“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, sir, you did.” He’s nodding, but not in a manner that challenges. More like a kindly reminder. “You said you lost control and had a horrible accident.”
I most certainly did not tell him that. Maybe he’s just taking a stab after noticing my bruise?
Or is it my bruised mind? Is it possible that I actually did tell him?
And in that moment, looking into those infernos of blue, I can no longer contain my curiosity.
“Donny Ray,” I say, “have we met somewhere before?”
He offers no answer, but his blank expression snares my nerves, subtle shades of doubt telling me what I already know.
I shouldn’t have asked.
I feel pressure near the right side of my head. I reach up and find something tucked behind my ear. I pull the object out and look at it.
My pen.
But I was just holding it in my hand.
I turn quickly and head out the door, but about five feet down the hallway, I get hold of myself. Too much weirdness going on, and I can’t leave here without figuring out the cause.
After returning to Donny Ray’s room, I look through the door and find him standing before the rear wall window, back facing me, arms hanging loosely at his sides, body motionless. I take a shaky step closer.
Donny Ray steps toward his window.
The hairs on the back of my neck start to rise—I run a hand over them.
Donny Ray does the same.
Am I imagining this?
I shake my head in bafflement.
He shakes his head.
There has to be a simple explanation. He can see my reflection in the glass.
No, that’s not possible.
It’s broad daylight outside—there is no reflection. Besides, Donny Ray’s window is positioned off to the left, placing me out of the glass’ line of sight.
A quiver rips up my spine. I need to get the hell out of here, and my feet can’t carry me fast enough.
21
Something very peculiar is happening, but I haven’t a clue what.
I do, however, know one thing. I’ve got a bad case of the creeps, and it’s drilling deeper under my skin.
What was Donny Ray doing by that window?
Then there was my pen.
Which seemed to move from one place to the next completely independent of my will or awareness. I have no memory of removing the thing from my pocket or even dropping it. Much more unsettling is that it ended up in a violent patient’s hands and could have been used as a shank—an error with repercussions I don’t even want to consider. His reminding me of it only added to all the strangeness.
I reach my floor and see Adam stepping out of his office. He takes one look at my dazed expression and says, “Whoa. What happened to you?”
“There’s a problem in Alpha Twelve,” I say, winded and trying to slow my spinning thoughts.
Adam throws me a look of confusion.
I give him one back.
He says, “I was actually asking about your forehead.”
“Oh, that.” I glance up and down the hallway. “I kind of had a car accident last night.”
“Kind of? Looks like you did one hell of a job at it. Why don’t you come in and let me have a look?”
I’m in no condition for this right now, but he isn’t leaving me much choice, so I follow him inside his office. He points me to the visitor’s chair.
I lower myself to sit, then explain about the accident. But not about the vanishing rain, and definitely not about the boy and his ball. I trust Adam but don’t want to alarm him, let alone create awkwardness by making him doubt my mental stability. I’m still convinced my audiovisual distortions were brought on by stress, then exacerbated by the two knocks to my head.
He narrows in on the cut above my brow. “You worried about it?”
“A little. I can’t seem to shake this headache.”
“You could have a concussion.” He reaches into a pocket for his penlight, clicks it on, and says, “Look straight ahead.”
He checks my pupils, then administers a few coordination and balance tests.
“You seem okay,” he says after finishing. “If there’s a concussion, it’s probably minor and should resolve itself. I don’t see any cause for concern.”
“Great, and thanks.” I gently run a finger over the wound. “Jenna’s been worried.”
Adam is staring at me again. He nods toward the top of my head. “Trying something new there, sport?”
“Huh?”
“The ’do.”
I look away from him, scrub a hand through my hair. “It’s no big deal. I just moved the part.”
When I turn back, Adam is now giving me another look—it involves one cocked brow and one emerging smirk. I give him a look back, but mine’s not so jovial.
He takes the hint, raises his hands in surrender, and makes a negligible attempt at taming his smirk. “So what’s this about Alpha Twelve?”
“Something very strange was going on.”
“Strange is kind of how they roll down there, right?”
“But it was uncharacteristically so. I walked onto the floor and everything was eerily quiet. Not a peep from any of the patients—they were all so subdued, then Nicholas Hartley whispered to me.”
“Nicholas who?”
“The guy we saw that first day. You remember.”
“I was too busy watching Jeremy for signs of life. Anyway, what did he say?”
“Something about ‘that sleep of death’?”
Adam shakes his head, confused.
“Strange, don’t you think?”
“If you ask me, it sounds like just another day at Loveland.”
“But he also said my first name.”
Adam shrugs. “He could have heard Jeremy say it, right?”
“And none of the patients would so much as look at me. They were in some sort of weird and altered state. I’ve been on that floor more times than I can count, and I’ve never seen them so subdued.”
“But you’re not there all the time, right?”
“Well, no . . .”
“Besides, since when is it a problem if the patients are quiet instead of unruly?” Adam’s smile is amused, and now I feel silly for even bringing it up.