K E E P

S T I L L

(A Sage West FBI Suspense Thriller—Book One)

M o l l y   B l a c k

Molly Black

Bestselling author Molly Black is author of the MAYA GRAY FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eleven books; of the RYLIE WOLF FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books; of the TAYLOR SAGE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eight books; of the KATIE WINTER FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the RUBY HUNTER FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the CAITLIN DARE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books (and counting); of the REESE LINK mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the CLAIRE KING FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the PIPER WOODS mystery series, comprising eight books; of the GRACE FORD mystery series, comprising eight books (and counting); of the CASEY BOLT mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the JADE SAVAGE mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the ELISE CLOSE psychological thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the TESSA FLINT mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the CLARA PIKE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the CASSANDRA FIERCE suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the SERENA KNOX suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting).

GIRL ONE: MURDER (a Maya Gray FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), FOUND YOU (a Rylie Wolf FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), SAVE ME (a Katie Winter FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), and DON’T LOOK (a Taylor Sage FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1) are available as free downloads on Amazon!

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Molly loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.mollyblackauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025  by Molly Black. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS BY MOLLY BLACK

SERENA KNOX SUSPENSE THRILLER

RUN AWAY (Book #1)

RUN FROM HERE (Book #2)

RUN HOME (Book #3)

RUN FROM HIM (Book #4)

RUN OUT OF TIME (Book #5)

RUN NOW (Book #6)

RUN SCARED (Book #7)

CASSANDRA FIERCE SUSPENSE THRILLER

RISING TIDE (Book #1)

RISING FEAR (Book #2)

RISING ABYSS (Book #3)

RISING TERROR (Book #4)

RISING DARKNESS (Book #5)

RISING DOUBT (Book #6)

RISING NIGHT (Book #7)

ELISE CLOSE SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND HER LIES (Book #1)

BEHIND HER SMILE (Book #2)

BEHIND HER SECRETS (Book #3)

BEHIND HER GATES (Book #4)

BEHIND LOCKED DOORS (Book #5)

CLARA PIKE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

REMEMBER THE FEAR (Book #1)

REMEMBER THE DEAD (Book #2)

REMEMBER THE LIES (Book #3)

REMEMBER THE SILENCE (Book #4)

REMEMBER THE PAST (Book #5)

TESSA FLINT MYSTERY SERIES

BARELY SEEN (Book #1)

BARELY HEARD (Book #2)

BARELY FORGOTTEN (Book #3)

BARELY MISSING (Book #4)

BARELY ALIVE (Book #5)

BARELY THERE (Book #6)

BARELY SILENT (Book #7)

JADE SAVAGE MYSTERY SERIES

ALL SHE FEARS (Book #1)

ALL SHE WANTS (Book #2)

ALL SHE REMEMBERS (Book #3)

ALL SHE NEEDS (Book #4)

ALL SHE HIDES (Book #5)

ALL SHE DREADS(Book #6)

ALL SHE LOST (Book #7)

CASEY BOLT MYSTERY SERIES

BROKEN (Book #1)

FLAWED (Book #2)

BLEMISHED (Book #3)

DAMAGED (Book #4)

TWISTED (Book #5)

FRACTURED (Book #6)

TAINTED (Book #7)

GRACE FORD MYSTERY SERIES

NEARLY MINE (Book #1)

NEARLY SAFE (Book #2)

NEARLY FREE (Book #3)

NEARLY GONE (Book #4)

NEARLY HIS (Book #5)

NEARLY LOST (Book #6)

NEARLY DONE (Book #7)

NEARLY NEXT (Book #8)

CLAIRE KING MYSTERY SERIES

ONCE HE SEES (Book #1)

ONCE HE LONGS (Book #2)

ONCE HE TAKES (Book #3)

ONCE HE FEELS (Book #4)

ONCE HE KNOWS (Book #5)

MAYA GRAY MYSTERY SERIES

GIRL ONE: MURDER (Book #1)

GIRL TWO: TAKEN (Book #2)

GIRL THREE: TRAPPED (Book #3)

GIRL FOUR: LURED (Book #4)

GIRL FIVE: BOUND (Book #5)

GIRL SIX: FORSAKEN (Book #6)

GIRL SEVEN: CRAVED (Book #7)

GIRL EIGHT: HUNTED (Book #8)

GIRL NINE: GONE (Book #9)

GIRL TEN: WANTED (Book #10)

GIRL ELEVEN: VANISHED (Book #11)

RYLIE WOLF FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

FOUND YOU (Book #1)

CAUGHT YOU (Book #2)

SEE YOU (Book #3)

WANT YOU (Book #4)

TAKE YOU (Book #5)

DARE YOU (Book #6)

TAYLOR SAGE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

DON’T LOOK (Book #1)

DON’T BREATHE (Book #2)

DON’T RUN (Book #3)

DON’T FLINCH (Book #4)

DON’T REMEMBER (Book #5)

DON’T TELL (Book #6)

KATIE WINTER FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SAVE ME (Book #1)

REACH ME (Book #2)

HIDE ME (Book #3)

BELIEVE ME (Book #4)

HELP ME (Book #5)

FORGET ME (Book #6)

HOLD ME (Book #7)

PROTECT ME (Book #8)

REMEMBER ME (Book #9)

CATCH ME (Book #10)

WATCH ME (Book #11)

RUBY HUNTER FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IF I RUN (Book #1)

IF I TELL (Book #2)

IF I LIVE (Book #3)

IF I FORGET (Book #4)

IF I RETURN (Book #5)

CAITLIN DARE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

COME GET ME (Book #1)

COME FIND ME (Book #2)

COME TAKE ME (Book #3)

COME CATCH ME (Book #4)

COME SAVE ME (Book #5)

REESE LINK MYSTERY

BEYOND REASON (Book #1)

BEYOND REACH (Book #2)

BEYOND REPAIR (Book #3)

BEYOND DOUBT (Book #4)

BEYOND NORMAL (Book #5)

PIPER WOODS FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMEWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

SOMEWHERE SANE(Book #2)

SOMEWHERE WHOLE (Book #3)

SOMEWHERE FAR (Book #4)

SOMEWHERE WRONG (Book #5)

SOMEWHERE HIDDEN (Book #6)

SOMEWHERE DARK (Book #7)

SOMEWHERE SILENT (Book #8)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

“Get out, get out while you can,” Jennifer Martinez whispered. Sitting on her bed, she crumpled the sheets in her hands, feeling the blue blanket – not quite warm enough, not quite soft enough – scratching at her palms.

Her dark brown hair frizzed around her shoulders, and she pushed it back, irritated at the way it tickled her face. It was fine and flyaway, and she hated the smell of the shampoo they gave her to wash it. Maybe there was something in the shampoo that they were giving her to try to restrain her.

They did that whenever she had any energy. All they wanted to do was drain the energy from her, because it sometimes felt as if she was on a high, mad at the whole world, wanting to burn the place down.

Just a couple of hours ago, the nurse had brought her new medications that had been prescribed by the shrink, who she didn't trust. There was something about him that made her feel wary.

The way that shrink had looked at her as he’d walked out of the small bedroom that was her prison had been strange, as if he suspected her of something, and he was looking to punish her. Maybe he knew what she was planning.

But that was when she saw them for what they were – well-disguised monsters. She could see the movement under their skin sometimes and the strange gleam in their eyes. She was imprisoned in a place that was run by monsters, and now, they were feeding her different tablets. Stronger ones? Probably. They thought she couldn't hear them, but her hearing was very sharp, and she'd heard that conversation outside her door, heart pounding, dread swelling inside her at every whispered word.

“We’re going to up her medication and change a few things. I’m not happy with how she’s responding. I’d like to see…”

Then his voice had dropped, and Jennifer hadn’t been able to hear anything else. Maybe she hadn’t needed to. That was enough.

Maybe he was trying to turn her into a monster, just like the strange shapes she saw lurking under people’s skin here.

She’d taken the medication because she hadn’t had a choice. She’d been deflected from her suspicious thoughts by the friendly attitude of the nurse. The nurses were all friendly, but in a detached way, as if they were used to doing it no matter what. That was probably an act, same as the fake friendliness of the orderly, or assistant as she was called, who came in to clean her room, and the shrink himself, and even the manager who ran this place.

All of them were acting, pretending to be so caring, so professional, when what they wanted was to change her into one of them.

She’d put the tablets into her mouth, hoping that the nurse wouldn’t watch her take them and she could spit them out into the toilet later. Holding them in her mouth, she tasted the sweet coating of one, the chalky bitterness of another, already dissolving on her tongue.

Of course, he hadn’t turned away. He was going to make sure she carried out the evil shrink’s plans.

The nurse had encouraged her to drink the water, and she'd done it, feeling reluctant and scared.

Now, it was half an hour later, and she knew that she had to get out before these meds started having the effect that she feared they would.

How would it start?

She thought she could already feel the tingling under her skin, and jumped back in fear, swatting at her own arms, which were inside the loose, elbow length sleeves of the top she was wearing.

Although she hadn’t brought much black clothing with her, she’d picked a black top after her shower for this reason.

Escape.

She didn't want to be seen in the dark once she'd gotten far enough away from this hellhole. She knew she could climb the fence. It was high, but it wasn't electrified. From her window, she could see the gate where the security guard's booth was, but it looked to her as if he spent most of the night in that booth. He was watching for cars to come in, not for people to climb out. He was another monster. They all were, which was why she had to get out.

And she had a plan. She’d been working on the window latch in her room, gradually loosening it with the metal spoon that they’d given her for an in-room dessert, and then they’d forgotten to take it away. It had taken her a long time to get the one nut to a stage where it was loose, but she thought that now it would push wide enough for her to get out.

She'd have to hurry because these meds were making her so tired, and she couldn't afford to be tired. They wanted her to sleep her life away, a prisoner here.

If she could only get free, into the bleak, barren land beyond this prison, out into the flat expanse of prairie, she’d be able to escape what they were trying to do to her. She’d be able to start over, and this time, there’d be no problems, no incidents, none of the issues that had caused her traitorous parents to send her here just before her eighteenth birthday.

But she had to act. Now.

She pushed the spoon down again, gritting her teeth as it scraped over the nut. She needed more force to loosen it, but her fingers were tired, and her body was starting to fill with a lassitude that she knew would spread.

Once more, she tried, gasping in frustration, because it just wasn’t letting her do what she needed to.

And then, suddenly, she felt it move. It was working. The nut had finally shifted enough so that she could pry the window open more than the crack they allowed her.

Just a foot would be enough, and she could wriggle through.

Her eyelids drooped again, and then, with a gasp, she managed to fight off the wave of tiredness, pushing at the window frame with renewed energy. She was going to make this happen. It would work – it must. She couldn’t be a prisoner here for any longer.

But just as she managed to get the window a few inches wider, trying her best to do it quietly, she heard another sound. A louder click.

Turning around in consternation, she saw that the door was opening.

A familiar face was there. A face concealing the monster within, she reminded herself, gasping in distress, because this would ruin her plans. She’d be moved. She’d have to start again.

“What are you doing?” The words were uttered gently. She didn’t hear any anger in them.

“I – I was just – getting some air.”

Her voice was slurring. These meds. Just when she needed to be quick and fast, they were slowing her.

"Some air?" Then, something surprising followed. "Let me help you," the monster person said.

“Help me?”

“You don’t want air, do you, really? You want to get out.”

Staring, she felt shocked by the words. She didn’t know what to say in response. Probably, she’d get into trouble if she told the truth, so she shook her head silently as the monster-person continued.

“I can see how scared you’ve been in here. I know that what we’ve done is wrong. You probably think you’re being poisoned, and I feel the same way for you. If you’re trying to get out of the window, then I can give you a hand with that,” it offered.

Confusion and shock warred within her as the friendly face approached. Maybe this was what she needed – the helping hand that she’d never expected.

This could change things.

