One
London, 1884
WalterDunnstruggledtocatch his breath as heavy footsteps approached the door of his room, trepidation tightening his frail body. When the steps continued down the hall, a wave of icy relief washed over him, even as he gripped the chair arm to steady himself, more shaken than he’d care to admit.
He studied his hand on the chair, gaze drifting over the blue-black veins crossing the thin skin freckled with age spots, the knuckles gnarled along several of his fingers. He barely recognized himself. How he detested being so old and weak, though he was only nine and sixty.
Age seemed to have caught up with him suddenly.
Where had the dratted time gone? His life had passed in the blink of a blurring eye. His Nancy was long gone, memories of her fading with each day. Her smile, her laughter; they were disappearing. Loneliness was now his constant companion, something he’d hoped might ease during his stay at Hollowgate Heights, but to no avail.
Now Walter was trapped in this sterile room, no longer certain he’d ever escape.
Or survive long.
The renowned sanatorium was supposed to offer modern scientific methods to regain health in a picturesque setting. It had been just that, for a time.
But now...
Now it was clear coming here had been a terrible mistake.
The treatments he’d undergone had been difficult from the start, leaving him drained and shaky. Fasting, hydropathy—using water for easing pain and other ills—had to be more natural options than the powders and pills the physician had prescribed since the cancer started to spread.
What did he have to lose, he’d asked himself before coming to the sanatorium. What if one of these clever new treatments cured him, allowing him to live the rest of his life in relative comfort?
Only last week Walter had grown hopeful, feeling as if he’d regained a small measure of strength and vitality. He had slept better, deeper, longer. Perhaps his nephew wouldn’t inherit as soon as Walter feared.
The footsteps echoed in the hall once again, returning in his direction. A whisper of dread crawled along his spine as they slowed, slowed, then halted, followed by a quiet knock before the door opened.
Panic flared.
“Good afternoon, Walter,” the aide said with a bright smile, holding a small silver tray.
Patients weren’t allowed the formality of a proper address. After all, everyone was among friends, Dr. Thorne had insisted when Walter had first arrived. It didn’t apply to the doctor, of course, and Walter was willing to wager it didn’t apply to the titled clientele housed in the other wing either that patients whispered about on the rare occasions they were permitted time together.
“Return later,” Walter grumbled with a dismissive wave of his hand, hoping his gripping fear didn’t spill from his gaze. “I’m just about to rest.” Yet he couldn’t tear his eyes from the tray, draped with a cloth that hid its contents.
While Walter had believed sincerely that the harsh treatments were helping, doubt had recently taken hold. Over the last three days, he was starting to wonder if their intent was perhaps darker.
To kill him, instead of heal him.
But why? And who? The aide? The doctor? His blasted nephew, by somehow approving different treatments from afar? Or that menacing patient down the hall who gave Walter the creeps?
“Return later?” The aide grinned as he shook his head, moving closer with absolute certainty. “We can’t change the schedule, Walter. You know that.”
Walter gathered his courage and his limited strength. He had to take a stand. It was now or never. “I’m done—done with the treatments. I’m checking myself out of here. The time has come for me to return home.”
The aide’s grin slowly faded. “Are you in earnest?”
“I am.” Walter nodded to confirm it. “I appreciate all you’ve done, but I’ll be leaving come morning.”
His gaze drifted over to his suitcase. Small, and a little battered around the edges, like himself. Unlike himself, it was full to the brim.
The man hesitated. “I think you’re making a mistake.”
“That’s for me to decide.” Walter lifted his chin, wanting it to be true. He’d been told, hadn’t he, when he’d arrived: he could leave when he chose, though few did. Dr. Thorne had said that people only left when they were cured. But he felt more and more like a prisoner here, rather than a patient who’d paid an exorbitant fee to stay.
The aide continued to stare, his hesitation obvious.
