This is exhilarating. Her dim eyes tell me to be petrified with fear. But the only thing I am feeling is impatience.
“I am certain,” I say.
She nods, unconvinced.“Patient Thirteen—has a rare and deeply disturbing disorder. His soul—orpersonality, is split into two entities. The part that we see on a daily basis is beyond anything you can imagine. Murderous, genius, manipulative—vicious. There aren’t enough adjectives in the world.” She chuckles nervously, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her brow with a handkerchief.
“The core personality is what we believe to be thetameversion of himself. But we haven’t seen that personality since he admitted himself into the asylum four years ago. We believe his brain works differently than ours. It’s rather extraordinary, really, if he weren’t so dangerous, the savants of this city would take much pleasure in measuring the lengths and capacity of his mind—”
“What’s his name? You keep saying Patient Thirteen… but he must have a name,” I interrupt. I know that shouldn’t be the thing I’m focusing on out of all the information she has just shared, but I’ve been itching to know.
Suseas clears her throat.“Yes, well, he would like to be called Dessin.”
Dessin. His name is Dessin.
Suseas lowers her voice like the man on the other side of that door is listening. “But we are trying to get through to his core—his soul; therefore, calling him Dessin would only prolong progress.Patient Thirteendoesn’t respond to the majority of treatments. He laughs at the simulated drownings, electrotherapy, chair binding, scalding baths. There’s only one thing that we know of that has any effect on him. That’s chemically induced seizures. We have to drastically up the dose, and even then, he recovers quickly, so we do it over and over again.”
She informs me that he has also erased any record in history ever documented of himself. Birth certifications, photographs, public records, anything. They have no idea what happened in his past to make him like this, much like the other cases I have solved.
She takes a step toward the door to begin. Stops. Tilts her head to face me once more. “You will find yourself going mad in this room, Miss Ambrose. He has a way of snaking around inside your head. Don’t be fooled; this is all a part of his game.” She reaches over me and types a thirteen-digit number into the keypad covered by a metal plate.“Oh, and don’t be alarmed. Hewillknow specific details about you. It’s part of his facade.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms.Please be with me, Scarlett.I pray.Please help me find the words and actions I’ll need to break through to him. Please stay by my side.
“I shall do all of the talking, yes? You’re here to watch, observe, take notes. But do not look him in the eyes, and do not give him any reason to victimize you.”
I nod slowly. I know I should be terrified. But I’m fighting the urge to burst through that door and see for myself.
Suseas pulls on a thick metal latch, and the door clicks open. My stomach combusts into joyous webs of violet lightning.
This.
Is.
It.
This room is not like the others. It’s double the size. Aged brass gas lanterns mounted on all four walls, filling the area with soft, smoky light, much like a tavern after dark. And there’s a feather bed bolted into the concrete floor and wall, with shackles meant for the wrists, ankles, feet, and then one longer restraint for the forehead. The thought occurs to me that this man admitted himself… Why on earth would anyone choose to live this way?
Then, stopping me midbreath, I’m nearly dizzy from the sweet scent of sandalwood and pine trees. It forces me to pause, unable to think clearly, fully reminded of my childhood. Somehow, my subconscious floats backward in time, the sound of rain pattering against the canopy of leaves, twigs scratching my bare ankles, and gusts of cool wind swaying great oak trees.
I notice all of these factors of the room in a fraction of a second before my eyes jump to the figure sitting with arms and legs tied down to a small black chair that barely supports the broad muscles in his back. I expected to see a wrinkled, worn-down old man in all black. With jagged, yellow teeth, a crooked cynical grin, and black beady eyes.
This man has already had me fooled.
The back of his head is covered in what looks like soft chocolate-brown hair that is tamed and straight in the back but cowlicked with curled longer locks on top.
Instead of sitting in the chair across from him, she takes her place on the edge of his bed, eyeballing me to stay put. I watch.
“How are you feeling today, Patient Thirteen?” She pulls out a clipboard with a shaky hand without making eye contact with him. I also have a clipboard to take notes, to observe, but I’m—numb. All I can do is stare, leaving the board to hang at my side from the tips of my fingers.
She jots something down, but I suspect it’s just to keep herself busy. Is she really scared to look him in the eye? I immediately get the sense of dominance in the room that is surely not coming from her—an alpha wolf circling a member of its pack.
I wait for his reply, but he says nothing. He doesn’t even move.
“Is today not a good day to talk?” she asks. The only sounds coming from the flickering flames in the lanterns.
“Fine with me, we can go straight to the chemicals. I wouldn’t mind the silence,” she states, attempting to appear uninterested.
This makes his head tilt to the right.
The muscles in my neck harden like drying concrete.
