Chapter 3
Odette is restocking the med room when I find her the next morning.
She's got her reading glasses low on her nose and she's counting blister packs the way other people count sheep — automatic, half-distracted, humming something under her breath that might be Fleetwood Mac.
Twenty-six years on a locked psych unit and she still hums while she works.
I've never figured out if it's a coping mechanism or just who she is.
"Close the door," I say.
She looks up. Reads my face the way she reads a patient's — one glance, full assessment. Then she takes her glasses off, sets down the Seroquel, and leans against the counter.
"Close it yourself. You're the one with the face."
I close it. The med room is the size of a walk-in closet and it smells like plastic packaging and hand sanitizer. The fluorescent light buzzes at a frequency that lives permanently in the back of my skull.
"I need to ask you something," I say. "About Lakeview Behavioral Health."
Odette's expression doesn't change. But she crosses her arms, which she only does when she's deciding how honest to be.
"North of the city," she says. "Private. Twelve beds. Used to be called Maplewood until they rebranded three years ago after that restraint death. Why?"
"Do you know anyone who works there?"
"Honey, I know people who work everywhere. I've been a psych nurse since Clinton was in office." She tilts her head. "Why are you asking about Lakeview?"
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the letter. I don't explain. I just hand it to her.
Odette reads it. She reads it once fast, then again slow. Her eyebrows do something I've never seen them do — they go UP and stay there.
"This is you," she says.
"That's me."
"Seventy-two-hour hold. March of last year."
"Yes."
"And you didn't—"
"I didn't know. I don't remember it. I thought I was at my mother's."
Odette looks at the letter again. Her mouth works like she's chewing something. Then she looks at the attending physician line and her whole face goes still.
"Colette Marchetti," she says.
"My best friend."
"I know who she is, Wren." Odette folds the letter carefully and hands it back. "She was on Three East for a while. Before she went outpatient."
Three East. That's our hospital. Our building. "She told me she left to start her private practice."
"She did leave. But before that, she floated to Three East a few times when they were short." Odette pauses. Chooses her words. "I worked with her twice. Maybe three times."
"And?"
"And she documented like a dream. Fast, thorough, specific. Every note airtight." Odette's voice is careful — the way mine gets when I'm about to say something a patient won't like. "I remember thinking: this one knows exactly what a chart needs to say."
The fluorescent light buzzes. The med room feels smaller.
"What are you going to do?" Odette asks.
"I don't know yet."
"Bullshit." She says it mildly, like she's commenting on the weather. "You know exactly what you're going to do. You just haven't decided how fast."
She's right. I don't admit it.
"One more thing," I say. "Her badge. You said she floated to Three East — was she credentialed here?"
"She had temporary privileges. But that was years ago. 2022, maybe 2023."
"And Lakeview — would she have needed separate privileges there?"
"Obviously. Different facility, different credentialing." Odette picks her glasses back up, slides them on. Goes back to counting meds like we're discussing the weather. "Why?"
"Because the letter says she was attending physician.
Meaning she has active privileges at Lakeview.
Current ones." I pull the letter out again and look at the top of the letterhead.
"She never told me she worked there. She told me she was full-time outpatient private practice.
That's what she's told me for two years. "
"Maybe she picked up extra shifts."
"At a facility forty minutes away? Without mentioning it once in eighteen years of friendship?"
Odette finishes counting the Seroquel. Makes a mark on her clipboard. Then she looks at me over her glasses.
"Wren. I'm going to ask you something and I need you to hear it without the nurse brain getting in the way."
"Okay."
"Are you safe?"
The question lands differently than it would from anyone else. From Odette, it's not a formality. It's not a screening question. It's one woman who's seen everything asking another woman who's standing in a med room with shaking hands if the ground underneath her is solid.
"I'm safe," I say. "I'm angry. But I'm safe."
"Good." She caps her pen. "Then here's my next question. You and Colette. You're both up for the board, aren't you?"
I blink. "What?"
"The hospital advisory board. The election is in — what, three months? Four?"
"September. The vote is in September." I stare at her. "How do you know Colette is running?"
"Honey, I know everything that happens in this building. There are four candidates. You, Colette, Dr. Remick from cardiology, and some administrator from finance nobody's met." She tilts her head. "You didn't know she was running?"
"She never—" I stop. Rewind. Think about the last six months of conversations with Colette. The questions about the board. The encouragement. You should totally apply, you'd be amazing. The careful interest in my application timeline, my references, my statement.
"She encouraged me to apply," I say slowly.
"Mm-hm."
"She's been asking about my application for months."
"Mm-hm."
"Odette."
"I'm not saying anything." She picks up the Seroquel again and starts restocking the drawer.
"I'm not speculating about the motivations of a nurse practitioner who committed her best friend to a psychiatric facility without her knowledge or consent and also happens to be running against her for a position of institutional power. That would be unprofessional."
I almost laugh. Almost.
"I need to see her credentialing file," I say. "The one from when she floated here."
"No."
"Odette—"
"That's an HR file. You don't have access and neither do I." She closes the drawer firmly. "What you CAN do is request your own medical records from Lakeview. You have a legal right to your chart. HIPAA gives you thirty days to receive them after written request."
"Thirty days is too long."
"Then expedite it. Walk in with your ID and request them in person. They can't make you wait thirty days for a supervised review." She looks at me. "You know this. You've handled records requests a hundred times."
She's right. I do know this. I'm just — I'm thinking like a patient instead of a nurse. I'm thinking in fear instead of procedure.
I straighten up. "Okay. Records request. In person."
"In person." Odette nods. "Bring your ID. Bring the letter. Don't bring Colette."
"Obviously."
"And Wren?" She catches my arm as I reach for the door. Her hand is warm, papery, strong. "Don't access anything you don't have a right to access. Not yet. You understand?"
I look at her hand on my arm. I understand what she's saying. She's saying: don't do the thing I can see you thinking about doing. Don't pull up Colette's records in the system. Don't look at things you'll have to explain later.
"I understand," I say.
She lets go. "Good. Now go check on room 4. He ate a banana this morning, which in this unit qualifies as a breakthrough."
I open the door. The hallway is bright and busy — shift change happening, the day crew flowing in with their fresh scrubs and their travel mugs. Normal. Everything normal.
"Odette," I say from the doorway.
"What."
"The badge thing. When Colette floated here — did she wear a Three East badge or her own?"
Odette pauses. Thinks. "Her own, I think. Visitors always wore their home facility badge with a temporary sticker."
"And what did hers say? The facility?"
A longer pause. Odette's eyes narrow slightly. "It's been years, Wren."
"Try."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Lakeview. I think it said Lakeview. Or Maplewood — same place, old name." She shrugs. "Could be wrong. It was three years ago."
It's not three years ago. It's now. It's March of last year. It's Colette with active privileges at a facility she never mentioned, signing commitment papers for a woman she's known since they were twenty-two years old.
"Thanks," I say.
I close the door behind me and walk back to the unit. My patients are waiting. Room 4 ate a banana. There are charts to write and meds to pass and a family meeting at two where someone's daughter will cry and I'll hand her a tissue and say something that sounds like wisdom.
But my hand goes to my wrist as I walk. I press my fingers to the pulse point, count five beats, and let go.
I'm here. I'm real. I'm not the person in that chart.
And I'm going to prove it.