She turned and stepped aside so that this person, or this monster, could push the window the rest of the way. Her mind was spinning. Half of her was grateful for the offer it had made, and that she might get help in getting out of here. But the other half was wondering if this was real, because these monster-people were never like this. What if it was going to drug her more deeply, or take her off to a prison, or maybe even tie her to the bed with those soft wrist restraints, like they’d done once before?

“Shift over,” it said, and Jennifer stumbled sideways.

But the monster person didn't touch the window.

Instead, it turned to her.

She saw its eyes, and the light inside them, blazing with intent. Its face was twisted, with an evil anticipation in the features.

And then, its hands gripped her neck hard, holding her so tightly that she knew she could never escape.

Choking off the scream that was about to erupt from deep inside her.

Choking off her air…

CHAPTER ONE

Are you there yet?

The message beeped on FBI agent Sage West’s phone screen, just as he arrived at the Oakview Psychiatric Clinic. Located in the middle of nowhere, a few miles outside a tiny town in Iowa.

He couldn't suppress a surge of angry annoyance. Did Marco really think he was going to abscond? Did the senior agent from the field office where he used to work really have so little faith in him?

Lips tightening, he decided to ignore the message, pulling up his sedan outside the gate. It was a tall, fenced compound of buildings, all low and flat and basking in the late fall sunshine, with prairie stretching off in every direction.

Oakview? Where the hell were all the oaks? What view were they talking about? Who’d named this place? One of the delusional patients?

That quick-witted amusement seemed like it had come from the person he used to be. Not the one he was now.

He was a patient himself now. Maybe not delusional but battling his own demons.

Sage put down the sedan’s window as the guard approached. He was in his early thirties – about the same age as Sage himself – and about the same height, six feet. The guard was carrying about thirty extra pounds, though, and had a genial smile on his face as he handed the iPad to Sage, looking at him with a kindly, but sharp, glance.

Guard. Calm demeanor. No firearm. Taser on belt, his inner voice summarized at top speed. That voice could never be silent. It was the root of who he was.

“Morning, sir. Patient or visitor?”

“I’m a patient,” Sage said.

It felt like a confession to say it out loud to this guard, and a humiliating one.

No longer the star agent of his team, no longer the youngest ever BAU agent, the guy who always saved the day, with a stratospheric solve rate.

Those days were behind him. Now, he was broken beyond repair.

“You should be in the system then. Key in your name, please, sir, and your date of birth. It’ll direct you to your record, and you can sign in digitally.”

Sage keyed in his name; the screen flickered, and there he was.

Sage West. In-Patient, Open Access. Block B, Room 1.

In-patient meant he’d be living here. Open access meant he was allowed to leave the premises when he chose. He wasn’t a prisoner, although he was sure some of the patients here were pretty much that way.

Even so, it felt as if he was checking into a prison. With the low, brick buildings, flat landscape, and high fence, it was aesthetically unappealing, and furthermore, it gave him the creeps.

He suppressed another surge of anger as he completed the additional details the form required – his rental car’s license plate, his time of arrival, and finally, a photo of himself. Raising the iPad, he positioned his face inside the square and the camera captured it automatically.

He caught a glimpse of his own unsmiling visage. Wide face, sweeping cheekbones, mid-brown hair that he’d always cut himself with a pair of clippers, very short, deliberately stark and workmanlike and unfashionable.

The weird thing about seeing his face captured on that screen was that he looked relatively normal. He didn’t look as if he’d been shattered into a million pieces. But he had been.

The flashes of helpless anger, which weren’t a trait of the previous Sage at all, were just one of those symptoms. The others were worse.

The catatonia he'd experienced, and then, the memory blank after the last big takedown where something had gone horribly wrong. He hadn't been able to be debriefed or to give a statement. Helplessly, his hands shaking, he'd stared at the cops and the agents, the SWAT team and his superiors.

“I don’t remember,” he’d said, and the small voice hadn’t sounded like his at all.

He had a private, terrible fear that this went deeper than he thought, and that it might be the first symptoms of something that was less temporary, something that would tighten its grip on him, changing the course of his life.

He handed the iPad back to the guard, and followed the directions he was given.

“Car park straight ahead, reception rooms on the right. Your block is just beyond them. If you stop in at reception, they’ll give you the guided tour.”

Reception? He focused on the parking lot ahead, tried to get rid of the splintered thoughts and memories that were crowding his mind, and drove off. It was only as he parked at the end of the row of cars that he realized he'd forgotten to thank the genial guard.

He always thanked people. Courtesy was a part of who he was, together with kindness – the soft side of him that instinctively surfaced, even during moments of crisis. That was why, going into a dangerous takedown, he'd preferred to handle things alone, rather than putting his team at risk. It was the protective side that formed his core.

Or maybe, as he should start thinking of it, a part of who he had been.

How bad is this going to get?

Maybe it was better not to be kind. Empathy for others might have led him to where he was now, and he should keep it suppressed.

Pressing his lips together as he climbed out, opening the trunk to get his bag, Sage wished he knew.

The guard had already retreated into the kiosk by the gate. Sage headed for the reception area and walked inside.

It was clinically efficient. There was a long desk at the far end of the room, where a white-uniformed assistant was managing the area. Steel furniture – basic tables and chairs – stood in the room next door which looked like a cafeteria, and there was a row of seats on the side of the reception area, similar to what you might find at an airport, all attached to each other, and the wall.

Visions swirled in his mind of why that had been necessary. He imagined a hysterical patient, swinging a chair like a weapon, crashing it against the wall.

Talking of walls, they were mostly blank, apart from a few official notices, and a couple of weak attempts at watercolors.

A couple of years ago, Sage had tried painting as a way to relieve his snowballing stress levels. As it turned out, the activity had provided him with some reluctant amusement that he could be so bad at anything.

He loved art and could appreciate it; he could hold a gun rock steady. So, why couldn’t he handle a paintbrush in a similar way? His smudged and badly proportioned efforts had been worth it for the entertainment value, if not the stress relief.

Be that as it may, the small pieces of artwork here did little to brighten the stark-looking space.

He’d been in the FBI since he was twenty-four, and he was used to institutional places, but this was on a different level.

The receptionist looked brisk and detached, her hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, the lines on each side of her unsmiling mouth giving an extra layer of seriousness to her greeting as she nodded at Sage.

“Mr. West?” she said, glancing at her computer. The iPad outside had clearly done its work.

“Yes. Here for an indefinite stay,” he replied.

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, reminding him that he hadn’t yet replied to Marco, who was probably following up on his unanswered text.

“Here’s your room key,” the receptionist replied. “I see you’re here for treatment with Dr. Kingsley?”

“That’s correct,” Sage said.

This treatment wasn’t his idea. Marco, the second-in-command in his department at Quantico, had placed him on long leave after he realized the extent of his memory blank, and then ordered him to come here.

“West, whatever’s going on with you, it needs treatment. And fast.”

“Well, what the hell’s wrong with a clinic here in Virginia?” he’d asked.

Marco's gaze had dropped, and he'd shaken his head. "A change of scenery will be good for you," he'd said, although Sage didn't think that was the full reason. "And I've heard good things about Kingsley. This is going to turn you around – I'm sure of it." Those were the last words that Marco had said to him before this entire trip had been organized at lightning speed.

What a waste. A waste of time, a waste of budget, a waste of everyone’s life. It wasn’t like Kingsley was the first therapist he’d seen. Over the past eight months, he’d seen at least five, because he’d started having nightmares, difficulty sleeping, and anxiety attacks before and after big assignments. He hadn’t told a soul at work about it, but he’d started looking for help.

Five therapists hadn’t helped him. Okay, it had been six, if you counted the one whose session he’d walked out of halfway through, because it had gotten too weird; the guy was talking about past life regression, and that Sage had been an Egyptian slave.

None of the legitimate therapists had helped him, and he didn’t think Kingsley would either.

Orders were orders, though. Sometimes it was easier to comply.

“I see you have an appointment at eleven.” The receptionist checked her screen. “Dr. Kingsley is still busy with a patient. Shall I show you around?”

Her smile wasn’t exactly warm, but at least it was a friendly sign, and Sage remembered the days when he’d been like that, too.

“Sure,” he said.

“Leave your bag here, if you like,” she said, looking at his small carry-on, which he relinquished next to the desk.

She got up and took off her headset and pressed a button that he guessed diverted calls somewhere. Then, she walked through the reception area, with Sage following.

“This is our recreation room.”

These were the steel tables he’d seen earlier, that had made him think of a prison’s public rooms. Once he was in the room, it looked a bit better. There was a pool table on the far side, and a few board games on a desk, and a couple of couches that were too hard-looking to appear battered. Weathered would be a better description.

There was a steel mirror on the wall, and the reflections in it were slightly warped. His eye saw that immediately, and his heart started pounding. Quickly, he looked away from the mirror, before it could bring that inexplicable, surging fear.

“I see there’s a camera up there,” he commented, looking at the ceiling.

She nodded. As if reciting what she'd been told to say, she said, "Patient privacy is important. We don't have cameras in the patients' rooms or in that building. However, all communal areas in this building are monitored, and so is our parking lot."

"Understood," Sage said.

“There’s our dining hall.”

Long benches, wooden tables, and a door at the end that must lead to a kitchen. He sniffed the air, smelling the ingrained scent of thousands of dinners.

“Here’s the outside deck, and sports area.”

The outside deck had a few cane chairs and a few plastic ones; it overlooked a couple of tennis courts and a golf putting green that looked overgrown. There was a trail that was no more than a path through the grass, but the receptionist pointed it out proudly.

“Our hiking trail. We have a two-mile, four-mile, and eight-mile route. It’s all pretty flat,” she added doubtfully. “But very scenic.”

If you liked plain, flat scenery. Sage had always been more of a mountain man.

The old Sage would have agreed with her in a positive way that it was scenic, and observantly pointed out a few highlights. The new one, afraid and discouraged, stared at the grassy landscape, as fragmented memories bloomed in his mind.

He saw a hostage, her face warped in terror, her fingernails digging into her palms hard enough to leave deep gouges. He saw a blade, gleaming brightly. He heard the rush of blood in his own ears.

“Looks great.”

It was an effort to get out the words, to push aside the images that threatened to engulf him, the ones that none of the medications so far, prescribed by previous clinics, had been able to erase.

His voice sounded hoarse and wobbly, but the receptionist simply nodded in a brisk way, as if this was an acceptable answer. “I enjoy the two-mile route. It’s quick, but it gets some air in your lungs. Then, we’ve got the different unit buildings on the sides there – your room’s in that one.” She pointed left. Sage wondered if the other building was higher security. “And straight ahead of you is the therapy building where sessions are held. Dr. Kingsley’s rooms are first on the right.”

“Okay,” he said, trying his best to sound sharp and prepared, but failing.

“Please be at least ten minutes early for your session,” she said with a smile.

They headed back to the reception area, where he picked up his bag and headed to the building she’d shown him.

His door was painted gray, the third in a row of similar doors. The key sounded loud in the lock. The corridor was silent.

He opened the door to reveal a room that he guessed was among the more luxurious in this institute. There was a double bed with a faded blue duvet, a built-in cupboard, and a writing desk and wooden chair. He had his own bathroom, which was tiny but clean and serviceable.

There were some official notices on the door. No art on the walls. There was a touch of brightness in the beaded mat on the desk.

Sage placed his bag on the floor and headed over to the bed. He eased himself down, and lay looking up at the ceiling light.

He wondered if he’d get to sleep well in this bed. At least he knew the answer to that, which was no.

How long had it been since he’d last slept well?

He wasn’t who he used to be, and he might never be.

“Why did this have to happen?” he muttered, that old friend, anger, making a reappearance. “Why can’t I be strong enough to just get over it?”

He’d lost everything – his job, his career, his sense of self. He’d lost his reason for living, the reputation as the Bureau’s top young agent that had felt like a rollercoaster – scary and fast and exhilarating.

