Chapter 4 - The Clinics Without Windows
Claire struck Adrian’s wounded hand as the gunshot echoed through the cabin.
The revolver dropped.
I kicked it beneath the sofa.
Adrian grabbed Claire by the throat and drove her backward into the hallway wall. She clawed at his arm, but he tightened his grip until her face darkened.
I reached for the hunting knife.
My fingers closed around its wooden handle.
Before I could rise, another wave of internal pain folded me over. My vision blurred. Adrian became a dark shape at the end of a long tunnel.
Claire’s knees buckled.
I crawled forward and slashed the knife across Adrian’s calf.
He screamed and released her.
Claire fell, gasping.
Adrian kicked the knife from my hand and limped toward the fireplace. He pulled the landscape painting from the wall, revealing a metal panel with a keypad and several blinking lights.
“You wanted the truth?” he snarled. “Here it is.”
He punched in a code.
A monitor hidden behind the panel flickered to life.
The screen displayed camera feeds from rooms I recognized immediately.
Not only the cabin.
Clinics.
Bedrooms.
Therapy rooms.
Hallways without windows.
Women sat alone beneath fluorescent lights. Some stared at walls. Others paced in circles. One slept strapped to a narrow bed.
Adrian had built his own private network of prisons and connected all of them through a central system.
Claire pushed herself upright.
“How many?” I asked.
He looked almost proud again.
“How many what?”
“Women.”
“You use such dramatic language. They are patients.”
“Patients can leave.”
“Can they?” He tilted his head. “You built a career putting people in cages because you decided their behavior was dangerous. I created places where damaged women could be corrected before they ruined their own lives.”
“You kidnapped them.”
“Their families signed consent forms.”
“Forged forms.”
“Some were forged. Some were not. You would be surprised how quickly exhausted parents surrender difficult daughters.”
Claire’s face went pale.
Adrian glanced at her.
“Your mother surrendered you long before I arrived,” he said. “I merely gave your pain a name.”
Claire looked at me.
The old wound opened between us.
I had not surrendered her. But grief had made me absent in ways I had refused to understand. After Daniel died, I returned to work too quickly because courtrooms had rules and grief did not. I spoke publicly about resilience while Claire ate dinner alone. I told myself she wanted space.
Adrian found that space and filled it with poison.
“I failed you,” I told her.
Adrian smiled.
Claire did not.
“I should have listened when you said you were angry,” I continued. “I should have stayed when you pushed me away. I should have told you how frightened I was.”
“Stop,” Adrian said.
I kept looking at my daughter.
“But I did not kill Daniel. And I never stopped loving you.”
Claire’s mouth trembled.
Adrian struck the control panel.
The screen changed.
A video began playing.
Claire sat in a white room, younger and healthier, wearing a hospital bracelet. Adrian’s voice came from off camera.
Tell me what your mother did.
She chose herself, recorded Claire answered.
How do you know?
Because she always chooses herself.
Who taught you that?
No one. I remember.
The video jumped.
Claire appeared thinner. A bruise marked her cheek.
Who is responsible for Daniel’s death?
My mother.
Who can protect you from her?
You can.
The video changed again.
This time Claire was crying.
Please let me call her.
Why?
I want to go home.
Home is where she controls you.
I don’t care.
You will.
Adrian stopped the recording.
Claire stood frozen.
“You told me those sessions weren’t recorded,” she whispered.
“I told you many things.”
“You said I came here willingly.”
“You did.”
“After you drugged me.”
“You were unstable.”
“You locked the doors.”
“For your protection.”
“You made me write the note.”
“I helped you express what you already knew.”
Her breathing changed.
Adrian heard it and softened his voice.
“Claire, this is confusion. Your mother’s presence is triggering old dependency patterns. You have done so well. Do not throw away eleven months of healing because she performed one convincing rescue.”
For one terrible moment, I saw his words reach her.
Trauma did not disappear simply because a victim recognized the lie. Familiar manipulation could still feel safer than freedom. Adrian knew every fear he had cultivated inside her.
He extended his uninjured hand.
“Come here.”
Claire stared at it.
“Come back to me.”
She took one step.
My heart broke quietly.
Then she took another.
Adrian smiled.
When she reached him, she placed her hand in his.
