Chapter 7
Skye
Croft House looked nothing like the sort of place where women disappeared.
That was the first thing I thought when Maverick slowed the SUV near the entrance and I caught my first proper glimpse of the estate through the rain-streaked window.
The building sat beyond a sweeping gravel drive surrounded by mature trees, its pale stone fa?ade softened by climbing ivy and carefully maintained gardens that would have looked perfectly at home in a glossy magazine advertising luxury rehabilitation.
Tall sash windows reflected the gray afternoon sky.
White hydrangeas crowded the beds beside the entrance despite the season, and discreet bronze lettering mounted against a low stone wall announced Croft House Women's Recovery Centre in elegant serif type.
Nothing about it suggested barred rooms, hidden corridors, or residents unable to leave.
If anything, the property had been designed to communicate safety before a visitor ever stepped through the front door.
I understood that kind of visual manipulation.
Interior design could make people feel calm, wealthy, important, protected, welcome.
It could also conceal what a building was actually designed to do.
After twenty-three days searching for Isla, I had stopped trusting beautiful rooms simply because somebody had chosen expensive paint.
Irish sat beside me in the back seat, staring toward the property rather than at me.
He had barely spoken during the drive from Edinburgh, though silence seemed to be his natural state whenever his mind was working.
Trigger and Hawkeye followed in a second vehicle while Raze and Storm remained farther back with surveillance equipment, and Maverick had spent most of the journey explaining exactly how legitimate my visit needed to appear.
That part, at least, required no acting.
Thistle & Stone had worked with enough charitable organizations, private residences, and historic properties that calling Croft House to inquire about an interior-consultation referral had not raised immediate suspicion.
The receptionist had sounded almost delighted when I mentioned Blackridge Hall and the Covenant Renewal Foundation.
Apparently one of their administrators had already heard of us.
I was not certain whether that made our plan better or substantially worse.
“You’re staring,” I said without turning.
Irish’s gaze remained on the building. “At the house.”
“Mm-hmm.”
That earned me a sideways look.
“You nervous?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised me enough that I finally looked at him. “You admit that?”
“I admit lots of things.”
“I’ve known you for two days. So far, you've admitted you’re Irish, belong to a motorcycle club, and think I make poor decisions.”
“Those are three things.”
I fought a smile. “An open book.”
His mouth moved faintly before he turned back toward Croft House. “Nervous isn’t the same as afraid.”
“What are you afraid of?”
His expression closed so quickly that I knew I had stepped directly onto one of the doors he kept locked.
“Different conversation.”
I could have pushed.
Two days ago, I would have.
Instead, I nodded and returned my attention to the estate. “Fine.”
Something in his posture shifted beside me, almost as though my decision not to force the answer had surprised him more than the question.
Maverick pulled into a public car park attached to a garden centre a short distance away and stopped. “From here, you’re the designer who thinks Croft House might be interested in future consultancy.”
“I am a designer who thinks Croft House might be interested in future consultancy.”
“Even better.”
Irish opened his door.
I caught his sleeve before he could step out.
“You’re not coming inside.”
“No.”
That bothered me more than I expected.
He noticed.
“I’ll be close.”
“I know.”
His eyes held mine for another second before dropping briefly to where my fingers still rested against his arm. I released him.
“Check in every ten minutes,” he said.
“That sounds suspiciously like an order.”
“A request.”
“Better.”
“If you miss one—”
“You come looking.”
“Aye.”
“Even if I'm simply trapped in a conversation about curtain fabric?”
“If it's been more than ten minutes, I'll rescue you from the curtains.”
I smiled despite myself. “Heroic.”
“Don't spread it around.”
He stepped out of the SUV.
I watched him disappear toward a side street before turning back to Maverick.
“He always like that?”
“Worse when he likes somebody.”
My head snapped toward him.
Maverick's face remained completely unreadable.
“You’re joking.”
“Poker face.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It usually doesn't.”
Before I could decide whether throwing my notebook at him would compromise our cover, he smiled and nodded toward Croft House.
“Time to work.”
The receptionist greeted me by name.
I disliked that immediately.
“Miss Fraser. Welcome to Croft House.”