It had all crumbled away, and now he was here.

Thinking of his appointment with Dr. Kingsley, Sage couldn’t help a flicker of hope. He’d always been an optimist at heart. Maybe, deep down, he still believed in miracles.

On the other hand, this session would mean confronting his past.

How? Sage thought. How am I going to get those memories back? And… do I want them?

CHAPTER TWO

The harsh peal of his phone got Sage scrambling into a sitting position, heart pounding, his hand automatically going to his hip to grab for a gun that wasn’t there. Somehow, he must have dozed off for a few seconds on the bed. That’s what happened when you were so short on sleep that you were a walking zombie.

His phone was in his jacket pocket, and he’d hung his jacket on the chair, an action he didn’t remember doing. He fumbled for it and answered the call.

It was Marco.

“You there?” His boss’s voice sounded tense and irritable, a mirror image of Sage himself.

"I'm here. Just unpacking. I was about to text you. Didn't have the chance," Sage replied, yanking open his bag and transferring a pair of pants from the small pile of clothes inside to the cupboard's wooden shelf.

“Ah. Okay. Good.” Marco sounded mollified. Listening to his grainy voice brought the man himself to mind. Graying hair, a heavy jaw, skin that tanned as soon as the sun hit it. “Just checking in to make sure everything’s up to speed.”

“Everything’s fine,” Sage said. “I’ve got a session in…” He checked the time, feeling a thud of shock. “In one minute.”

“One minute?”

“Yeah.” Sage was on the move now, tension flaring as he remembered that people here were supposed to be ten minutes early for their sessions and not rush in at the last minute.

“You’d better go. You still unpacking?” Marco sounded incredulous. “What, is the therapist coming to your room or what?”

On behalf of Sage, he sounded stressed. That was okay. Give Sage a chance, he’d soon be stressed enough for both of them.

“Got to go.”

He hung up, grabbed his jacket, and hustled out of the room, spending a precious few seconds locking the door.

He hustled down the corridor, his shoes squeaking over the gray, rubberized tiles, and burst outside, into the fresh, dry air that smelled of grass. He headed for the main building that the receptionist had pointed out to him.

On the way, he saw a tree.

At last! The single, famous tree for which the entire center had been named. It was an old, gnarled oak tree that provided spreading shade, and there was a bench underneath it. A dark-haired woman was sitting on the bench. Her head was bowed, and her shoulders hunched miserably. He wished he had time to detour there, to meet a fellow patient and to have a quick chat with her, but there was no time, so he hustled to the consultation wing.

Inside, there was another row of gray doors. Instead of numbers, these had small signboards with the therapists’ names on them. He found Dr. Kingsley’s room and stood outside, gulping in a breath. Then, he tapped on the door, checking his watch as he did .

11:01. Damn and blast. He was late. Unacceptable. Rude.

“Come in?” a voice sounded from inside. A woman’s voice.

He pushed the door open and walked into the office.

It was spartan, like the rest of the place. Behind the small, bare desk, sat a woman with a graying bob, pale blue eyes, and a quizzical look on her face. She wore a bright scarf around her neck, in hues of pink and turquoise, contrasting with her more conservative navy jacket.

So, this was the doctor? He’d thought that Dr. Kingsley would be a man. Maybe the word ‘king’ in the last name had led to that connection. He’d been wrong.

"I'm sorry I'm late," were his first words. They sounded breathless, and Sage worried that his entire demeanor seemed unhinged. He needed to pull himself together, fast.

“Please, sit.”

Those were her first words, spoken in a calm voice. She didn’t acknowledge his apology or his lateness. It was as if, right now, neither was important to her.

There were two comfortable-looking armchairs on his side of the desk, upholstered in the same blue that was everywhere in this place, and there was a couch lined up against the wall.

He sat down on one of the armchairs.

There was silence in the room for a few moments as the doctor regarded him.

Then, she said, in a calm conversational voice, “So, Agent Sage West?”

He gave a small nod, grateful that she was acknowledging him as an agent, despite the fact that he wasn’t here in that capacity, and was in fact a currently jobless patient. “I’m Dr. Kingsley. My first name’s Eleanor, and most people end up calling me Doc Ellen, so if you’re comfortable with that, we can start that way. What do you prefer to be called?”

“Sage,” he said. “Just Sage will do fine.”

After the stress of being late, he relaxed a little. The tension which was now so quick to flood into him had ebbed enough for him to be able to reply in a calmer way. Even though he knew it was just for now. At any moment, things could go south again.

“I see here that you’re staying for a flexible timeframe, starting with two weeks, and going on from there as needed?”

“That’s correct.”

Easy questions. She was starting off by establishing a rhythm with him. Thinking back, he guessed that had happened often with his other shrinks. Most of them had a good patter at the start, a way of relaxing their patients. It was just that, so far, none of them had helped him, and he thought that he was beyond help.

“We’re going to have at least one private session daily, and I’d like you to join a group session in the afternoon. My sessions last from forty-five minutes to an hour. I find that time’s enough, and that it’s better to have a break afterward. So, we’ll schedule you for eleven a.m. daily, and then if we decide a follow-up is needed for the afternoon, we can do that after your group session, which is at three p.m.”

“Sounds good.”

The last time he’d been somewhere where his day had been so organized for him had been during his time at the FBI training academy. Then, his days had also been rigorously split into physical activities, written work and theoretical training, as well as meal breaks, and time for socializing.

He’d mainly used socializing time to rest up. Even back then, he’d been rigidly focused on being the best, that he would graduate at the top of his class, that he wouldn’t flunk any of the questions in the theory exam, and that he’d be the fastest and the most accurate in the physical tests involving shooting, fitness, strength, and speed and agility through the obstacle course.

He'd done all that. When he started work as a fully-fledged FBI agent, he’d looked back on his academy time with a sense of pride. But even now, surprisingly, the memories of that stint had caused stress to rise inside him.

He waited to see which direction the doctor would go next. She was looking down at the records again. There was a deliberate relaxation and calm to her movements. It made it difficult to stress, he acknowledged.

“Now, I see here that you’ve been suffering from interrupted sleep, nightmares, and sleeplessness for a long while.”

Yes, that was right. A long while. Ever since the moment when he’d reached breaking point. Since then, he’d never made it through the night without severely fractured sleep, and the nightmares were horrific.

“Correct,” he said.

“I know that there are other issues you’re probably very eager to work on, and we need to tackle the memory gaps that you described. However, if you’re suffering from sleep deprivation, it’s not going to be possible for you to function, or work on the issues that we need to, or to heal yourself. So, right upfront, I need to tell you that you’ll have to take medication for that.”

He’d resisted medication in the past, taken it unwillingly. It had felt like an admission of weakness. But, as if she could immediately sense that in him, she continued.

“It won’t be forever. It’ll be for a certain timeframe. What we’re dealing with here is a pile of building blocks that we need to strengthen and arrange. When we get a few of the blocks right, it’s easier to deal with the others. Sleep is a very important part of therapy. I set more store by it than a lot of other therapists do. So, we’re going to start with that, and I hope you’ll agree to take that medication on a temporary basis.”

That word ‘temporary’ helped with the blocks in his mind, even though he still didn’t trust the idea fully.

“I guess I can do that,” he acquiesced.

“Good. I’m going to put you on the lightest possible meds that will encourage sleep, and hopefully, bypass the nightmares.”

She folded her hands and gave him more time to take that in.

So, he was going to be on meds. A patient at an institution, even though he was free to leave if he wished, being medicated in order to sleep.

He was a brittle person. No longer the brave, kind, thoughtful man that he’d been proud of. How had he managed to lose himself? Or maybe it was his heritage catching up, and this was inevitable.

He remembered a scene at home that flashed into his mind – his father, taking a tablet with shaking hands, choking with sobs as he swallowed it down. That had been too little, too late. That wasn't a memory he wanted to think about now, and he pushed it out of his mind.

Jeez, how was he going to get back to how he had been? There didn’t seem to be a way.

As he struggled with the reality that he was going to be medicated, there was a tap on the door.

"Come in," Dr. Kingsley, or rather, Doc Ellen, said, as if she'd been expecting the visitor, whoever he or she was. Sage watched the door suspiciously. It opened, and a doctor walked in. He had a short beard and a face that looked as if it was about to break into a smile, but the cold gleam in his icy blue eyes negated that.

He was wearing a shirt in the institutional blue that seemed to be the corporate color of this place; he had a stethoscope around his neck and carried a black bag with a few pieces of equipment in it. Sage guessed he was probably around his own age – early thirties.

“Morning,” he said in genial tones, with a brisk smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Dr. Fleming. I’m the meds specialist around here, and I’m going to do a health check before I prescribe anything for you. Do you have any allergies, any drug sensitivities that you know of?”

Sage hesitated, trying not to pull away as the doctor grasped his arm and wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it. For all the people skills that Doc Ellen possessed, this guy glaringly lacked any of them. Sage automatically didn’t trust him.

However, he had no choice. He had his blood pressure checked, answered the questions about allergies – no, none, not that I know of – and then waited, feeling uneasy, as Fleming spoke in a low voice with Doc Ellen, making some notes on his iPad while they talked.

Something about this doctor put him on edge, but he had to admit that this wasn’t exactly unusual. It would be easier to list the things that didn’t put him on edge.

To his relief, once he’d written out the script, Fleming left the room.

Doc Ellen was staring at Sage as if she could read his mind.

“Remember,” she said, “we’re starting you on the lowest possible doses. I tend to be conservative at the best of times, and Dr. Fleming is also very aware that we need to find the best balance. So, you needn’t worry. You’re not going to end up feeling overmedicated. At any rate, you shouldn’t.”

At any rate? That wasn’t exactly a black and white guarantee, and again, Sage felt his distrust surge. But Doc Ellen simply said, in a calm way, “Now that I’ve got that written out, let’s go.”

“Go?” he asked, confused, as she stood up from behind the desk. What did she mean by that? Was she telling him to go? Was she going somewhere herself?

She nodded.

“We’re not doing the session here. Come with me.”

CHAPTER THREE

Deciding that this was the strangest session he’d ever had, Sage stood up and followed Doc Ellen out of the consulting room. She headed down the corridor and out of the building.

“For a slowish hour, I think the two-mile walk will be perfect,” she decided.

They were going on a walk?

Well, maybe that was better than sitting in that office, looking at the four walls and feeling that they were closing in on him.

The trail heading out into the prairie consisted of a double track, as if it might have been pressed into place by the tires of a vehicle driving the route. That made it easy for Sage to walk alongside Doc Ellen.

She strolled along, not talking, simply letting them get into the rhythm of walking. As far as silences went, this doctor was right up there with the best of them.

“Now,” she said, “talk therapy is a very important part of addressing PTSD.”

There it was, out in the open, the very first time she’d mentioned it. His weakness, his flaw, the reason he was here.

“I might not have PTSD,” he replied defensively, all his barriers rising again. “I might just be suffering from stress.”

“Indeed,” she said, without arguing the point. “Either way, we’ll have to use talk therapy as a means of helping you communicate with me, and to face what’s happened in your past to cause this, so hopefully, your mind will feel ready to remember your last case. So, let’s start by talking about something that is unrelated to any of the problems you’ve faced.”

“Like what?” he asked. His mind was spinning all the way into distrust again. Was this going to be a waste of his time? If so, he was going to check out tomorrow, and she could keep her damned meds.

“Like your childhood?”

“Every shrink has asked me about that,” he shot back.

She shook her head. “I want to hear about something happy. Something good that happened.”

Puzzled, Sage did his best to comply. He’d really expected her to start with more recent material, to focus on the moment that he didn’t want to think about, the moment when his world had collapsed around him.

“Well, I guess…” He felt temporarily at a loss. Good things had happened during his childhood. His childhood had been full of them. It was just that right now, on the spot, he found it was difficult to remember any of them in particular.

While he was thinking, he heard footsteps ahead.

