To my frustration, the receptionist taps her acrylic nails against the countertop, keeping her expression bored.
“Go ahead. There is no evidence of malpractice here, and if you did have access to these fancy lawyers, you’d have brought one with you.” With the hint of a smirk, she returns to her computer, clicking those nails on the keyboard needlessly. Dammit. She called our bluff.
I feel my jaw tightening, that awful helplessness blooming in my chest the same way it does every time my mom stares through me like I’m a ghost. I don’t have the bandwidth for someone else pretending I don’t exist. Shifting my head, I gaze at the visitor’s book, spotting the name that started all of this. The reason I’m here.Dekken. H. Cornstone.
Dropping the photo onto the logbook, I stare at it as if I can merge Kenneth into the name, linking their personas. I need confirmation for what I already know. Rhys must sense the shift in me, or maybe he’s simply done being patient, because he steps forward, reaches into his back pocket, and slaps a folded bundle of cash onto the desk. The receptionist’s head snaps up with such force that her chair creaks.
“Talk,” Rhys says flatly. One single word. No embellishment, no unnecessary threat. Though the look in his eyes is enough to fill in the blanks. The receptionist blinks, her features turning calculating as she looks from the money to Rhys to me. Reaching out, she takes the cash and slides it safely out of view. I should have known she’d take a bribe. Money is a universal language.
“You’re looking for Dekken. He’s a sweet kid. When your mom needs a rest, he heads to the main hall and helps out.”
“How does he ‘help out’?” Rhys demands, his voice as tense as my nerves. There’s no response until more money is slid over the desk, loosening the receptionist’s lips.
“Sitting with the lonely residents, serving meals with the canteen staff, suggesting daytrips and events. He was just a joy to have around,” she says fondly. Rhys makes a disbelieving sound in his throat, whilst I keep staring at the visitor’s book as if an answer will magically appear. And then, like a hidden illusion, it does.
“Fuck,” I hiss to myself. Pushing the photo beneath Dekken’s name, I see it as clear as day. “It’s an anagram. Dekken H Cornstone, Kenneth Dockerson. This whole time.” Pushing away from the desk, I hang my head, running a hand through my hair. Rhys steps in behind me, double-checking the book before realising I’m right. It’s been right beneath our noses, and we missed it.
Done with wasting time on the corrupt receptionist, I turn for the residential hallway when Rhys’ voice stops me.
“One more thing.” He leans his elbow on the counter, the largest wad of cash yet balanced between his fingers. The receptionist sits straighter, her attention fully piqued. It’s the most alert I’ve ever seen her, as Rhys leans in and tilts his head.
“Do you keep any sedatives on site? Anything to calm the residents when they become frantic?” My eyes widen at how the color from the receptionist’s face drains. Rhys continues on, hismind able to catch onto what I’ve clearly missed. “And have any of these sedatives gone missing lately?” The receptionist’s eyes dart to the side, an obvious tell. Flicking the cash back in his own direction, Rhys grins and pushes the wad into his pocket. “My lawyer will be in touch.”
We stride into the hallway, although my feet feel like lead. I struggle to make my mind catch up, thoughts firing in quick succession until we stop outside my mom’s door. Rhys reaches for the handle, and I reach out to stop him.
“You will behave, right?” He gives me a sarcastic look, shrugs my concern off and opens the door. I roll my eyes. Has he never heard of knocking?
Inside, my mom sits by the window in her usual chair, a blanket tucked around her legs. She’s staring out at the courtyard, tracking something only she can see, lost in the internal world that only exists in her mind. Her hair, once thick and wild like mine, is being brushed back neatly by the nurse behind her.
Noticing us, the nurse places down the brush and excuses herself. Rhys steps in first, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The door clicks softly shut behind us, and Mom slowly turns her head, blinking a few times like she’s adjusting to a new light. For a single moment, I let myself hope she’ll recognise me, that the fog might lift on command just this once. But her eyes slide across my face without catching, drifting over me as though I’m a piece of furniture that has appeared while she wasn’t paying attention.
Pushing myself to cross the room, I drop into the armchair opposite her, thankful that Rhys remained by the door. Leaning my elbows on my thighs, I clear my throat.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me, Clayton.”
No response. Not even a pause as she returns her gaze to the window. I hang my head, cursing under my breath. Todayis one of her bad days, but I don’t have the time to leave and return. Harper’s life could be hanging in the balance, and the not knowing is killing me. My mind is so quick to conjure the worst eventualities, any chance of hope blooming is stolen from me.
I force myself to breathe, in through my nose, out through my mouth, searching for some anchor in the sterile air of the room. Rhys doesn't move from his post, and I can feel his gaze on the side of my face, quietly measuring how close I am to breaking. Every instinct screams at me to demand answers, to shake the truth free, but I know how fragile she is. Rolling my shoulders, I sit straighter and let a mask of indifference fall over my face.
“Mom. Look at me,” I state more evenly. The authoritative tone catches her attention, her chin tilting with the faintest twitch of curiosity, but still nothing. Beyond her window, everything remains motionless, with not even a hint of wind stirring the flowers in the planter. She’s drifting, floating somewhere behind her eyes, and I need to drag her back without snapping the tether completely.
There’s only one thing for it, and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do that again. That I wouldn’t lie to her again. Putting my moral compass aside, I shuffle forward, disguising my voice as someone else’s, someone she might still remember.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Leary. We’ve gotten word about your boy making trouble again. We need you to help us find him.” Her dark eyes flicker, a shadow of something familiar passing across her face. Holding onto her attention, I continue. “He’s been spotted stealing. We need to know where he is, where he might have gone.”
The lie tastes like dust, but it’s the last card I have to play. For whatever reason, I’m the last person she remembers. I’m the one she’s erased from her memory, so I’ll use that to my advantage. Slipping the photo out of my pocket, I reach out to place it onher lap. There’s a long stretch of stillness, and I can sense Rhys becoming impatient, but I pretend he isn’t here. It’s not difficult, I’ve been practising that particular skill all year.
“Ms Michaels,” I tap the photo gently before sitting back. “Your son’s gotten mixed up with the wrong people. We need to make sure he’s safe.”
“Safe,” my mom echoes back hollowly. Her gaze finally drifts down, and she blinks hard, like she’s trying to bring the past forward into focus. Ever so slowly, as if she’s resurfacing through a pool of tar, a smile grows across her face. Suddenly, she laughs, loud and unhindered. I resist flinching, watching her cackle like a stranger who bears no resemblance to the woman who raised me. Lifting the photo, she holds it up to her face.
“That’s not my son. That’s the other one.” My pulse jumps, a thick swallow working its way through my throat. Rhys shifts his stance but stays beside the door.
“The other one?” I frown. She nods, eyes fixed on the image with startling precision.
“The sweet boy. Such a terrible shame about his family.” I watch her trace his face with her fingers, outlining his hair with familiarity. “Is he coming to the trial today? I saved him a seat.”
A beat ticks in my jaw, puzzle pieces slotting together in my mind. There’s only been one trial that my mom has attended, and it was mine. Kenneth was there, he sat with her. How long has he been planning to strike? How deeply has he embedded himself into my life? Keeping my expression impassive, I hide the curling of my fists.
