I move to the desk and sit in the chair. I lean down and pull open the drawer, searching through it, fingers moving fast as I look for a notebook, a scrap of paper, anything that might lead me to Detective Rourke’s address.
But there is nothing.
No handwritten notes. No personal files. She keeps none of it here.
Useless.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I shove the papers off the desk. They scatter across the floor, pages flutter, and they land in uneven piles.
“Shit.”
I drop to my knees and start picking them up.
They can’t know I was here.
As I gather the pages, one catches my eye. It was a visitation log with names and dates listed in neat rows. One name appears again and again, five times total, all visits logged for the same patient.
Mabel Kinsley.
Why does that sound familiar?
I scan the page again. Next to the name is a cell number.
I memorize it first, then gently set the papers back on the desk, arranging them as before.
I stand and head for the door. The corridor outside is loud and chaotic.
“He has to be somewhere.” I hear them shouting.
Their boots pound against the floor, radios crackle with voices, but I keep my head down and shoulders slumped, and walk straight toward the cells. Walking slowly like I am just another patient returning to his cage.
They never look twice.
Stupid. A single distraction can shatter their focus. Just targeting one of them and stirring emotions does the job. Grief clouds their judgment, blinding them to what’s directly in front of them. As a result, they become easier to manipulate.
The name keeps repeating in my head.
Mabel Kinsley.
By the time I reach the cell block, the memory slowly comes back in pieces. And I remember. She was one of the nurses caught in the fire back in 1998.
I knew her.
I knew her very well.
I stand in front of cell twelve and gaze through the small square window in the door. Thick glass separates me from what’s inside.
An older woman sits on the edge of the bed. Her back is slightly hunched. She stares at the white wall across from her, rocking back and forth, over and over. Her breathing is shallow, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
I open the door and wedge it shut with my shoe before it can lock behind me.
“Kiki?” I whisper.
She turns her head instantly.
There is no warmth in her eyes. No recognition. The woman who used to bring me toys is gone. Panic flashes across her face, and she screams.
