“He’s right there.”
The guard looks in, then lifts his radio. His voice cuts through the noise as he calls it in. Footsteps pound closer from down the hall.
But I couldn’t wait. I open the door and step inside.
He doesn’t move.
Not a twitch. Not a breath I can see. His eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling. He is not even blinking. Saliva slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his cheek and onto the pillow.
“Mr. Mercer,” I whisper as I move closer.
Slowly, his head turns.
I gasp.
“Who are you?” he asks.
The sound of my own swallow feels too loud as I force myself to stand still.
“Dr. Emily Beckett,” I say. “I am here to help.”
He turns his head back, eyes returning to the ceiling.
Silence again fills the room.
I take another step forward. The guards came near the door, whispering into their radios as if noise itself might provoke him.
I block them out, lifting my hand.
“Do you know where you are?” I ask.
His brow creases, then smooths. “No.”
My pulse stumbles.
“And your name?”
His jaw tightens, then loosens. “I don’t think I have one.”
Cold spills down my spine.
I glance back at the guards. “What did you give him?”
They exchange looks, but no one answers.
When I turn back, he is watching me.
Reallywatching.
Scanning.
His eyes are wrong. So wrong. They weren’t empty or dead; they merely lacked everything that once animated them. It seems like someone else is wearing his face, and that person has nothing left inside.
A guard approaches carefully and grips my arm, pulling me back. His voice brushes my ear.
“He slit the throat of a nurse who treated him.”
My heart slams harder. I look back at Mercer.