A woman was walking toward him, wearing a sun hat over her dark hair, a baggy T-shirt and jeans, with a thoughtful expression on her face. His mind made the connection. He’d seen her on the bench earlier. She had a beautiful face – thoughtful, like a Madonna, and although the clothes were baggy, Sage saw that she moved gracefully in them, weaving her way along the path. She raised her head as they approached, and Doc Ellen moved over to Sage’s path to allow her to pass on the other one.

Civilian. Gentle. No threat. No weapon. The voice in his mind sounded the summary.

“Good morning,” she said as she passed.

“Morning,” Sage replied, seeing that the woman looked to be in her late twenties, and that there was a vulnerable air to her. He saw it in the hesitancy of her greeting and the rapid blinking of her eyes. He’d been trained to see the little details. She was a patient, like him, he guessed, wondering briefly what she was here for.

Doc Ellen also uttered a friendly greeting, and then, they were on their own again, with the woman walking rapidly in the direction of the buildings. At least that had given Sage some time to think of one of the happy memories that he knew his childhood had been infested with.

“I guess it would be the vacation we took,” he said.

“That sounds good,” Doc Ellen agreed with a smile. “What vacation? Where?”

“We lived in Missouri, and it was the first time I’d been out of the state,” Sage said. “We headed all the way to LA. It was a road trip.”

He remembered the battered old sedan weaving around on the road, the snacks that his mom had packed, the way that his big brother had hung out the window, commenting on every single landmark in excited tones. That had been when he was about eight himself, he guessed. It was the only vacation they’d ever taken.

After that, his parents began fighting, and then, his brother died after a dare went wrong and he fell from the roof of the school building. Then, Sage had been an only child in a grief-filled household. His dad had started to break, and he’d crumbled; then, the worst had happened.

That was something else he didn’t want to think about. Immediately, he imagined shoving the mental blinds down and blocking it out.

“What made it happy?” Doc Ellen asked.

“I guess it was carefree,” Sage answered her.

“And your mother? Where’s she now?”

She clearly knew what had happened to his dad. Must have read the case history that described that.

“My mom’s a children’s physiotherapist,” he said. “She practices in Seattle these days. She also made a move a while ago.”

“Do you speak to her often?”

“Now and then,” he said. He guessed they’d fallen out of touch recently.

He was sick of talking about his childhood. How was this going to help him now? With frustration rising, he realized how incongruous it was that he was heading along this path at a sedate walk, when he should be running it. A two-mile flat track like this? He could easily run it in twenty minutes, even with a stop at the halfway mark to do a few push-ups. He shouldn’t be mincing along it like an invalid.

“Look, Doc,” he said. They’d reached a clearing in the long grass that flanked the path. There was a scenic bench where you could sit and rest. Sage didn’t want to rest, but he decided the presence of the bench was a good opportunity for him to take a break and ask some questions.

“How long am I going to be here? Because I think this might fix itself quite quickly. I’d like to know if I’ve got a roadmap for my return to work.”

That had been one of the questions he'd asked Marco, and Marco had been worryingly vague about the topic. It had seethed in Sage's mind ever since. It seemed like there might not be a future for him back at Quantico. He needed to know what the hell was happening with his career. Hopefully this setback wouldn't completely derail it.

He hadn’t expected an evasive answer from Doc Ellen, who’d been forthright with him so far, but to his surprise, that was what he got.

She shook her head. “I’ll need to discuss that with your employer. It’s not a question I can answer now.”

That caused his stress to skyrocket all over again.

Was his job over? Maybe this was a way of letting him know gently that his career in the FBI was done. And it was all his fault. His fault for falling apart.

Why, he berated himself. Why, why, why are you being so weak?

*

Strangely, after that session and lunch – which was a buffet-style meal served in the dining room – Sage felt surprisingly tired. He hadn’t slept last night – yeah, just like every night, West – and as he got up to return to his room, he decided to get some shuteye.

Lunch had been eaten alone, as he’d been one of the first in the dining room and hadn’t wanted to wait. He kept a lookout for the dark-haired woman that he’d crossed paths with on the track, but he hadn’t seen her. He’d chosen healthy food from the buffet, and although his appetite had been pretty much nonexistent recently, he’d forced the food down – a portion of carrot salad, a portion of broccoli, and two hamburger patties. He felt like pushing his plate away after half the food was gone, but Sage worried that they were keeping track of what he was eating, and that if he didn’t eat, then it might jeopardize his chances of getting out of here and back to work.

He headed out, just as a couple of other patients were coming in with a carer following them. These two looked like they might be sedated. He got that impression from looking at their demeanor, the slump of their shoulders, the slowness of their movements.

Sedated. Low risk of violence. Accompanied by caregiver. The voice told him that, for now, he could relax about them.

He headed out, went to his room, slumped on his bed again. This time, he kicked off his shoes so that he could put his feet on the bed.

The mattress was comfortable, and the room was surprisingly quiet. There was no ambient noise, no screams or shouts, nothing to get his adrenaline instantly spiking.

With this group session coming up, he should probably have an hour’s rest. Then he could participate. He used to be a sociable person. Just in the past couple of years, that ability seemed to have waned.

He closed his eyes, but they didn’t close.

Instead, he found himself looking into the narrowed, gleaming eyes of a man who was waiting for him.

A dark ski mask shielded his features. His gloved hands were immensely strong. He leaped forward, grabbing Sage’s arm, and in the shadows, he saw that two others were waiting. Both had their faces covered by masks.

He’d been going to the launderette, rounding the corner late at night, and now, shock and fear combined as he realized they’d been waiting for him. Three men – this was no common street robbery. It had to do with one of the cases he was working on. Trouble was about to blow up in his face unless he could stop it.

He lashed out, his foot thudding into the man’s chest as he grabbed his arm and spun him all the way around, using the off-balance attacker as a missile, sending him careening into the second of the men who was already lunging forward. While they were busy disentangling themselves from each other, he turned to the third, adrenaline now boiling inside him as he saw the man had a silenced weapon.

He dove down under its muzzle, knowing that in the pressure of the moment, a shot was likely to ring out. Tackling his legs, he took him out, sending him slamming back down onto the paving stones, slippery with recent rain.

He had the choice now – he could grab that weapon and he could shoot them all, all three of them.

No, no, no! His own mind screamed out a denial of that choice.

With his options swiftly narrowing, Sage knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to disarm them, get them down, call for back-up. That would be best. It would be the most sensible choice, well within his power.

But it didn’t work that way. He felt his shoulders grabbed from behind, and he saw that the ski-masked figure who’d first attacked him had somehow, magically, recovered faster than Sage had estimated he would.

He had a silenced weapon himself, and he was shoving it in Sage’s direction. The muzzle loomed large in his vision, flashing, just like the furious intent in the man’s gleaming eyes.

And Sage sat bolt upright in bed, his arms windmilling around him, letting out a frantic cry.

He stared, disoriented, at the room around him, unable to comprehend how he had gotten here, or where he was.

Those few moments when he couldn’t remember felt like the longest time of his life. He was utterly confused. Where was this place?

Then, gradually, memory filtered back, and he remembered the steps that had led him here.

He remembered the months since that one incident, which had actually happened at the beginning of the year. Maybe it had been the first of the dominos that had aligned to topple him. Or maybe there had been many others that he just wasn’t acknowledging as yet.

He’d completely forgotten about that incident until now. Sage remembered that he’d managed to subdue one of the violent criminals who’d tried to attack him. The others had fled. Under questioning, the man that he’d arrested had refused to talk, claiming that he’d simply been trying to do a street mugging. They never found out who’d sent him.

Sage had been investigating three violent crimes, two of which were gang-related. He suspected it was one of the gangs, and it made him feel deeply uneasy that they'd managed to target him outside of work, while he'd been innocently on his way to get his clothes out of the machine.

Now, letting out a sigh, he looked at his phone.

Fifteen minutes? That was how much sleep he’d gotten before the nightmare had attacked him.

He thought about the meds that Doc Ellen had prescribed.

He’d inwardly resolved that he would exercise his right as a voluntary patient and refuse to take them, that he’d try the therapy on its own for a few days and see if the meds were necessary. Now, he realized they were. Unfortunately, there wasn’t going to be an easy road out from where he was now.

And that wasn’t even the worst of the nightmares.

The worst one was still lurking. Waiting. But the minute he woke, he knew he’d forget it.

At that moment, there was a hard, loud rap on his door.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sage levitated off the bed and rushed to the door.

He flung it open so suddenly that the blond man standing outside the door jumped back in alarm.

Unarmed, strong, not aggressive, carrying a packet.

Sage’s mind provided the instant summary that it always did, as he took in the man more carefully. He looked in his late twenties, strongly built, wearing scrubs that were in the mid-blue that Sage’s eyes were already getting tired of.

“Are you Mr. West?” he asked.

“I am,” Sage replied through gritted teeth, unable to stop himself from snapping. “And is there a need to actually bash down the door when you knock?”

As soon as he’d let out the words, Sage felt bad, the more so when the man flushed in an embarrassed way.

Talk about getting off on the wrong foot. That was idiotic of him. Now, the man was looking at him with suspicion, even though Sage guessed he was probably used to having people snapping at him, working in a place like this.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m Nathan Crawford, dispensary nurse, and I’ve brought your meds. I apologize for knocking too loudly. Can I run through them with you so that you know what to take and when? You’ll need to check in with one of the nurses when you take them, of course.”

He had a round, rosy cheeked face, and looked as if he’d volunteered to work here as a change from doing some farming. That was Sage’s first impression, anyway, once the more reasonable side of his mind started working.

"Sure," he said, now feeling even more conflicted about these meds after the nightmare. He'd resolved that he would refuse to take them, and decided that he'd rather work through things on his own, but that nightmare had changed his mind.

“These meds are for the evening. You’ll take one every evening, with food,” Nathan told him, showing him the first box of tablets. “Then, these are to be taken just before bedtime. They’re for sleep assistance. The tablets are quite strong, so you’re welcome to start with half a tablet, and then, if you don’t find yourself asleep within an hour, you can take the other half. As I said, one of the nurses will dispense them and check them off on the chart.”

Sleeping pills. That was what his mother had taken when she'd been fragile and tearful after the family's double tragedy. They weren't something that Sage had ever thought he'd be relying on. He'd felt sorry for his mother that she needed them, even as he resolved to be strong enough for both of them, no matter what happened.

He stared at the tablets, proof that he hadn’t been strong enough. They didn’t even trust him with the meds. They were being locked away, dispensed under supervision.

Great, just great.

“Remember,” Nathan said, “there’s a group therapy session at three. If you come down earlier, there’ll be cookies and muffins available.” He hesitated. “Just a word of advice. It’s always better to try to eat. It’ll make you feel better; also, if you refuse food, it gets noted on your chart.”

"Thanks," Sage said flatly. He was going to have to force-feed himself. Wonderful.

And the group therapy? That would be new to him.

He guessed that the only positive to that was that he might see that dark-haired woman again. Perhaps he’d even hear her story and find out more about why she was here.

*

They were sitting in a circle on plastic chairs, with a table in the middle, on which there were mugs of hot chocolate. Hot chocolate? The smell brought back parts of Sage's childhood. Not bad parts, actually. Mainly, doing homework late at night, studying, trying his best to excel because suddenly he was the only child, and the one on which his parents’ hopes rested.

Even then, he realized that after Max’s accidental death, not even the best grades in the world could comfort his father’s bottomless grief. But all the same, he’d tried.

Now, he took his plastic mug of cocoa and sipped it, as Doc Ellen introduced the other participants in the session.

This was his first group therapy in one of the rooms in the same building as Doc Ellen's offices.

The one who intrigued him the most out of the others was the dark-haired woman he’d seen on his walk. She was sitting opposite him, also cradling her cup in her hands, and again, he saw the gracefulness in her movements.

“Rachel, would you like to introduce yourself?” Doc Ellen said.

