Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
CARA
“ Y ou’ve got this, Cara,” I mumble the sentiment, not entirely believing the words as I drag my case through the lobby of Blackwood Asylum.
The high ceilinged, open-plan entryway is exquisite but sparse of furniture, colour, or personality: stark white paintwork, two courtroom-style wooden benches flanking each wall either side of me, and a bare bulb light display overhead with varying lengths of wrought iron chain links hanging from the ceiling.
The floor is black and white chequered, polished to the point I could probably eat my dinner off of it.
Each step I take echoes around me, bouncing off every surface as though the building needs to be alerted to my arrival.
An oriental vase stands tall in the centre of the space atop a weathered wooden round table.
It’s filled to the brim with the tallest white lilies I’ve ever seen, a yellow dusting falling from the petals as I pull one to my nose to take in a lungful of its scent.
My eyes lock with Ezra’s from across the room as he chats to a sheepish-looking man behind a reception desk.
I can’t make out what they are saying from where I stand, but if the unease washing over the man’s pale face is any suggestion, it isn’t the friendliest of interactions.
He exudes power as he leans in to whisper something into the man’s ear, that devilish smile of his, that some might deem affable, making me want to drop my stuff and run to him.
‘Fucking get a grip, Cara.’ The order rattles around in my head, and it’s enough to shake the spell Ezra seems to have me under.
‘Melting into a horny puddle at his feet isn’t what you need.
You’re here to work.’ My brain is on form today, and for that, I’m grateful because my body is a greedy bitch, and I suspect where he is concerned, I’ll be in constant conflict with my willpower to stay away from him.
“New blood.” The voice at my back has my skin crawling.
A man skulks into view, circling me to stand at Lenora’s side, waiting—silent, expectant.
His gaze lingers too long on my chest, his beady eyes undressing me.
I steel my spine, lift my chin, and resist the urge to fold my arms, to shield myself. Weakness is not an option here.
“Simon will help you get settled in if you need it.”
I force a tight-lipped smile, keeping my eyes locked on hers.
No way in hell am I asking this creep for anything.
But something in her expression tells me she’s fond of him, in the same way someone might tolerate an ugly pet spider—harmless to the one that provides their food, unsettling to everyone else.
Lenora’s phone rings in her pocket, and she holds up a sharp finger at me as she heads out of the building through a set of double doors.
I decide exploring the unknown is preferred over whatever this awkward silent exchange is with Simon, so I hurry off into the next room, hoping he’ll stay put.
Sunlight floods the conservatory style room I wander into, the vibe more homely than hospital.
I watch as Lenora paces the garden outside of the open floor-to-ceiling bay windows as she whisper-shouts into her phone.
Checking behind me to make sure her pet hasn’t followed me, relief swamps my belly, and I push aside the entire encounter.
Deep mauve floral paper covers the walls, and green velvet furniture sits scattered around the room.
A sparkling chandelier hangs from the beautifully designed, black-painted gothic ceiling.
Everything in this room, from the gilded-framed oil painting portraits to the mahogany round bistro tables looks old.
I drag my suitcase behind me, the wheels groaning as I cross the room to get a better look at the acres of surrounding land; the iron bars on the windows doing nothing to detract from the stunning view.
A field of impossibly tall lilies, their petals painted gold in the late afternoon sun, stretches to the edge of the forest that circles the property, caging us in away from the surrounding towns.
“Giant Himalayan lilies,” a meek voice whispers ethereally from beside me, making me jump.
When I turn to find a face to match the voice, a squeak of shock barrels out of my mouth.
I drop my case with a thud and stumble back into another oversized oriental vase filled with the asylum’s signature flower.
Thankfully, this one is bolted to the ground and has no give. I wheeze as I take the hit to my ribs.
“I didn’t mean to scare you; jittery little thing, aren’t you?”
I half expected to turn and find a small child, but instead I have to crane my neck back to take in the six-foot bear of a woman looming over me.
She has shoulder-length strawberry blonde ringlets like a porcelain doll, impossibly dark brown eyes, and a mouthful of sharp teeth that look as though a medieval torture device has been used to shave them down into points.
I take a second to right myself as I swallow down the unease lodged in my throat.
“I’m sorry, I got lost in my own little world for a moment there.
” I smile faintly, hoping the sadness I see tugging at her eyes due to my reaction dissipates.
For a second, I wonder if she’s going to hug me or hit me, her unreadable expression now vacant.
“That…uh…colour looks great on you.” In a flash, that giddy grin is back on her round face, and the sigh of relief bursting from my lips hollows out my lungs.
She sways her hips and swishes the material of the pink night dress that reaches down to her furry slippered feet, the doily Peter Pan collar adding a playfulness to it.
“Bridgette, it’s time for your pills, I think.
” Fear fills her expression, and she skitters away before I can even utter a goodbye.
There’s a darkness that tickles the back of my neck in warning as I turn to face Mrs. Blackwood, feeling like I should apologise, even though I’ve done nothing wrong.
She totters past me, her expensive red-soled heels tapping across the marble floor tiles.
I stay silent, trailing behind her, the command in her expression enough to keep me in line.
The next room is as brightly lit as the first, and while it offers none of the personality the other one had, the colourful stained glass inserts in the vast skylight above paint every surface with shimmering rainbows of colour.
The sterile white walls are stark. Its occupants attired in scrubs with the same Patient of Blackwood branding as I had seen on Ezra earlier.
The minimal vintage dark wood furniture is complemented by modern metal tables and chairs, all bolted to the floor, much like the vase had been.
I try not to stare too intently, but I smile and dip my head in greeting to those who glance my way.
I wonder what brought them all here, but I quickly realise that some stories - mine included - are best kept quiet.
For a split second, i’d considered telling the truth on my job application.
But thankfully a reality check and two shots of tequila straightened me out.
If I were honest, my work experience section would’ve read, Whore for hire.
Not exactly the fresh start I had promised myself.
So I kept it simple - bar work again.
If I’m sure of anything since arriving at this place, it’s that her shit list is not a place I want to be.
I’m grateful when I notice Simon is nowhere to be seen.
“You noted no family on your transcript.”
“No, ma’am,” I mumble. It didn’t feel necessary to note a dead mother and an absent father responsible for my abandonment issues. Any mention of any found family along the way would only lead to more questions, so I stick with the little white lie.
“Close friends?” she presses.
“Just little old me,” I say with an air of finality. My second necessary lie. She doesn’t need to know the version of me that existed under Doc’s rule. “Looking for a fresh start at life,” I add, sprinkling some truth into my answer.
‘Destitute douche-bag magnet with a mouth like a hoover would certainly add a shock factor if we’re opting for the truth.’
Telling her my murderous best friend and her grim reaper serial killer lover live two towns over probably won’t seal the job for me either.
Of all the questions I answered on the four-page application, the fact that I come with as few emotional ties as possible seems to be the most prevalent for securing the position.
I have zero poker face, so the less information I give, the less chance I have to put my foot in it.
“A fresh start—we can work with that,” she softly retorts on a rushed breath, her face hiding what she really wants to say behind her taut smile.
“Town visits are limited to once a week, ideally on weekends; we’re a family, Miss Morgrieves, and this position takes dedication.
We don’t like to invite the outside world beyond these walls—for the patients’ sakes—you understand? ”
I understand this woman is a control freak, but I’m not about to push my luck since the uniform issues, whatever that was outside with Ezra and my general existence, have already managed to royally piss her off.