Chapter 7
Marcel
A Visit To Bethlem
Sunlight flickered through the trees like static as I drove, more focused on the tight coil in my chest than the road in front of me. Street signs came and went, swallowed by motion and fogged-up thoughts I couldn’t outrun.
I didn’t remember grabbing my keys. Didn’t remember backing out of the drive or what the last song was.
I just knew I was halfway to the hospital before I realized it.
Things were off. There was no news on Kinsley.
She was still gone. And every time I talked to any of the guys, it was there. A quiet, ticking desperation.
The damned lot of them were one breath away from breaking. But the good news was they were coming home. It would be good to see them. It had been too long. With the escort agency nearing launch, they were needed here. Bash and I didn’t know what to make of the events that had unfolded in Seattle.
With our last session ending badly, my concern for Kinsley was high.
Her file sat on my desk, mocking me daily.
I didn’t have the heart to file it away yet.
Fuck, her case perplexed me in more ways than I cared to admit.
I wrestled with unresolved guilt, knowing I hadn’t been able to help her.
The fact she had somehow worked her way beneath my skin only intensified my emotions.
And now Ivan was tormenting himself, shutting down entirely.
He even refused to open up to me, which was a first. Nik and Alek had no idea what to think about her disappearance.
As I pulled into the car park, I shifted my focus away from Kinsley and back to my practice.
I had a full caseload today, so I grabbed my bag and headed inside.
The strong scent of antiseptic lingered in the bustling corridors of Bethlem Royal Hospital, mingling with the sounds of hushed conversations and echoing footsteps.
I approached the front desk, pulling out my badge.
The floor manager, a familiar face, greeted me, her voice cutting through the noise.
Engaging in brief small talk, we exchanged pleasantries before she led me toward the room where my patient was waiting.
I’d spent the last two years working with her. But she had stopped taking her meds, resulting in a psychotic break. After spending an hour with her, I reset her medication regimen and assured her we’d get her back on track.
I was back at the front desk, adding notes to her chart so the hospital team would have a plan of action to follow, when my head snapped up. Someone was singing. It was quite faint and melancholy, which, given the location, made sense.
As I put the chart up, I was stopped by a colleague. “Dr. Marcel, it’s good to see you.”
“Dr. Anthony, it’s been a minute. How’s the family?”
“Good, good. Are you here to take a crack at our unidentified?” he asked with a chuckle.
“No, actually an overnight admit. Do you have a new patient who won’t talk?” It was a well-known joke in our circles that if there was a patient who wouldn’t talk, I could get them to simply out of sheer determination and annoyance.
“She’s a nutcase, but aren’t they all?” He snickered, and I frowned. I often wondered why he stayed in this field of medicine. He had become more and more cynical over the years.
“Tell me about her,” I said, both intrigued and sad at the thought of someone being locked in their own world with no one to talk to.
“She refuses to speak at all. She’s young and quite pretty. Word is she killed someone. She was raped and went on some kind of killing frenzy. Here’s her file.” He pulled it from the shelf.
“Unidentified female,” I read. “Cuts and scrapes on her arms, face, legs, and feet indicative of running a long distance and falling. A slash mark on the right hand was possibly obtained when attacking the assailant. No assailant has been found, but the amount of blood on her clothing indicated he would be deceased. Hasn’t spoken a word since being admitted two weeks prior. ”
Looking at the other medical information from her file, I noted the marks seemed to line up with rape.
I made a mental note to see about making extra time in my schedule to offer her some counsel.
It never ceased to amaze me the level of sickness in this world.
Dr. Anthony spoke once again, getting my attention.
“Crazy thing is, though, she sings, and her voice is angelic. She’s more than perfect for you—you love your music therapy.”
He wasn’t lying. I found that the patients who participated in music therapy processed their anxiety, emotions, trauma, and grief differently. It was an amazing tool, and one I loved using.
“I really wish I had time. But maybe I could come back tomorrow.” I looked at my watch. I had another appointment in less than an hour and needed to get back to the office.
“She’ll be here, I imagine,” he said, slapping me on the back.