“Sure.” She smiled, and as her eyes took in the other participants, Sage thought that they rested for longer on him. Maybe she was noticing him, too?

“I’m Rachel Bennett,” she said. “Until recently, I was a professor of philosophy at a university in Ohio. However, I started having problems at work due to my disorder. I was put on long leave as a result, and now, I’m here. I’m hoping that I can get things right and go back to work.”

She smiled. He liked her smile. It was a cheeky expression. Sage guessed that in different circumstances, she'd have an irreverent sense of humor. He’d had that too, although it had evaporated recently.

He wondered what her disorder was. Her perky, upbeat manner indicated that it was surely something easily fixable.

The circle continued. There was a young man of about eighteen who was a student, and he made reference to something that had happened in his life. Sage guessed it was an overdose, maybe due to the pressure of his studies. There was a mature woman who was probably in her sixties and who seemed to be having addiction issues, from what she said, and didn’t say. She seemed friendly, talkative, and outgoing. There was a man of about forty, jumpy and hyper-vigilant, just like Sage himself, who’d had some kind of a breakdown in his high-powered, high-stress, CEO job. And then, there was Sage.

“Sage West,” he said, deciding to generalize as much as possible. “I’m in law enforcement. Recently handled some high-pressure cases. Burned out as a result, and here for some R&R.”

Everyone nodded in understanding, although it was far from the truth. It was more than burnout.

He saw Rachel looking interested and wondered if he’d be willing to open up to her more easily if they were talking alone.

Doc Ellen got started with the exercises that she wanted them to do, which seemed to be imagining a scenario, writing down their feelings, and then discussing their thoughts on it. But Sage saw her look up from her notes, glancing first at Rachel and then at him, as if she felt a little worried about the dynamic that she thought was developing.

It was strange how fast time passed once he’d gotten into the exercises. He made notes, and then did his best to share them as if he was a people person, the way he used to be, sociable and caring, and not someone who’d withdrawn all the way to being an introvert.

“That’s that,” Doc Ellen said, after the last person had spoken. “Thank you all for being here and sharing. Dinner’s at six.”

Sage stood up from his chair, feeling surprisingly drained. He guessed it was a sign that his cup really was almost empty. He was operating on the dregs. Having to interact in a calm, pleasant, and normal way through the session had left him feeling flattened.

No wonder he’d been having difficulty in the FBI update and briefing meetings. Sage had been angry and frustrated with himself more and more often recently, feeling that his attention was wandering despite all his attempts to round it up and focus, and that he was letting himself down.

As a result, he’d been disorganized and snappish, and the powers had noted it; gradually, the pendulum had swung all the way around.

January, he’d been in a meeting with the top brass, getting commended on being a ‘wunderkind’ and the best young agent they’d ever had.

March, May, and then, July, increasingly disastrous scenarios had played out – violent scenes where he’d been in danger, forced to defend himself, feeling helpless as he watched the situations explode.

September, he’d been called into another meeting, with Marco looking serious and worried. A month later, the case had happened that had smashed his psyche and shattered everything he’d been trying to hold together.

Now, late October, he was here.

Drained as he might be, when he saw Rachel leaving the meeting by a side door that led out into the grounds, he followed her.

Even though he saw that Doc Ellen was noting this, and that he sensed she was not approving.

CHAPTER FIVE

As he headed out the door, a shadow moved; Sage caught his breath, instantly snapping into alert mode, his heartbeat skyrocketing, his hands already in a defensive position, the right one down at his hip even though he had no gun there.

The shadow shifted again, and he realized it was the oak tree. The spreading branches were blowing in the wind that had gotten strong since they’d gone in for their group therapy. One of the branches was tapping at the roof of an outbuilding.

Where was Rachel? Looking around again, he saw her. She was striding toward a greenhouse that he thought the receptionist had mentioned during her tour of the place, but it hadn’t registered in his mind.

He followed her there, arriving at the steel-framed, plastic-lined door just as she turned to close it.

“Hey there.” She looked pleased to see him. At any rate, she didn’t slam the door in his face, he thought, with an unexpected glimmer of humor.

“Thought I’d come see what this is all about,” he said, not wanting to sound like a stalker.

“It’s the veggie station. We volunteer to tend it. This isn’t my time, but I’m in here to rip a few weeds out.”

“Would you like some help doing that?” he asked.

She hesitated, and for a moment, his stomach flipped.

“Yes,” she then said, and he headed inside, closing the door behind them. The greenhouse was large, with gravel paths between the beds, and a heavy, damp smell in the air that was partly fresh soil and partly growing plants. And there was a large variety of vegetables. In the first few yards, he saw leafy greens, broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower – and there was probably a lot more.

She bent to rip out a weed. He did the same. He couldn’t resist a look around at the door. His paranoia again, giving him a twinge. He wanted to know if anyone was coming in. Specifically, if Doc Ellen would be monitoring them.

He had seen the way she'd instantly looked at them, as if recognizing that there might possibly be some chemistry between them. He guessed romance was strongly discouraged here and that it got in the way of the recovery process.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“A week,” she replied, giving him a wry grin. “I guess that makes me an old timer?”

“I guess it does, seeing I arrived this morning,” he replied.

“So, what are you here for? Can I ask?” Abandoning her job of pulling the baby weeds, she turned to him. “I’m sorry if that question’s out of line. I’ve just – well, I’ve never been in a place like this before, and I’m still feeling very unmoored. As if I don’t trust anyone, and I don’t know what to expect.”

He got it.

“I’m here for PTSD,” he said, the words feeling awkward on his tongue, and the confession a lot more than he’d been prepared to spill out during group therapy.

“That’s harsh. Was it caused by a tough case?” she asked.

“A few of those,” he agreed. He paused. She’d asked, so he guessed that she wouldn’t be offended if he did, too.

“How about you?” he said.

She sighed. "I'm bipolar. They reckon my particular condition is hereditary." He flinched at that, as she continued. "My mother suffered from it badly. I don't want to let it ruin my life the same way it ruined hers, and it seems to get worse with age, so I'm here to beat it."

She sounded determined, and he liked that. Her inner fire contrasted with the fragility of her appearance, those slim fingers, that pale oval face.

It was better not to think of his father, and that shock diagnosis that had come after Max’s death; Dad had never become right, had spiraled downward, and eventually, too late, they’d gotten the answers that he was bipolar.

It hadn’t been in time to help him.

“And how’s that going?” he asked.

“It’s going okay,” she said. “Unfortunately, it’s very reliant on the right meds – the magic recipe. They’re changing mine this afternoon, and I’m hoping that it’ll mean an improvement, because right now, I feel like a walking zombie.”

Again, he thought of his dad. Hopefully, she wasn’t as bad a case.

She was giving off a lot of energy compared to the way she said she felt, Sage saw. But then again, he knew a little about bipolar disorder, thanks to living with his dad’s erratic behavior. Nobody had known when Sage was a kid and a teen that this was what it was.

He'd learned that there were times he needed to tread very carefully around his father. He'd learned what the signals of anger were before they erupted. He'd learned techniques for defusing that anger as far as he could.

Later, he learned that the condition involved suffering manic and depressive phases. So, Rachel might be cycling through that.

“And you think the new meds will improve things?” he asked.

She nodded. “With any luck, they’ll keep me on an even keel, but help me to feel more myself, and less as if everything’s happening through a fog. I’m worried that if I hit a depressive phase on these meds, I won’t even be able to drag myself out of bed. And I’ve had some bad side-effects from the meds. Horrible things, like feeling nauseous and dizzy, that sort of thing. And worse – sometimes, so depressed that I can’t even see a way forward. I seem to be very sensitive to these medications, which is a piece of bad luck.”

Again, Sage felt a flare of worry about his own meds. So far, that had just included sleeping tablets and what he thought were mild antidepressants. But in his paranoid moments – and there were too many of those for his liking – he also worried that he’d end up overmedicated, that it would affect his reaction time, and that he’d be declared permanently unfit for duty.

It felt all too possible that this might happen.

“So, you’re anxious about the change?” he asked.

“I am,” she said. “But you know what? Talking about it helps. Especially since…” She dropped her voice and spoke in a lower tone. “Especially since I don’t trust everyone here.”

Sage blinked, feeling thrown by this comment. Up until that moment, they’d been having a normal conversation, and he felt that they’d been weaving a few fragile strands of friendship. Now, suddenly, this had headed all the way into something more perplexing.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because I know that someone here is trying to kill me,” she said, getting the words out in a rueful way. “Not everyone here is my friend, and some people have agendas. I know it. I can sense it.”

"Really?" Sage fought for control as she spoke the words. He didn’t want her to see how incredulous he was feeling at them. The investigator in him was immediately triggered. Was this true? But then, the cynic in him was quickly arguing that this was a psychiatric hospital, and that people were paranoid, delusional, and distrustful. Himself included.

“You probably don’t believe me, do you?” She sounded sad. “But it’s the truth.”

“If you say so, then I’m sure you have reasons,” Sage said, digging deep to find the right comment on this perplexing stance.

He felt a sense of shame that he was doubting something that she clearly thought to be valid and true. She had big problems if she thought this was true. Her paranoia was more far-reaching than he'd thought it was, and now, he was wondering if this was a mirror reflecting back at him.

Should he be criticizing her when he hadn't even had the strength of character to speak openly about his own issues in the group therapy session? And it wasn't as if he was acting ultra-reasonable himself at the moment, either. He remembered how he'd startled at that shadow.

That was what she was doing.

Startling at shadows in her own way.

“Maybe I can be there to support you after you take the meds?” he asked, deciding that this was the most sensible approach. There might be a genuine reason for her fear, seeing that she’d had adverse reactions to medication in the past.

“I’d appreciate that,” she said. “It’s frightening to take new meds.”

“That’s for sure,” he said ruefully, remembering that this lay ahead of him, as well. Just now, he was going to have to take that plunge, too.

“What time are you going to be taking them?” he asked.

“Just before dinner. I’ll check in at the nurse’s station on the way to dinner.”

“So, see you at dinner, then?” he asked. He’d spent enough time with her. Maybe she wanted to be alone, coming in here to pull some weeds and get some peace.

“See you then.” Her smile warmed him, and he was able to move past that shocking statement she’d made about someone wanting to kill her. She didn’t seem paranoid. Maybe it was a fear linked to her meds, and she’d shared it with him because she felt she could trust him.

Sage warned himself that, right now, he was probably nothing more than a walking collection of red flags, and clearly so was she. He shouldn’t be trying to get close to anyone.

Romance was something he hadn’t experienced for a long while. He’d dated occasionally since joining the FBI, but it had always been secondary to his career.

Generally, his relationships had ended when he’d been transferred, or else deployed to another state to work on a long-term case. He’d had a few transfers as he worked his way up.

Part of him had craved the closeness and companionship of a proper relationship. Another part had harshly reminded himself that he had a relatively short window of time to claw his way up the ladder. It had sometimes felt as if he was deliberately denying himself what he wanted, punishing himself because he felt he didn’t deserve a perfect life, when his brother and his dad no longer had a life at all.

As he left the greenhouse, looking around again, he heard voices coming from behind one of the buildings. He didn't recognize the speaker, but the words themselves caught his attention.

“We need to watch out for that,” he heard a man’s voice say, the tone warning, the sound carrying toward him on the breeze.

Watch out for what?

Curious to find out more, his natural hyper-vigilance kicking in again, Sage moved quietly in that direction.

CHAPTER SIX

Pressed up against the wall of the single-story, brick building, Sage listened carefully for any further conversation. The voices must be coming from just behind the building's wall. There, he remembered, was a courtyard with a bench and a smoking area. Maybe these two workers were smoking on a break.

Sure enough, confirming his hunch, he breathed in the distinctive tang of cigarette smoke as he listened.

“Any sign of anything irregular, you have to report back,” one of them said.

Was that Dr. Fleming, the prescribing doctor who had checked him out earlier? Sage sidled closer, listening as hard as he could. What was this conversation about?

