20. Lorcan
LORCAN
Ipushed through the front door of Magdalene without slowing.
The reception hall smelled of floor polish and a citrus air freshener that barely covered the sharp note of disinfectant.
High ceilings, wood-paneled walls, antique brass sconces burning too low.
The whole entrance was a performance, groomed gardens visible through the side windows, a vase of white lilies on the side table, and a framed watercolor of the grounds hung where families could see it while they signed the paperwork.
Respectability. Something to believe on your way in.
A woman behind the curved reception desk looked up and offered me a professional smile, the managed kind, trained for difficult conversations.
“Welcome to Magdalene—”
“Lorcan Lasair. I want the RMS.”
Her mouth parted into a small, startled O, and her eyes widened with panic.
I’d seen that look all my life on men who answered to my father. The instinct of her fear at my last name left something sour in my mouth.
“Mr. Lasair!” She fumbled for the phone. “Of course. If you’ll take a seat while I call—”
“No. Now.”
She flinched and nodded, then put down the phone. “If you’ll follow me.”
I followed her as she turned a corner.
A man in a white coat was coming the other way and the eejit pulled up short.
“Move,” I snapped.
At the last minute, he stepped aside. I passed him without breaking stride.
The receptionist stopped at a heavy wooden door with a brass plate that read Resident Medical Supervisor. She raised her hand to knock.
I pushed past her and opened the door myself.
The RMS looked up from his papers, irritation already tightening his mouth. Then his eyes widened in recognition. Fear flashed in them before he could hide it.
He shot to his feet and fumbled at his tie, then his shirt, like he could straighten himself into control. “Mr. Lasair. I wasn’t expecting—”
“I want Rua Lasair’s file.” I crossed to the desk. “Primary notes, session records, incident reports, staff observations. All of it.”
“I, er, well, Mr. Lasair, patient records are strictly confident—”
“Her file.”
He hesitated, muttering something else inconsequential.
I said nothing. I just looked at him and let him picture what happened if the answer was no.
I’d watched my father do it my whole life, that quiet pressure that made men fold without a raised voice.
I hated that it worked when I did it too.
He cleared his throat and moved to the filing cabinet.
I sat in his chair, forcing him to stand beside his own desk to hand the folder over.
“Get out.”
“But this is my—” Stopping short, he apparently decided better of it and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I leaned back in his leather chair and opened the file.
I began to read. Page by page. Methodically.
I noted the date on the intake form, the full name, date of birth, address, all Rua’s details, admitted under my father’s signature.
I read the session notes. Withdrawn, fearful, eager to appease, compliant, reassurance-seeking.
Hmm. That sounded like Rua. I turned the pages. More damn notes.
Patient presents as quiet and cooperative.
Seeks frequent reassurance from staff.
Shows reduced insistence on autonomy.
Then after six months, the session notes changed. Abruptly.
Patient presents with increased agitation. Heightened defensiveness during sessions. Oppositional behavior when corrected. Hostility toward staff.
Patient became violent when addressed as Rua.
The pulse ticked in my jaw.
I kept reading, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I was onto something.
The notes became even more disturbing.
Patient states she was abducted.
I stopped.
Not believes. Not claims. States.
Was this the first honest line in the whole fucking folder?
My thoughts whirled around in my head as the implication sat like a stone in my guts.
Patient exhibits identity disturbance.
Rejects established personal history.
Fixation on alternate identity.
Then finally…
In neat typescript, same as everything else, buried within observations about eating and sleeping and medication compliance.
Patient insists her name is Liath Byrne.
My thumb pressed against the name. Liath Byrne. The name ran through the rest of the notes, in all the staff observations, incident reports, one transcribed session where she’d apparently screamed it three times before they’d sedated her.
Liath. Irish for gray.
Her eyes came to mind at once, those stormy grays that flashed even when she was cornered.
Rua had always felt like something draped over her. Liath fit her.
I sat there with the folder closed beneath my hand, a predatory possessiveness moving through me. Like knowing her real name claimed power over her the way it did in Irish fairy myths.
I said her name quietly, almost under my breath, and the private weight of it sat wrong and right at once.
Then again just to settle the shape of it in my mouth.
“Liath.”
Her name was mine now. Mine. And I knew exactly what I was going to do with it.
I would wait for the right moment.
Then watch her face turn when I wielded it.