Chapter one
A Dark Valentine
Listening Companion:
Bohren & der Club of Gore—Constant Fear
Valentine’s Day was a strange time to visit an asylum.
Nothing about love belonged in a cage built to trap madness.
Warden Harker and two guards dressed in white led me through the doors of Blackmoor State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. They’d had me sign a waiver—six pages of legal language confirming that Blackmoor was not responsible for any psychological trauma or any other harm incurred during my visit.
Waiver or not, I fully intended to sue their asses with a good lawyer if something went wrong.
Still, I planned on leaving this place safe and mentally intact.
I tugged absently at one of my honey blonde braids—a nervous habit I'd never been able to break. The braids fell past my shoulders and were a contrast against my dark brown skin.
When my mother was alive, she always complained about my hair color.
Too flashy for a professional, she'd say.You want them to take you seriously or stare at your hair?
I shoved that away.
Fluorescent panels buzzed overhead, flaring out light that skimmed surfaces without warming them.
Corners stayed dark.
The seams where wall met ceiling held shadows.
The air smelled of disinfectant layered over rust, damp concrete, and human sweat and fear.
Why would they decorate the asylum for Valentine's Day?
Neon purple hearts hung from the ceiling on black wire. They spun slowly in the recycled air.
A few were taped crookedly to the walls, curling at the edges, scuffed and stained.
Someone had written Valentine’s sayings across the concrete in thick paint.
BE MINE.
TRUE LOVE WAITS.
FOREVER YOURS.
The words glowed under the lights. In places, the purple was smeared, dragged downward by careless hands. In others, it had been traced over again and again, darker each time.
This is crazy, but. . .what else would it be here?
The floors were polished to a mirror shine and reflected the hearts in broken pieces.
My footsteps echoed too loudly.
A janitor stood off to the side of the corridor, leaning on a mop. His uniform was gray and faded. He didn’t move as we passed. He just watched me, eyes dull, tired, tracking me the way someone looks at a problem they don’t get paid enough to solve.
When our gazes met, his grip tightened on the handle. The mop bucket beside him sloshed softly.