“I will,” the other man replied.

That might be one of the nurses. He couldn’t tell if the voice was familiar or not.

“What if there are adverse reactions?” the other man then asked.

“You call me first!” The speaker was intense. Definitely Dr. Fleming. “I need the chance to manage it. Don’t take it further. I don’t want anyone else handling things. It could be dangerous.”

Sage felt surprised by the words.

He guessed, when you worked in a place that was a melting pot of psychological problems, there were going to be dangerous patients. That was the harsh reality. What else could it be?

But of course, the paranoid, overzealous agent inside him was telling him to wait at the wall to hear more and figure out what this was all about.

He forced himself to turn away, deciding to do the shortest walk on the track, but to do it fast, and then head straight in for dinner.

It was time to focus on his recovery so that he could get back to his career, and not to worry about anything else.

He headed out on the track, deciding that as the afternoon headed into evening, this grassy prairie took on a beauty he hadn’t expected. With the sun now highlighting the tips of the grass, and the shadows getting longer, the occasional stunted bushes were thrown into quirky relief by the changing light.

The scattered clouds added character to the golden sky. It seemed like a friendlier place than it had this morning.

Maybe that was just because he’d met a friendlier person.

Sage headed back inside, feeling better after his walk. Doc Ellen had warned him against pushing himself to extremes. No high-speed runs, no fitness training. He could walk as far and as fast as he liked, but that was all.

There were surprisingly enticing smells coming from the dining room, and he headed straight there. People were already crowding in. At dinner, it looked as if the staff and the patients ate together. The tables had been set up to accommodate groups of four or six, with jugs of water and juice on each table, and steel food trays now being uncovered at the serving hatch.

There was the nurse he recognized from earlier – Nathan was his name, he remembered. He was on duty at the serving hatch with a couple of other staff. There was a uniformed woman that he hadn’t yet seen. She looked stern, with a disapproving expression on her face as she surveyed the tables.

Six patients were sitting together and conversing in low voices. He didn’t see Doc Ellen anywhere, but he did see Rachel.

She was sitting at a table in the corner, alone, with her shoulders hunched.

“Hi there,” he said, heading over to her.

“Hi,” she replied.

Sage was surprised that she didn’t seem as pleased to see him as he’d expected she would.

She stared at him in a morose way, as if he was a stranger, and he couldn’t help feeling a twist of his stomach as he took in her changed behavior. Why was she suddenly being so different? Had he overstepped a boundary when he’d headed into the greenhouse to talk to her?

Had her meds not yet kicked in, or had she been overmedicated?

Or else, had she been in a manic phase, and was she now sinking into a depressive phase?

He decided that was probably it. She looked lackluster, as if she didn’t have any energy to spare.

Now, he was feeling the same, realizing how things had seemed a little brighter this afternoon just because of that moment of personal connection with her.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“I guess I’m just – sad,” she replied. “I wish this hadn’t happened. Any of it. I wish I was still at work.”

Her tone reminded him of the way his father had sounded at his lowest point, and it made him even uneasier.

A couple of other patients sat down at their table – the middle-aged woman, Amy, that Sage recognized from the group therapy, and a younger man who looked about eighteen, and who Sage didn’t recognize.

He nodded a greeting at them, as Rachel spoke. She barely gave them any acknowledgment as she continued speaking.

“I loved my job, and the truth is, I don’t know if they’ll have me back. I ended up missing too many classes. I became an unreliable employee. I think they’re going to replace me, and by the time I get back there, I’ll have to reapply. I think this whole situation is unfair.”

“Honey, it sucks,” Amy said, reaching out her hand and squeezing Rachel’s with her fingers. “It sucks. But you’re going to get better, you’ll get your meds right, and then you’ll be outta here. You watch. You’ll leave us in your dust.”

She was doing a great job of comforting her, and those words drew a reluctant smile from Rachel.

Maybe the reason that Sage was finding it difficult to console her was that it was awakening all his own fears about his job.

Would there be a place for him in the FBI if he ever managed to get the better of this damned monster that had lodged in his mind and taken over his life? Or would he just be tossed to the curb, and also forced to start again?

He could never make a success of another career the way he had with the FBI. He'd plunged everything into it.

But he put those thoughts aside with an effort, as Amy said, “C’mon, let’s eat.”

He’d had an appetite when he’d first walked in, but that had vanished. Even so, Sage knew that he needed to choke down some food. And there was a chicken stew in the serving dishes, rich with chicken and gravy, with vegetables in the side trays, rice, and bread rolls.

He accepted some stew and rice from the servers and returned to the table, noticing that a couple of the nurses and assistance team were watching him. Yup, eating habits were monitored here, as Nathan had said, and he was sure that if you refused all food, your treatment and meds were escalated.

He dug in his fork, chewed, swallowed, and gave Rachel a supportive smile, which he was pleased to see she returned.

Then, he focused on his own food, letting Amy's conversation wash over him. As soon as Rachel was finished, she stood up, put her plate in the large plastic tub on the side of the room that was reserved for the dirty dishes, and headed out.

“Excuse me. See you all tomorrow.” A minute later, Sage had finished his food, and he did the same.

He walked out of the dining room and then headed in the direction she'd gone.

Realizing that he didn’t know her room number, Sage knew that the support he’d promised her wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought. He headed down the corridor, calling her name softly.

“Rachel? Rachel, it’s Sage. Do you want some company for a while? Rachel?”

There was no answer. Wherever she was, she wasn’t responding to him. He walked the corridor twice more. There were only thirty rooms. Only thirty places where she could be, but at none of the twenty-nine doors that were not his own did he get any feedback or reply.

The other wing of the corridor had a locked door at its entrance that needed either a key or a card to get in. He guessed that was for the higher security patients, but if she was in there, he couldn't get past the gate.

There was going to be no way of keeping his promise.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eventually, after one more round of calling, Sage let himself into his own room, feeling as if he’d failed. He should have gone straight after Rachel, helped her, held her hand – figuratively at least, so that she’d have some support for a couple of hours after taking her new meds.

He hoped she’d be okay.

For now, though, he had his own meds to take, and this felt like a hurdle.

“Take them,” his mind urged him. “Just take them. You need to start feeling better. Sleep deprivation is making you so brittle that you’re going to shatter. Plus, Marco is going to be asking tomorrow if you did what you were supposed to. Are you going to lie to your boss? Is that going to give you a better chance of coming back to work?”

Resenting these actions, but helpless to do anything else, Sage called the night nurse, who dispensed the meds for him. He took them, feeling ashamed that he had to be watched while he did so.

Then, the nurse left, and he stripped off his clothes, showered, and climbed into bed.

Lying back on the pillows, he felt his head spinning in a way he didn’t like. He didn’t like the feeling of being anything except fully mentally sharp. Was this going to be the new him? There was no way that he was going to be able to cope in his job, if he felt like this all day.

Maybe the effects would be gone by morning.

That was all he had time to decide, as the dark rush of exhaustion overpowered him, and he slipped into a surprisingly dreamless sleep.

He surfaced from the sleep, feeling as if he was coming up from the deepest depths of the ocean. Blackness slowly turned to gray. Gray turned to light.

Sitting up, he realized it was morning, and that he had managed to get a full night’s sleep, thanks to the meds. Admittedly, he’d turned into a zombie the minute he’d taken them, and he still felt sluggish and slow, but maybe he could move on to a half dose. Maybe this would stop the nightmares, and he’d be out of here in a few days.

For the time being, he was going to see how Rachel had fared. Maybe there was a way he could find out what room she was in – or perhaps he could simply ask the first nurse he saw.

He put on a pair of jeans, a polo shirt, and a pair of sneakers, and headed out.

In the corridor, he didn’t see a nurse, but he did see a cleaner, with a wheeled cart containing a bucket, mop, and disinfectant. Time to see if his cunning plan would work.

“Do you know where Rachel stays?” he asked her. “She wanted me to check in on her and make sure she was okay after her meds.”

The cleaner didn't question Sage. She simply looked at her clipboard as if this was a relatively common occurrence here.

“She’s in room sixteen,” she said, and tugged the cart forward.

Wishing he’d managed to find this out last night, Sage headed down the corridor, looking for the room numbers as he went. Sixteen must be at the end of this row. She also had one of the big, spacious rooms in the less secure wing. Not far from him.

Reaching the door, he knocked.

Listened. Nothing but silence.

Maybe she was still asleep. Those meds could have knocked her out just the same way they'd knocked him out. He should leave her be.

Except… he was worried, and now, his paranoid, fragmented mind wouldn’t leave the topic alone. Every time he tried to tell himself to leave it, his mind grabbed hold of another facet.

He knocked again. Still no answer. Maybe she’d gone out for a healthy early morning walk and was feeling just fine this morning.

Or maybe he should try the door, because years of FBI training told him that’s what you did, when nobody answered. He couldn’t even stop himself from doing it, feeling like a spectator in his own life as he put his hand to the handle and turned it.

It swung open.

“Rachel?” he said again, but as he spoke the word, he saw something inside. Something large and shapeless, dangling from the ceiling fan.

It was – no. No!

“No, no, no!” He heard himself yell out the words as he rushed forward, seeing her there, her face darkened by the trapped blood, her body stiff, swinging from a ropy belt that was maybe from a dressing gown.

She was dead. Dead.

And Sage didn’t remember anything that happened after that. Not for a while.

*

“I need to know how you are feeling, Sage. Whatever you need in the next few days, we must make sure you have it.”

He was in the consulting room with Doc Ellen. He was on the couch, which was as uncomfortable as it looked, and he didn’t know why he’d picked it. Maybe he wanted to be uncomfortable, and he was repeating a pattern that had played out when his brother and his dad had died. Punishing himself for being alive.

“I don’t know how I’m feeling,” he flashed back at Doc Ellen, anger breaking through his shock. “How should I be feeling? She was dead. I walked in and found her dead. How can you say your place helps people when they end up killing themselves?”

Maybe that bitter question was unfair. He saw her face tighten and didn't like that he was putting her through pain. He looked down at his hands instead. They were tightly clenched, the knuckles white, but in his mind, he wasn't seeing the hands. He was seeing her body, so perfectly still, the neck at an awkward angle because of the rope.

Now that his shock was ebbing, it felt as if that moment had been engraved in his mind, every detail recorded, as if his own brain had done what it was trained to do under pressure, snapshotted the scene, and was now giving him the results.

Results that he didn’t want. He didn’t want to think about that sight, about what it meant, what she must have endured.

“Trust me when I say that this is a body blow for us,” Doc Ellen said, and he could hear the tremor in her voice. “This is something we wish never happened. But unfortunately, we are a facility where people who have serious psychological challenges come for help, and we’re not always in time to give them the help they need.”

“Surely you could have done more?” he asked. His hands were shaking. “Why wasn’t she monitored? If you ask me, you set her up to fail.”

He knew his anger was unfair, because she was also clearly upset, but right now, his emotions were all the way off kilter.

She shook her head sadly. “We were adjusting her meds. That takes time. It’s a fine balancing act. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize how violently depressive she was. I doubt the meds had time to alter that.”

Sage felt a sudden pang. What if he was responsible? What if the conversation with him, earlier, had been what had tipped her over the edge?

He tried to blot that out of his mind. He'd been good at doing that in the past. He'd been able to shut anything away, before, after, and during important assignments. He was the master at ignoring his own thoughts, corralling them away, and even being able to make them disappear altogether.

As he was about to give Doc Ellen a furious response, his mind swung all the way back to a time when, a few years after signing up, he’d just wrapped up the first of his cases that had caused him personal danger. It had ended up in a bloody showdown, with guns blazing and bullets flying, and three of the bad guys were seriously wounded, two by him.

“How can you cope with it?” one of the other young agents had asked him as they opened their third beer at the local bar.

On a high from the recent fight, feeling armor-plated and invulnerable, he'd replied, "I guess I'm just bulletproof."