She was probably in her early forties, impeccably dressed in a navy skirt and cream blouse, with the polished warmth of someone who had spent years making anxious people feel they had arrived somewhere competent.
Her badge identified her as Marian Bell, though the security door behind the desk interested me more than her name.
It required a card for access from the reception side and had no visible handle on the corridor side.
“Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”
“Of course. We were very sorry to hear about your colleague.”
The words stopped me.
“My colleague?”
“Miss Lennox.”
I forced my expression to remain neutral. “You knew Isla?”
“Only briefly. She visited while reviewing design standards for another project.”
My pulse quickened.
That was more confirmation than I had expected within the first thirty seconds.
“When?”
Marian glanced toward the computer as though consulting a harmless scheduling detail. “Several weeks ago, I believe.”
“Did she come alone?”
A pause.
“I'm afraid I don't remember.”
She did.
I could see it in the way her smile became more deliberate.
Before I could ask another question, footsteps approached from the secure corridor and a woman in a white coat emerged through the card-controlled door.
She was tall, perhaps late forties, with silver-blonde hair pinned neatly at the back of her head and an expression so calm it bordered on clinical detachment.
“Miss Fraser.”
She extended one hand.
“Dr. Helena Croft.”
I took it.
Her grip was cool and precise.
“Thank you for making time.”
“I’m always pleased to meet professionals who understand that environment plays an important role in recovery.”
There was nothing remarkable about the statement.
It still made something crawl beneath my skin.
Dr. Croft led me through the secure door after tapping her card. I noted the mechanism automatically. Magnetic lock. Reinforced frame. Fire-release panel mounted only on the staff side.
The corridor beyond looked nothing like a medical institution. Soft sage walls. Pale oak flooring. Upholstered chairs positioned beneath framed landscape prints. Diffused lighting rather than harsh overhead fixtures. Everything had been selected to feel residential.
When I looked closer, however, the carefully residential appearance began to fracture. The framed artwork used acrylic instead of glass, the chairs were weighted, every window had restricted openings, and the decorative radiator covers were fixed in place with security screws.
A camera occupied the corner where the ceiling met the wall, painted the same sage green as the plaster.
“Beautiful,” I said.
Dr. Croft smiled. “We try very hard not to make our residents feel institutionalized.”
Her choice of the word residents rather than patients caught my attention, another small detail I filed away for later.
She showed me two lounges, a dining room, an art studio, and what she described as a meditation space.
Women occupied several of the rooms, most dressed in soft neutral clothing that looked comfortable until I realized how similar every outfit was.
None wore jewelry. I saw no handbags. No phones. No personal electronics of any kind.
“Are devices restricted?” I asked casually.
“For the early stages of treatment. Outside contact can interfere with stabilization.”
“How long is the early stage?”
“That varies.”
One of the women looked at me for only a second before immediately dropping her eyes back to the book in her lap, the speed of the movement making it feel learned rather than casual.
I kept walking.
At the end of the corridor, the flooring changed from oak to tile.
The transition was almost invisible beneath a decorative threshold strip, but it shouldn't have been there. The historic plan showed the same floor structure continuing another eight meters. Instead, a new wall interrupted the corridor, decorated with a large framed print of rolling hills.
I stopped.
Dr. Croft turned.
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing.” I smiled. “Occupational hazard.”
She waited.
I touched the wall lightly with two fingers. “New plaster.”
“Recent refurbishment.”
“How recent?”
“Last year.”
The baseboard profile told a different story, suggesting the alteration was at least three years old and possibly older.
“You kept the original proportions beautifully.”
Her smile returned.
“Thank you.”
I looked toward the ceiling and found an oversized ventilation grille exactly where the invoices had suggested it would be.
The system was far too large for the visible rooms, confirming that the hidden section existed.
My phone vibrated inside my handbag a moment later with Irish's ten-minute check-in, and I slipped it out as though checking an appointment.
Clear?
Inside. Croft with me. Hidden section confirmed.
His response came almost immediately.
Don't push.
I nearly rolled my eyes as I typed back.
Define push.
After several seconds of watching the typing indicator appear and disappear, his answer finally came.
Whatever you're about to do. Don't.
I put the phone away before I laughed, aware that Dr. Croft had been watching the exchange.
