.”
My head lifted to meet hers but I didn’t say anything as she continued.
“Some overwork, some sit inside and cut out the world and some..” She looked at me as if I were a wounded animal that she’d scare off with her next sentence. “And some don’t know how to work through those emotions and do drastic things, I just don’t want you to-”
I placed a gentle hand on top of her shoulder, “Mom, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not suicidal, nor will I ever be. I’m not crazy. I’m just.. coping the best I can. The cards I’ve been dealt aren’t the easiest to handle, but I’ll be fine. Eventually.”
She sadly smiled, but nodded before leaving me in the kitchen alone.
Something clattering onto the floor wakes me.
“What happened next, Mr. Lawson?”
The question echoes as I blink multiple times, trying my best to get used to the bright lighting.
The room is covered in white.
White walls. White table bolted to the floor in front of me. The chair I’m restrained to is white. The metal digs into my spine like it is designed to remind me that I’m not going anywhere.
Across from me, a man in a doctor’s coat picks a pen up from the ground.
That was the noise I heard.
His hands are folded neatly on a clipboard, pen poised as he sits patiently.
He can’t be any older than forty-five. His beard is highlighted with silver and his hair is the same.
My eyes shut as the throb in my head worsens.
Images try to surface. The creak of the warehouse door opening. The cold air drifting through my mask onto my face. The echo of footsteps behind me.
Chloe.
Then nothing.
My eyes open again.
“Where am I?” My voice scrapes out, gravelly and strained, like I hadn’t used it in days.
The man then makes a small note on the paper that’s secured to his clipboard. “You’re safe,” he says calmly. “You’re at Beacon Psychiatric Facility.”
The words process through my head normally at first before I fully realize what he just told me.
Psychiatric.
My pulse pumps in my neck as I glance down at my hands.
Faint yellowing bruises circle my wrists like I’ve fought to get out of the restraints that were wrapped around them at some point.
“How long have I been here?” I press.
He glances up from his notes. “You’ve been here three weeks, Mr. Lawson.”
Three weeks. No, that isn’t possible.
“I didn’t-” I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
He continues to explain.
“You were brought in after an incident,” he explains carefully. “You were found disoriented, covered in blood that wasn’t yours, repeating the same sentence over and over.”
My stomach drops.
“What sentence?”
He met my eyes then.
“You kept muttering it wasn’t me.”
The room moves like it’s tilting and I feel a wave of nausea wash over me. I wasn’t sure if it was the turn of events or the drugs pumped into my system.
“No,” I hiss immediately. “That’s not-” My words tangle together incoherently. “I remember-”
I take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly to regain some composure. “I was helping her. I was getting her out.”
The man who I assume is a doctor nods again, like I’d confirmed something he already knew. “Everleigh Genovese.”
My head snaps up. “No-”
His expression doesn’t change as he jots down some notes again.
“What the fuck are you writing?”
A chill runs down my spine as he glances up to look at me again.
“We’ve had this conversation before. Don’t you remember?”
He exhales a breath, continuing, “Every time you’re brought to me, you say the same things.”
I shake my head, “Then why aren’t you listening? This isn’t right!”
“She testified, Mr. Lawson,” the man replies, voice still maddeningly calm. “She told the authorities everything. How you stalked and tried to kidnap her. She was very frightened of you.”
“That’s a lie,” I shoot back, the words tearing out of my throat.
He shakes his head before lifting the page, throwing it over the back of the clipboard. He then stands, walking over to me in a sophisticated manner.
The world goes quiet as he points to an image with his pen that was taped to another paper.
“You know her. Yes?”
Brunette hair. Snow like skin. Green eyes. It was her.
I didn’t respond to him.
“That girl is Everleigh Genovese and you were sentenced here for the part you played in her father’s murder.”
A bitter laugh escapes, “No. You’ve got the wrong person. I never did anything to-”
“You were found with a puncture wound along the side of your neck,” he says. “Barely missed your carotid and you lost a significant amount of blood. You were comatose for the first week due to that. That’s probably why your memory is fragmented.”