He relaxed.
Claire pulled him forward and drove her forehead into his nose.
Bone cracked.
Adrian collapsed against the control panel.
Claire seized his injured hand and pressed it flat against a biometric reader.
The system unlocked.
Folders appeared across the screen.
PATIENT TRANSFERS.
FAMILY CONSENTS.
MERCER PAYMENTS.
CLINICAL OUTCOMES.
DISPOSAL AUTHORIZATIONS.
Claire clicked the first folder.
Names filled the screen.
Dozens.
Perhaps hundreds.
“Can you send it?” I asked.
“I tried before. It needs an external authorization key.”
“What kind?”
“A physical token. Adrian carries it.”
He recovered faster than either of us expected.
With blood streaming from his nose, he grabbed Claire and threw her across the room. She struck the edge of the sofa and fell.
He reached inside his shirt and pulled a metal chain from around his neck.
A small silver drive hung from it.
The authorization key.
Adrian ripped it free and backed toward the open cabin door.
“You have no idea what you’re looking at,” he said.
“Evidence,” I replied.
“You think those files will survive without this?”
He held up the drive.
Then he threw it through the doorway.
The silver token vanished into the rain.
Claire ran after it.
Adrian caught her around the waist.
They crashed onto the porch.
I pulled myself toward the control panel.
The folder labeled MERCER PAYMENTS contained scanned checks, bank transfers, recorded calls, and photographs. Sheriff Wade Mercer had received money from Adrian’s charities for six years. In return, he closed missing-person investigations, returned escaped women, and warned Adrian about warrants.
Our suspicions had been right.
But the folder also contained something worse.
A live message flashed across the screen.
MERCER UNIT EN ROUTE. ETA 14 MINUTES.
Adrian had triggered the alarm when he opened the panel.
The sheriff was coming.
Not to rescue us.
To erase everything.
Outside, Claire screamed.
I looked through the open doorway.
Adrian had dragged her onto the rain-soaked porch. She clawed at the boards as he pulled her toward the lake.
The silver authorization key lay near the steps.
I tried to stand.
My legs failed.
Fourteen minutes.
The escaped women were somewhere along the shoreline. If Mercer’s deputies found them first, they would be returned—or killed.
I reached for my phone beneath the overturned table.
The screen was cracked, but it still powered on.
No cellular signal.
Adrian had installed a jammer.
The system panel, however, had a hardwired internet connection. That was how it communicated with the clinics.
I opened the network settings.
A password prompt appeared.
Claire’s voice came back to me.
He recorded everything. Names, payments, sessions.
People like Adrian built their lives around symbols. He believed pain revealed truth. He believed Claire’s grief belonged to him. The password would not be random.
I typed DANIEL.
Access denied.
CAPTAINBLUE.
Access denied.
NEWDAWN.
Access denied.
Outside, Adrian struck Claire hard enough to send her into the porch railing.
Mercer’s arrival timer dropped to twelve minutes.
I looked at the old videos on the screen.
Dates.
The first recorded session with Claire had occurred on April eighth.
0408—the basement door code.
Adrian reused meaningful numbers.
I entered 0408DANIEL.
Access granted.
The system opened.
I attached the evidence folders to an emergency upload addressed to Marcus Shaw, the state police command center, and three national news organizations. The files were too large.
TRANSFER TIME: 18 MINUTES.
We had twelve.
I selected the most critical folders first: live camera feeds, Mercer payments, patient records, and Adrian’s recorded directives.
TRANSFER TIME: 9 MINUTES.
I clicked SEND.
A progress bar appeared.
Outside, Adrian pulled Claire down the steps toward the lake.
I crawled onto the porch.
Rain struck my face.
The authorization key gleamed three feet away.
Claire saw it.
So did Adrian.
We both moved.
He reached it first.
Then a figure rose from behind the porch railing.
Marisol swung a piece of firewood into the side of his head.
Adrian fell to one knee.
Nina appeared beside her, supporting the feverish June. Lacey stood behind them holding the revolver I had kicked beneath the sofa.
Her hands shook violently.
But she aimed it at Adrian.
“You said the police worked for you,” she whispered.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
May you like
Adrian smiled through the blood on his face.
“They do.”