“Your office?”
“My business partner.”
The lie hurt more than I expected.
For twenty-three days, every ordinary phrase involving Isla had become a reminder that she was not there to answer it.
Dr. Croft motioned toward another hallway.
“This wing contains private residential rooms.”
“Could I see one?”
“Of course.”
The first bedroom was immaculate, containing a single bed, wardrobe, desk, soft blue walls, and a vase of artificial flowers.
What it did not contain was more revealing: there were no personal photographs, no clutter, and nothing suggesting an actual person had been allowed to make the room her own.
Then I noticed the door. The lock cylinder sat on the corridor side, with no thumb-turn that would allow someone inside the room to unlock it. My feet carried me closer before I consciously decided to move.
“Interesting hardware.”
Dr. Croft's gaze sharpened.
“Safety feature.”
“For whom?”
The silence lasted half a second too long.
“Some residents present a danger to themselves during acute episodes.”
“Of course.”
I turned toward the window and immediately noticed that it opened no more than four inches.
My stomach tightened as a faint sound came through the wall behind me: three knocks, a pause, and then two more.
Dr. Croft continued discussing the room's color palette, but I barely heard her when the same three-and-two pattern came again.
I moved toward the desk under the pretense of examining the timber finish, and this time another sound followed—a whisper so faint I almost convinced myself I had imagined it.
“Skye.”
Everything inside me stopped as I turned toward the wall and Dr. Croft fell silent. A moment later something struck the other side hard enough to make the sound unmistakable. A woman's voice shouted something I couldn't understand before another sound cut it off.
Dr. Croft's expression did not change.
“Some residents struggle with emotional regulation.”
My heart hammered as I stared at the wall.
I wanted desperately to believe it was Isla, but I couldn't know for certain, and I certainly couldn't start tearing the place apart while I was inside alone.
Irish's warning came back to me.
Don't push.
For the first time since Isla disappeared, I understood why he kept saying it.
Knowing someone might be behind that wall and walking away felt unbearable.
Getting myself locked behind another one would help no one.
I forced myself to smile.
“Perhaps we should continue.”
Dr. Croft studied me.
Then nodded.
We walked another corridor before she excused herself to take a call, leaving Marian to guide me back toward reception. I counted doors as we moved.
By the time we reached the final corridor, I had counted seven residential rooms, three cameras, two staff stations, and one stairwell requiring key-card access.
At the final intersection, an older woman in pale gray scrubs pushed a trolley toward us.
As she passed, a narrow strip of paper slipped from beneath one of the folded towels. I bent automatically to retrieve it, but the nurse moved faster.
“Leave it.”
Her voice came out far sharper than the situation warranted.
Marian looked at her and the nurse immediately softened.
“Sorry. Medication record.”
I straightened without touching it but I had already seen the word written along the edge.
ISLA
The nurse pushed the trolley away.
I turned back toward Marian and followed her toward reception, even as my chest tightened and every breath suddenly became difficult.
Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, chase the trolley, demand answers, and tear open every locked door in the building until I found my friend.
Instead, I walked through the reception area, thanked Marian for the tour, and promised to send preliminary design recommendations.
Outside, the cold air hit my lungs like water.
I made it halfway down the path before Irish appeared from behind a stone wall bordering the property.
One look at my face erased whatever he had been about to say.
“What happened?”
I grabbed the front of his jacket.
“She was here.”
His hands came to my arms.
“Skye—”
“I saw her name.”
“Where?”
“Medication paperwork. And someone behind one of the sealed walls said my name.”
His expression went still.
“I think it was her.”
“Think?”
“Yes.”
The word cracked.
I hated it.
“I don't know. I couldn't see her.”
Irish's grip tightened slightly, grounding without restraining.
“You did exactly what you needed to do.”
“I walked away.”
“You got out with information.”
“I left her in there.”
His eyes held mine.
“No. You found her.”
The distinction hit hard enough that I stopped breathing for a moment.
Behind us, Croft House stood beautiful and silent beneath the gray sky.
I looked back at it.
“She’s behind one of those walls.”
Irish followed my gaze.
His voice turned cold with a certainty that made the promise feel far more dangerous than if he had raised it.
“Then we open the wall.”