There had been raucous cheers. They’d all raised their glasses to him. He’d felt on top of the world, as if he was that invulnerable person that could cope with anything.

He’d thought how proud his father would be. How proud Max, the daredevil, would be.

And how his mother, who’d always been worried about his career choice, would realize that he’d survived the most dangerous takedown that an agent could ever have in their career.

Only it hadn’t been. After that, there had been another, and then another. He’d proved himself to be the Teflon man, skilled and lucky and bulletproof, and of course, wherever there was a hotspot, they deployed him.

He remembered that takedown again. The way the bullets had zinged past him, and he’d felt the thrill of mortal terror that he had never allowed himself to acknowledge, as he’d leaped from his scanty cover to a more solid barrier, shooting as he ran, just like in the movies, only this was real. And he’d felt a bullet pass by his head, so close that its passing had prickled his hair. Another inch, and his skull would have been shattered. Two inches, and it would have rammed into his brain.

He gasped, as the fear that he’d never felt during that takedown cascaded into him, the effects paralyzing.

Doc Ellen was on her feet, then by his side, and then she was seated beside him on that couch. Her voice was intense as she spoke.

“You are okay, Sage. You’re here. Take my hand. You’re here.”

Her voice was an anchor that was holding him, grounding him. Somehow, the scene that had flared in his mind was ebbing away. Strangely, he thought that having confronted this terror again had lessened its nightmarish capacity.

He took a deep breath. Finally, he had his own mind back with him, even though it was still fragmented and grieving.

“Thanks,” he said.

She removed her hand. “If you’re sure you’re okay, then that’s good. But I want you to take the first of your meds now. The mild antidepressant. You need a double dose of that for a few days. What happened to you, what you saw, is going to be a serious setback for you. I wish it hadn’t happened, but now that it has, we need to control it.”

He stared at her, frowning, suddenly less trusting of her than he had been.

“No. There’s no need for me to do that.”

“There is a need,” she countered, her voice intense. “Do you have any memory of the time between seven a.m. and now – eleven-thirty? Because you were pretty much catatonic. The support workers brought you in here and put you on the couch so that I could observe you. I canceled all my morning appointments. We were about to take you to the hospital ward.”

He paused, frowning. What had happened to that time?

Fear jolted him as he thought about the fact that he’d been in such a state of trauma that he’d lost more than four hours. Gone. He couldn’t remember a thing.

His PTSD was more serious than he had thought. Then again, he reminded himself, he’d just woken up from the deepest sleep he could remember having in months, and whatever those meds were, they could have caused his catatonic state.

Defiantly, he came back at her. “Why are you talking about me? I’m not the problem here. A woman just committed suicide. One of your patients, your inmates, whatever. Why aren’t we talking about her?”

Her voice was tense as she replied. “Because this is your session, Sage. What we are talking about now, in this hour, is you. We’re talking about your feelings, your trauma response, how this has affected you. Because although I hate it, and I wish I could erase this truth, the fact is that we do have suicides here. And I do my best to make sure that one suicide doesn’t cause anyone else to go off track. Because, trust me, you’re on the edge.”

She was breathing hard. He could see the lines of stress and concern etched in her face. She was speaking the truth as she saw it.

But was it his truth?

Maybe it was the expression in her eyes, the connection with another human being, that allowed Sage’s thoughts to escape from their prison again.

And suddenly, he realized what he had seen in that room.

Flash, flash, flash. His investigator’s mind, taking in the scene.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The images that were whirling through Sage’s mind were intense and distinct. He wasn’t imagining what he’d seen. That was what he did; it was his strength. The ability to see a scene and instantly assess it, intuiting what had happened and why.

“It wasn’t a suicide,” he said.

He watched her face as he spoke the words, and he saw her flinch as if she couldn't believe what he'd just said.

“What – what do you mean by that?”

“I’m a trained investigator.” His temper rose again, that frazzled urge to snap out his argument, but he managed to contain his voice. “Do you think I didn’t see the evidence?”

He stared at her, meeting her gaze for the first time as equal to equal, seeing the shock in her eyes.

"I don't know what you mean," she said. "And I don't want to talk about this now because it's disturbing you."

He shook his head.

"The door was unlocked for a start. I just walked in."

“So?”

“Wouldn’t a suicidal person lock themselves in?”

She pressed her lips together, shook her head. "I am not going to discuss this with you. Suffice it to say that we've had a few traumatic, terrible suicides in recent years, and they don't all follow the same set of rules. There are no rules. The fact that they're in that mindset, that they go ahead with that act, shows that they are not thinking clearly."

And nor was he. Just as he wanted to face up to Doc Ellen and logically argue the set of evidence that he knew he’d seen, it exploded again, fragmenting in his mind.

What had happened? Now was the time when he needed to be cool, calm, and coherent, explaining to Doc Ellen in a logical way why he thought the way he did.

Instead, he found himself at a loss for words, grappling to arrange his thoughts, with a blind chaos overtaking him, just the way that it had done in the past few FBI meetings, the ones where people had started looking at him strangely.

“You – you –”

He couldn’t get out the words. None of them. Not the logical argument he wanted to present, and not the furious response that was his frustrated reaction to his own lack of ability. His own mind had shut down on him, silenced him.

He stood up.

“Sage?” Doc Ellen asked in worried tones. “Sage, this is your session.”

“Give it to someone else,” he said. He strode out, and even when he heard her concerned voice calling him back, he didn’t turn or hesitate.

He headed out of the building, hearing the clink of crockery and the buzz of voices coming from the kitchen, where they were preparing lunch. Right now, he didn't think he could eat. He set off along the walking trail, this time taking the longest route.

For a while, he didn’t even see where he was going. He walked blindly, anger washing through him, wanting to escape this place, to get out and never come back.

He couldn’t do that. Not after what he’d seen.

What had he seen, though?

Apart from the unlocked door, what other signs had there been?

Sage knew that there had been some other evidence, some puzzle pieces that had slotted together in his mind, forming a perfect picture to back up his insight. But when he tried to think of them, his mind felt as if it was bending and warping. It felt too weak to cope with the reality of what Sage knew was another crime scene.

Just walk, he told himself. The sun shone , peeking through clouds that were gathering, giving the golden landscape a wintry heaviness. Grass brushed against his jeans legs, and he picked a seed head as he walked, ripping it slowly apart with his fingers.

If there was ever a reason to get better, it was so that he could try to make sense of what he’d seen.

Maybe he should try to find out what had happened so far. That would be a sensible first step. If he did that, he might find that the police were already aware that there was more to it and were working on it. Then, he could leave it to them, knowing that at least a crime wouldn’t be ignored.

In fact, he realized as he walked that he wouldn't even have to go out and find the police. They would be looking to take a statement from him now that he'd emerged from his catatonic state of shock. Most probably, they'd be waiting for him when he arrived back.

He should tell them what Rachel had said – that she thought someone was trying to kill her. Now, with a cold feeling, he wondered if her instincts had been right.

*

Sure enough, when Sage strode back to the starting point of the trails after his two-hour walk, he saw a police car parked in the lot, opposite his own rental car.

As soon as he walked into the institute’s lobby, the receptionist looked his way, her movement alerting two men who were perched on the airport chairs in the corner.

Policemen, genuine police, not fakes, armed, looking for me.

They stood up and walked toward him. Even if Sage hadn’t known what the situation was, he would have pegged the man in front, instantly, as a plainclothes detective. He had a broad face, with a hairline receding sharply at the temples, and he wore a cheap suit jacket and a blue tie.

The man behind him, younger and slimmer, gave the game away by wearing a police uniform.

The broad-faced man stuck out his hand.

“Good afternoon. Mr. West?”

“That’s me,” he said.

“I’m Detective Farham, and this is my assistant, Officer Gersham. We were called out for this suicide. Very unfortunate situation, and I’m sorry that you were the one to find her body, sir.”

Uncertain what his response to this should be, Sage simply nodded.

It didn’t sound as if they were treating this like a crime, unless they were calling it a suicide for now. But he could get the information from them. He’d done it often enough. A few subtle questions, and he’d have the answers he was looking for.

"Can we sit down and make a statement?" Farham asked, rummaging in his battered laptop bag. He produced a phone and a notebook.

“Sure,” Sage said.

The uniformed Gersham muttered something about ‘empty office,’ pointing down the corridor.

“If you could come this way, sir,” Farham said.

Sage followed them, wondering how much they knew about him. He guessed that they must have been told some background. They must know he was an FBI agent. Maybe that would give his opinion more weight. But they also knew he was a patient. That might make them more distrustful of his version.

With his thoughts fragmenting all over again, Sage followed them down the corridor. The room where Doc Ellen had her sessions was closed. Maybe she was in there, counseling someone else.

Farham went all the way to the end of the passage, where there was a small office on the right. He headed in there. There was a round conference table with four chairs around it.

Sitting down, Sage took in the room's blank walls. He wondered if this lack of décor was purposeful, to create an environment that was so unstimulating that it encouraged the people within it to focus on their own thoughts and the images in their own minds.

Then, that idea flitted out of his mind as fast as it had come in, and he focused on the police again.

“Now, sir,” Farham said, “when did you first meet Rachel Bennett?”

“I only arrived here yesterday,” Sage said.

“Okay. So, you would have met her then, obviously?”

He nodded. “We met at a group therapy session, and I spoke to her after that for a while.”

The only sound for a few moments was the scratch of Farham’s pen as he noted this down.

“Did she mention her emotional state at all?” Farham asked.

Sage had the sudden, chilling certainty that he’d asked these questions, maybe even in this office, a number of times before. There was something in the way he spoke the words that indicated a process being repeatedly followed.

“How many suicides have you investigated here?” he asked.

Farham took the question calmly. He didn’t get thrown off track, and he didn’t answer it. He simply repeated his own question again, forcing Sage to answer.

Reluctantly, he did.

“Yes, she did. Her emotional state was unstable. She was feeling unsettled, threatened, paranoid, and she was worried about her meds being changed.”

Farham nodded.

“A couple of people said that in the evening, after dinner, they heard someone walking the corridors and calling her. Was that you?”

Sage’s mind raced, and yet again, he felt his stress levels ratchet up.

He'd never thought that, in this case, he could possibly veer into the realms of being a suspect. But the fact was that he was a man who knew how to use lethal force, and he was here because his superiors had forced him to be due to serious psychological conditions.

“That’s correct,” he said.

“Why were you doing that?”

“When we spoke earlier, she said that she thought that someone was trying to kill her. Surely you need to take that further?”

“So she seemed paranoid?” Farham asked.

“Apart from that one statement, no. That’s why it was troubling.”

Farham jotted the information down, but Sage didn’t know if the detective believed it.

“So, why were you calling her?” Farham asked again.

Sage hadn’t answered the question. His mind groped for answers.

"She was worried the meds might cause a physical reaction, or even severe depression. I offered to sit with her for a while after dinner to make sure she felt okay. After dinner, I realized that I hadn't taken her room number, and I didn't want to let her down, so I called for her in case she wanted me to do that. She didn't respond, so I went to my own room and went to sleep."

Guiltily, he thought of his own dreamless sleep. Now, that made him feel sick with regret. If he hadn’t slept, he might have saved her.

“If you didn’t know her room number last night, how were you able to find her this morning?” Farham asked.

"I asked a cleaner. I don’t know her name, but there was only one person who I saw on duty in the residential block, so they’ll know who she was. She told me the room number. I knocked on the door, but felt worried when she didn’t answer, so I tried it, and it was open.”

Again, that image burned in his mind, fierce in its finality, the details there… and then gone, as his mind pushed them away.

“Okay, thank you.”

Sage realized that they’d needed to confirm his credentials, but they didn’t suspect him of having any involvement in the incident. That was good, but also bad. It meant they weren’t looking for suspects, and that they considered this to be a suicide, despite what he’d told them Rachel had said.

“What are your findings?” Sage asked.