Then the haunting melody hit. “Amazing Grace.” My heart raced as I walked over to where the voice was coming from. I had missed her entirely because she was sitting in a high-back chair, her frame hidden from my view. Her voice was soft and low as she sang.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Kinsley?”
She had lost weight. Her usually bright eyes were dull and flat, surrounded by dark circles that gave her a haunted look.
Immediately, I could tell she was in terrible shape.
But even if she had been singing a different song, there was no denying that the vivacious woman I’d only ever met over FaceTime was slipping away.
Curled up in a chair that swallowed her, she continued singing. Tears slipped down her cheeks. She was even tinier in person. I called her name once more, to no avail.
Clearing my throat, I spoke with authority, taking the tone she’d always responded to. “Ms. Taylor.”
She blinked several times, immediately stood, and presented herself to me, head bowed, feet shoulder-width apart. I lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “I want to go home, Sir. I’ll be a good girl, please,” she whimpered, then fell into my arms.
The sobs broke free, and I stood there holding her while Dr. Anthony stared like I was some kind of freak of nature. I rushed to cancel my appointment and went about finding out how to get her released. The notes from her file came back to me in waves, and nausea consumed me.
“She’s practically family. I took her on as a client for a good friend. She went missing a couple of weeks ago,” I told the doctor in charge of the unit.
“I’m not sure if it will be possible with the ongoing investigation. If she went missing, surely there is some report of it,” he muttered as he went over the documentation I had of our patient/therapist relationship.
I got in touch with the chief of police in Seattle because Alek had mentioned he had opened a case, but nothing had come of it. He pulled some strings and confirmed with the London police that the report had been filed. Then I convinced the chief to let me be the one to tell Alek.
It took some time, but they let me take her home, provided I kept her under twenty-four-hour supervision. I put off telling the guys. If I had some time alone with her, maybe I could uncover what happened.
The last thing she needed was them storming through the door, demanding answers. Given her fragile state of mind, it would be for the best. I shuddered as her file notes once more filtered through my brain like a bulleted list. I had no idea how Alek, Nik, and Ivan would process this.
Glancing over, I waited for a copy of her file notes. Once I’d put them in my bag, I walked over to her chair. “Come with me, Ms. Taylor. I’m going to take you home now.”
“Home,” she whispered. I put my hand out, and she grabbed it without hesitation.
As we walked outside, I couldn’t shake the unmistakable bond I had with this girl and what she meant to me—not in a way that made sense to other people. She wasn’t family. She wasn’t mine. But somehow, I still felt responsible for the weight she carried.
Our sessions had peeled back layers of pain, and even if I didn’t understand the full picture, I was too much a part of her storm to pretend I wasn’t.
I saw her in a way the guys couldn’t. That’s what bonded us.
I opened the car door; she got in without a word.
A few slow breaths later, I moved to the driver’s side.
“Dr. Marcel?” she murmured once we started driving.
“Yes,” I said, giving her a quick glance before my focus shifted back to the road.
“Can you give me a few days before you tell the guys? I want to tell you everything. I think I’m ready,” she cried.
My heart hammered inside my chest. I was elated I didn’t have to pressure her, and her words were like music to my ears. “I think I’m ready.” Even so, a hint of apprehension flared to life. The weight of what she’d been through snapping me back to center.
“Yes, of course. It can wait, absolutely. I’m so proud of you. We’ll take it slow. How does that sound?” I spoke calmly.
“Thank you,” she sobbed, leaning her head against my shoulder.
We pulled through the gate, and I cut the engine.
There was no flicker of recognition. No glance at the house.
Just the same vacant stare through the windshield, like she hadn’t even noticed we’d stopped.
I got out slowly, not wanting to startle her, and came around to her side.
The gravel crunched under my shoes, loud in the quiet.
Her hands stayed folded in her lap, unmoving, even as I opened the door.
“Hey,” I murmured. No response. “We’re here.” Still nothing. I crouched down a little and softened my tone. “Can you give me your hand?”
It took a few more tries and a “Ms. Taylor” thrown in before she blinked, like waking from something far deeper than sleep. Finally, she placed her hand in mine, allowing me to help her out of the car and up the steps.