Sin Like The Devil (Harrowdean Manor #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

1121 – HALSEY

RIPLEY

Present Day

Did you survive a tragedy if you never speak about it?

Some people would argue not. Well, they’re assholes. The lot of them.

Personally, I don’t give a fuck whether you want to air your dirty laundry for the entire world to pick apart or not. That’s your call. We all survive the aftermath of total self-destruction in our own ways.

But we’ve been programmed to view survival as being contingent on our later success—the capitalistic drive to monetise your demons and sell them to the highest bidder in the name of bullshit self-improvement.

There are survivors out there who remain silent. Invisible. Slipped through the cracks of society’s broken fringes, watching the parade of inspirational figureheads championing their own resilience.

We don’t all talk about our pasts. Nor do we all want to remember the struggle. The fight. The breaking. The cost of survival. These things are left unsaid in the shadows while the loud ones toot their own horns.

I’ve spent my life running from cameras and film crews, bloodthirsty reporters and foolhardy journalists, all determined to get the scoop on what happened ten years ago when the whole country burned. The fuse was lit inside the country’s psychiatric institutes. I had the honour of being incarcerated in one.

Harrowdean Manor.

It’s the last unsolved mystery.

When the biggest failed experiment in modern medical history was dismantled and exposed, the six private institutes embroiled in the conspiracy fell into ruinous violence.

Some made it out alive.

Others didn’t survive.

Already uncomfortable, I shift my short, barely five feet body in the stiff leather armchair that I’ve been assigned to after having my hair and makeup done. The blinking eye of the camera set up catches every sharp breath I suck into my lungs.

Tucked off to the side, Elliot O’Hare—the eagle-eyed investigative journalist who’s spent the best part of a decade harassing me—is fiddling with the microphone attached to his grey lapel.

Any sane person would be nervous for this interview. But any sane person wouldn’t have survived what I did. Perhaps that’s what shielded us from harm—the poisonous cloak of our insanity.

It protected us from the horrors we endured because we were already broken in the first place. That’s the whole reason we were all trapped inside of Harrowdean Manor. Society deemed us all unfit for their picture-perfect world of falsehoods.

“Okay, then.” Elliot straightens his narrow frame, an overflowing notebook clasped in his wrinkle-lined hands. “Are you ready to start, Miss Bennet?”

Staring down at the oil paint-stained tips of my fingers, I absently pick at my chipped purple nail varnish. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“If you’d like to stop for a break at any time, please let me know. I understand this will be difficult for you. We’ll go at your own pace.”

Difficult.

The word weighs heavy on my tongue like acrid cigarette ash. Escaping Harrowdean wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t even hard. In the end, it extracted a simple toll. I left one thing behind.

My broken heart.

The splintered remains… they took with them.

“Three… Two… One. The camera is rolling.”

When the blinking red light of the camera begins to strike its deathly knoll, I sit up straighter, attempting to conceal my anxiety. My heart has been trying to tear free from my ribcage ever since I arrived.

After spending hours trawling through my meagre wardrobe this morning, looking for something other than my studio clothes, I shed my usual sweatpants in favour of plain black jeans and an off-white blouse that complements my tawny hair and pale complexion.

It’s rare that I emerge from my combined apartment and art studio. The real world is unpalatable to me. I prefer the safety of my canvases and the slick of oil paint wielded as a weapon by my brush. No one can ever get close enough to hurt me as long as I live in isolation.

“Please state your name and age for the record,” Elliot prompts.

I clear my scratchy throat. “Ripley Bennet. Thirty-six years old.”

“Thank you for agreeing to speak to me, Miss Bennet. We’ve spoken to many ex-detainees of this cruel regime, but your story in particular has always fascinated us.”

Summoning a lifeless nod, I remain silent.

“We’ve been working on this documentary series for several years now.” Elliot tells the viewers what I already know. “Incendia Corporation was officially disbanded a decade ago by the prestigious security firm, Sabre Security.”

The London-based, private security company has become a household name. It was taken over by ex-inmates of Blackwood Institute four years ago. I choked on a mouthful of cereal when I read that headline. Now there’s a hell of a story.

“We’re releasing this documentary series to commemorate the anniversary of the disbandment,” Elliot continues. “This is our chance to give the victims back their voices.”

The past echoes inside my head. Drip, drip. Bloodstained corridors stretch out around me. Slash, slash. The knife is cold in my grip. Stab, stab . The cries of death and agony compose a sinister soundtrack. I’m still caught in Harrowdean’s web of contradictions.

Illusion and distortion.

Patient and exploiter.

Innocent and culpable.

“Miss Bennet.” Elliot’s professional voice draws me back.

Shaking the rising haze from my head, I stuff the memories back into their internal prison. My therapist says they’re safer in there. Safe, Ripley. You’re safe . Harrowdean is long gone. Even on those dark days when a twisted part of me wishes it still existed.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“It’s quite alright. I understand this must be a difficult subject for you, even after all these years. You lost people in Harrowdean, correct?”

All I can manage is another jerky nod that ruffles my unruly, jaw-length mop of curly hair. The words are caught in a barbed wire trap in my throat, unable to tear themselves free.

Fingers twisting together, I focus on the layers of ink that wrap around my arms in intricate tattoo sleeves. But even that isn’t a distraction—the tattoos on my left arm are disfigured by puckered scarring. Another reminder of my time inside.

“We’ve spoken to many ex-detainees and heard shocking stories of medical malpractice, psychological torture and abuse.”

“That’s what they kept us in there for.” I shrug. “We were never meant to be more than their playthings, all for the sake of medical experimentation.”

“Quite,” he hums.

That’s the thing most people don’t get. Not what happened inside of Harrowdean Manor and the other institutes—that’s a matter of public record now. But the involvement of the patients themselves in the abuse. And those of us who enabled it.

The infamous story that’s printed in the history books is only half of the truth. The other half lies buried in our broken minds, waiting to eventually see the light of day. That’s why I’m here. After a decade, the time has come for me to reveal mine.

“Perhaps, you’ll tell us about how you came to be incarcerated in Harrowdean, one of six experimental institutes owned by Incendia Corporation that were shut down and demolished?—”

“Harrowdean wasn’t just an institute,” I interrupt.

Elliot taps his pen against his chin thoughtfully. “How so?”

“Well, that’s just what the world wanted to see. It made it easier to ignore the truth that was staring them in the face for so many years.”

My eyes stray back to the blinking camera, capturing every last traitorous syllable. In the years since Harrowdean, I swore I’d never tell. As long as I kept Harrowdean’s secrets, my life was safe. But that didn’t protect those I sacrificed for my own selfish purposes.

“We’re here for the truth,” Elliot states simply.

“I’m not sure the world is ready to hear it.”

“But are you ready to tell it?”

Hesitating, years of silence hold my tongue hostage. I’ve never told my story before, and for good reason. The world feels no sympathy for people like me. Speaking up now will unleash hell upon me, but after years of torment, I’ve finally taken my therapist’s advice. I can no longer live my life in the shadows. This is how I’ll heal.

I need to exist.

I need to speak up.

I need… salvation.

Nodding cautiously, I refocus on my clenched fists. “Yes.”

“Then tell us, Ripley. What was Harrowdean?”

“For me?”

Elliot’s mouth lifts into a kind smile. “Yes.”

Trawling back through years of torrid memories, dipped in spilt blood and dusted in the substances I peddled for my own benefit, the truth is a simple admittance of guilt. I find the awful words far too easily.

“Harrowdean Manor was my kingdom to rule.”