The vibe that came off Dr. Payne was something she recognized. Ever since that long, terrible night with Killion, she’d been able to sense people’s bad intentions as if she had an early warning system. It had to do with their energy—it connected with her differently than with most people. But then most people hadn’t survived what she’d survived.
Her mind’s early warning system flashed her snatches of tomorrow’s session with Dr. Payne. If she selected the yellow or orange crayon, he would say she was trying too hard to be cheerful. If she picked red, he would accuse her of having angry or violent thoughts. If she grabbed blue or gray, he’d declare her depressed. If she chose black, he’d claim she wanted to disassociate. Whatever the color, he would make sure she was wrong, forcing her to spend all of tomorrow’s session defending tonight’s color selection. And if she wasn’t successful in her defense, he’d use that as an excuse to have more private sessions with her.
“Mercy. Take a crayon.” Dr. Payne’s voice sounded like a calm ocean, but underneath the surface, hungry sharks swam.
Shit. She grabbed the purple crayon.
“I can stay after group to help you process your reluctance.” His tone was full of fake helpfulness.
“No. I’m sorry. I was just daydreaming.” Great. Now she was going to have to come up with a reason why she’d stared at the damned crayon box so long without choosing one. It wasn’t like she could tell him the truth—that she knew what he wanted and had been trying to outthink him. The level of control he had over her life scared her nearly as much as Killion had all those years ago.
He moved on to Bo, handing him the paper and giving him a crayon, but she still felt the burden of his gaze on her: watching her, assessing her, looking for an excuse—any excuse—to increase her meds and decrease her ability to think.
She settled her hand over the six-inch ridge of puckered skin scarring her neck. The old injury was always cold, and the heat of her palm soothed something inside her, reassuring her soul that she had already survived the worst of life—and she would survive Ward B and Dr. Payne too.
But she’d better get her hand off her neck before he decided she needed to talk about Killion again. Dr. Payne enjoyed her tragedy too much.
She moved her hand away from her throat, and the scar went cold. She held the purple crayon by the fingers of both hands.
“For tonight’s education group…” Dr. Payne used his Moses-parting-the-seas voice and took the empty seat next to her. He always sat next to her. “…we’re going to talk about happiness and some of the research being conducted in the field of positive psychology. A group of Harvard psychologists have found that happy people have a particular set of habits.”
None of the patients on Ward B gave two shits about happiness. They were all too damned crazy to care about such an elusive term. Now, if this evening’s group had been about how to score smokes, line up conjugal visits, or get extra pudding cups, most of the patients would have been taking notes.
“I’m already happy!” Bo let out a high-pitched little-girl giggle that sounded nine kinds of wrong coming from a three-hundred-pound guy. “I’m Bojangles! See!” He framed his face with his pudgy hands and smiled an open-mouthed, deranged clown smile.
He called himself Bojangles, partly because of his chicken fixation and mostly because the name sounded like a clown’s name, and that’s exactly what Bo thought he was—a clown. That crazy smile and his carrot-colored Afro only solidified the delusion.
“I’m so happy!” Bo swayed violently in his seat, bumping into her and knocking her into Dr. Payne, whose arm went around her, locking her against his hard body. He held her too hard and too wrong. The room fell away. Bo’s shouting vanished. The only thing that existed was his horrible strength, trapping her against him, and the urge—the almost uncontrollable urge—to scream.
“Are you all right? If he hurt you…” Dr. Payne’s breath fanned across her cheek, smelling of sweet tea and summer. He should be the one who smelled like rotting chicken. Her body went into rigor mortis. She couldn’t move or breathe or think.
Bo jumped to his feet and moved into the center of the circle. Dr. Payne let her go. What had felt like an eternity of being pinned against him had probably lasted only two seconds, since no one seemed to notice.
“Let’s be happy together!” Bo hollered at the top of his volume range and began twirling like a morbidly obese ballerina. “Bojangles. Bojangles. Bojangles.” He sang his name at an ear-throbbing volume.
Dr. Payne didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched Bo with an expression of absolute indifference on his face. That was part of how Mercy had known he was a sociopath. He never reacted normally—and he didn’t have the excuse of being pumped full of antipsychotics and sedatives like the rest of the group. He never seemed threatened, no matter the situation. Probably because he was always the biggest threat in the room.
Bo pirouetted to a stop in front of her. “Dance with me, baby doll!” He snatched her up against his flabby body and hurled them around. His rotten-chicken stench assaulted her nose, but no matter how bad he stank, she wasn’t scared of him. Bo would never intentionally hurt her or anyone else. He was like a mastiff pup. He didn’t understand how big he was, or how strong, or how his size could intimidate.
“Bo, I don’t feel like dancing right now.” She pushed against his pudgy man boobs.
His bottom lip jutted out shiny with saliva, but he stopped and let her go, just like she knew he would.
His chest bellowed, his lungs wheezed and whistled. Hauling around three hundred pounds would do that to a person.
“Now why don’t you sit down, catch your breath, and let Dr. Payne finish tonight’s—”