My hand drifts up on instinct, but it doesn’t go far with it being strapped down to the armrest.
“Ms. Genovese’s boyfriend then proceeded to show up to the scene and was able to disable you enough,” he points to the scar “to call the police.”
I have too many thoughts running through my head to think clearly. I remain staring forward, allowing the doctor to continue to explain things.
“You were deemed unfit to stand trial due to the memory loss and obvious injury,” he adds.
I sigh, “So that’s it?” I question. “I just snapped?”
He hesitates.
“No,” he shakes his head. “This all seemed to be very pre-mediated after the police investigated the case.”
“Pre-meditated,” I repeat back to him, “You’re saying I planned it.”
“They found messages on your phone.” He taps the clipboard with the pen. “And from what I’d seen, you’d been tracking her movements for months, close to a year, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s not true,” I correct, but the denial sounds hollow even to my own ears.
He keeps his eyes on my body. He was trying to prove to me that I can’t be trusted.
Is he right? Have I lost my shit? Did Maya’s death..
I lean forward despite the straps holding me to the chair. “I want to speak to her.”
He shakes his head again, “That’s not possible, Mr. Lawson.”
I grimace, “That’s convenient. Why not?”
He sets the clip board down onto the table, “Ms. Genovese was just here a few days ago.”
“Why don’t I remember her being here?”
He replies in a monotone manner, “You’ve been mostly sedated since you’ve been here. I doubt you’d even remember your name during those moments.”
A sharp knock cuts through the room before I can respond.
The doctor’s head snaps toward the door. A second later, it opens just enough for a nurse to lean in.
“Dr. Dallas,” she says quietly, but not quietly enough. “She’s here.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
He doesn’t ask who.
His jaw just tightens, eyes flicking briefly to me before he stands from his chair. “Give us a moment,” he says.
The nurse nods and then disappears.
My pulse thunders in my ears. “Who’s here?” I demand, even though I already know.
Dr. Dallas, who I now know the name of, hesitates, then sighs. “Your request.. has been granted. Everleigh Genovese is requesting to see you.”
Both of my hands squeeze into fists at the thought of seeing her again.
“You said that wasn’t possible,” I repeat his own words back to him hoarsely.
“I thought so, but it seems I was wrong.” He gives a quick shake of his head and continues, “And now she’s insisting,” He stands and walks over to the door, opening it wide so that two male nurses can come in.
I don’t say anything else as I’m unclipped from my seat and moved into a wheelchair. One that also has straps on the armrests.
It takes a few minutes for us to get to the next room. The building is huge. Literally every single thing about this place seems to be in pristine condition. Not even a skid mark.
It is eery and unsettling.
After being wheeled down what felt like an endless corridor, I’m shoved through a doorway and into a room split cleanly in half by a wall of glass. Identical chairs are arranged along both sides, but my presence disrupts the symmetry. Her presence does as well.
One of the guards drags a chair out of the way, metal legs screeching against the floor, and steers my wheelchair into the narrow gap left behind, boxing me into place.
Chloe. Everleigh.
She leans down in front of the glass, close enough that her breath fogs the clear pane.
“Good to see you, Finnic.”
I flinch slightly at her saying my name.
She’d never uttered it before.
My fingers dig into the armrests. “What lie are you spinning here?”
Her mouth curves into a bitter smile.
“Thank you so much for the role you played in this story.”
“Story? This is bullshit,” I shoot back. “This is my life and you’re framing me for something I didn’t do.”
“Yes,” she agrees easily. “And no one questioned it as soon as I pointed you out to blame.”
My throat tightens but I battle through it with gritted teeth, “Because I’m such a villain. Did I really treat you so harshly in that warehouse to convince you of that?”
“You killed Marco,” she hisses.
My eyes widen in recognition at that name. “Don’t speak to me about-”
“About the man who murdered and assaulted your future wife?”
My head shakes out of frustration, “What the fuck does he have to do with this?”