“Very unfortunate death by her own hand. No foul play suspected, so you needn’t be anxious that you’re a suspect,” Farham said in a kindly way. “We needed you to account for your movements, that’s all. It should be wrapped up fairly soon.”

So, all he’d been doing was making sure that every detail of the case was properly documented. He hadn’t been worried about it beyond that, and he also wasn’t going to answer any questions about the numbers of suicides at Oakview Psychiatric Center.

He stood up, feeling as if there was more he should say, but not knowing where to start.

Sage almost made it to the door without speaking his mind. Then, he turned.

“You don’t think this is suspicious? Because I do,” he said. “She literally told me she thought someone was trying to kill her.”

The police exchanged a glance, and Sage saw clearly that they didn’t take him seriously. They thought he was just a damaged patient who was probably paranoid and delusional, painting the scenario with the brush of his own experiences.

“If there’s any doubt at all, we’ll take it further,” Farham said. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ve investigated a lot of –”

Whatever he was going to say, he broke off the words in a hurry, saying only, “If we need any more information from you, we’ll get in touch.”

He had been going to say, ‘a lot of these incidents.’ Or something of the sort. Sage was certain of it.

He headed out, feeling a sense of defeat. Maybe the police were right, and the glimpse of the scene that he’d had before whatever breakdown had caused him to shut down had triggered old memories.

That was surely more likely.

But, as he headed down the corridor back to his room, he passed her door. Number sixteen.

There was no crime scene tape there because this hadn't been deemed a crime. There was no evidence at all that someone had died in that room, apart from the fact that the door was closed and, he presumed, locked.

Or was it?

His heart was pounding as he headed over to the door, glancing around him to see if there was anyone else in the corridor.

CHAPTER NINE

There wasn't anyone in sight. The corridor was empty. Sage grasped the door handle, which hadn't even been fingerprinted because it wasn't a crime scene.

He felt the steel handle, cold against his fingers, as he pushed it down, and tried the door.

A gasp of disappointment, and maybe relief, hissed out of him as he realized it was locked. Of course it was. They wouldn’t leave the door open after something like this had happened.

But weirdly, touching that door brought the memories surging in his mind again.

Rachel had mentioned that she’d felt unsafe and that she thought people were going to harm her. Yes, that could well have been paranoia, it might also be rooted in instinct. Her mind might have been screaming at her that something was amiss, that somebody had been following her, or even lurking around near her room, and without the coherence to realize it in the rollercoaster of her mood swings, her brain had done the best it could with the evidence it had.

She’d literally told him that people were trying to kill her.

And the evidence itself? That told a story.

This time, he knew what he’d seen. The pieces were back, going from jagged chaos into a ghastly reality.

He saw the small details.

The fact that the ceiling fan was too high for her to have been able to hang herself. Her feet had been dangling several feet from the floor. Yes, she could have used the desk across the room, but if she’d done that, there would have been a lot of weight on the fan. Enough to tilt it sideways, to crack it, to cause one of the bolts to come loose.

Standing there, with his hand on the cold steel, he imagined the way his old self would have talked, sharp and staccato yet methodical, as his mind and words aligned to paint the picture he saw.

And the marks on her neck. There had been distinct grazes below the place where that cord had bitten into her neck. He'd seen a graze like that before when a criminal had strangled one of his victims using his own belt. That mark had been identically placed.

And one other thing he noticed, too, as his gaze had veered to Rachel’s still, swollen hands.

Two broken fingernails on the first and second finger of her right hand.

That could have happened during a struggle.

In his experience, it would have happened during a struggle.

But they would argue that it might have happened as she prepared to hang herself, or even that she’d regretted her decision as she swung from the rope and she’d tried to save herself, tried to take the weight off her neck, breaking her nails in the process before succumbing to the decision she’d made.

Small pieces of evidence made a big difference. That fact had been drummed into him at Quantico, and he’d never forgotten the lesson. He’d cracked several cases by looking at the small pieces of evidence that others ignored and reading them accurately. Together, the puzzle made sense.

She hadn’t seemed suicidal, although she had seemed withdrawn and depressed. But had it been an intense enough downward spiral for her to have killed herself? Had she really reached that level of despair?

He shook his head. He wasn't buying the explanation or the fact that she'd been on new meds.

There was more to it. The police weren’t interested and weren’t going to take it further. There was only one person who could do that, and it was him.

His hands were shaking as he let go of the door handle, turning away and striding down the corridor to his room. Inside, he opened up his bag and powered up the laptop. He'd been strongly advised not to bring it with him, that he needed to have peace and quiet and freedom from his work devices.

He wasn’t going to go into any of his old case notes. No point in stirring up a hornet’s nest in his mind. But he was going to open a brand-new document, and he was going to write down what he’d observed, just in case he had another one of those unwanted memory gaps.

Quickly, perched on the uncomfortable wooden chair at the desk, Sage did that.

He was a two-finger typist, but a fast one. Picking away at the computer keyboard felt strangely soothing, as if recording his thoughts was an easy job.

What should he do next, though? That wasn’t such an easy decision.

Checking the time, Sage saw that it was already two p.m.

He was allowed to leave the premises, and he was going to. His head felt clearer now. He was sure, though, that after what had happened this morning, Doc Ellen would not approve of the fact that he intended to drive.

Too bad. He was going to drive.

Connecting up to his own phone’s wifi – old security habits died hard, and you never used a shared unsecured network even though there was one here – Sage looked up the number for the county coroner.

He called them, and got the address. Distances were vast out here in the scantily populated prairie lands of the Midwest. The coroner’s offices were an hour’s drive away.

No problem. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do with his time, and he was determined to ask the coroner’s opinion. No way would they tell him on the phone. That wouldn’t happen. But if he pitched up there in person, with his FBI ID in tow, there was a chance he’d get the information.

He felt more together than he had for the past few days, although Sage accepted this might be temporary, and that at any moment, his thoughts would fragment again.

Maybe it was the meds doing their good work?

Or maybe he didn’t need them.

He headed out, striding through the reception area, noticing that there were a couple of assistants who were speaking together in low voices. He was sure they were talking about the death. He wondered what they were concluding about it and if this was just another day at the office.

Then, Sage found himself wondering if any of the ward assistants had been in conflict with Rachel during her time here. Had she made any enemies? She was a beautiful woman; perhaps someone had propositioned her, and been turned down, and gotten angry as a result?

“Are you heading out, Mr. West?” one of them asked, turning to him curiously.

“Yes,” Sage said. He didn’t say where.

Thoughtfully, he climbed into his car and programmed the pathology lab into the GPS. He set off in a different direction from the one in which he'd arrived.

He headed along the straight, long road for what seemed like eons, passing through a few small towns along the way and past uncountable acres of farmland, before he finally arrived at the larger town where the pathologist’s offices were based.

He parked outside and climbed out of the car, realizing too late that he was not dressed in the way that a pathologist would expect to see an FBI agent.

The casual outfit that he'd put on this morning might work against him now. At least he had his ID with him. Hopefully, that would open some doors.

The pathologist’s office, with the mortuary building adjacent to it, was all the way at the end of the town. It was busy, with the parking lot three quarters full, which Sage guessed was inevitable since they were handling all the postmortems and all the body storages for such a wide area of small towns.

He headed in, feeling a thrill of unease as the chilly temperature hit him, and he breathed in the familiar smell of disinfectant and preservatives. He'd spent many hours in autopsy rooms. Not his favorite place, but he'd found the process fascinating, rather than repelling. He'd cracked a few cases and strengthened a few more thanks to specific information obtained from the autopsy.

As the hotshot agent of the moment, he’d been able to set aside his own thoughts and feelings, concentrating solely on the autopsy results. He’d been able to perfectly dissociate himself from the reality of what the scalpels, saws, and knives revealed.

In fact, he’d been called ice cold, in a respectful and even awed way, by other agents who’d been less successful in doing that.

Now, as he headed toward the front desk, Sage wondered if he was going to be as ice cold as he had been. These circumstances were different. Rachel wasn’t a random victim. She was someone that he’d known before her death, who’d shared her vulnerabilities with him, whose body he’d found.

He took a deep breath as he headed over to the desk, noting that it was piled with paper and files, and that the assistant was typing speedily on a worn-looking keyboard.

She turned to him without slowing down her fingers as she completed her line of text. Only then did she offer him a quick, stressed, good morning.

“FBI agent West,” he said, showing his ID. “I’ve got some questions about a body that came in. Name of Rachel Bennett. Has the postmortem been done?”

“The postmortem hasn’t been done yet,” the assistant at the desk said, shaking her head, her tawny curls bobbing. “Unfortunately, we’ve got a backlog. It’ll probably be done tomorrow, but I think Dr. Coney, the pathologist, is in between his autopsies now. I just saw him go through to the break room, if you’d like to speak to him.”

She indicated the door on the right.

They hadn’t prioritized Rachel, because she was a suicide. Sage knew how they worked, when things were busy and the pressure was on. In that case, it would be even more important to speak to the pathologist as soon as he could.

Sage hustled to the door that she’d indicated, wanting to grab this chance while it was available. He headed through the door, which led into a well-equipped break room. There was a coffee machine, which provided a far more pleasant scent than the acrid one outside, and there was a kettle, a refrigerator, and a covered container with a half-eaten cake inside. Sage guessed it had been someone’s birthday today.

The pathologist, wearing white overalls, was at the far end of the room, bent over a plate and wolfing down a piece of the vanilla-frosted cake.

“Dr. Coney?” Sage asked, feeling bad to interrupt him during his lightning meal. He was no stranger to doing that himself.

The doctor set his fork down and spun around, wiping crumbs apologetically from his blond-mustached face.

Young, energetic, keen, professional.

The voice in Sage’s mind summed him up as he introduced himself.

“I’m FBI agent Sage West.”

“Agent, I’m sorry. Just grabbing a break,” Coney said with a grin.

“I didn’t call ahead. My fault,” Sage said.

“What’s the reason for your visit?” The doctor’s inadvertent glance at the ticking clock on the wall told Sage that he didn’t have much time. Probably, this overworked pathologist needed to get to his next postmortem.

“I’m not here in an official capacity. Well, not really,” Sage explained. “I’m undergoing some treatment at the Oakview Psychiatric Center, an hour from here.”

The doctor was already nodding, putting two and two together. He didn’t look surprised by what Sage had said, which he was glad about, because he felt as if there was a stigma attached to his treatment, even if the doctor felt differently.

“We had a body come in from there. Suicide victim, I think?”

“That’s correct. I know you haven’t done the autopsy.”

Coney shook his head. “No time for the routine autopsies. We’ve had a couple of crime victims that took priority today.”

Sage considered what he'd said, wondering what the best way forward would be. Maybe the doctor could spare five minutes just to take a look at the body?

“Would you have some time to check this victim out?” he asked.

"I have a couple of minutes. No more than that, I'm afraid. Do you think there's something I should look out for in the autopsy?" Now, Sage thought, the explanation he'd given the doctor was actually sinking in. "What's your involvement in the case if you're being treated at this center?"

“I found Rachel’s body, and I’ve been thinking about what I saw,” Sage said. “There were a few pieces of evidence that made me think there might have been foul play.”

The pathologist raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t mention it at the time?”

“No,” Sage said, deciding that was all the explanation he could give about why.

Coney looked dubious about this, and rightly so, Sage thought. Any agent worth his salt would have mentioned it at the time. It was a pity that it had caused him a flashback that had clearly stalled his brain and resulted in a couple of hours of catatonia. And scary that he couldn't remember that time.

“Well, I don’t have time to schedule the autopsy any sooner than tomorrow. But if you did note anything, then show me what you saw,” he invited.

“Thanks,” Sage said.

The doctor turned back to the coffee cup beside the now empty cake plate. He lifted it, and took a huge gulp.

“Lunch,” he said, with a resigned expression. Then, he grabbed a mask from the box in the corner, pulled on a pair of gloves, and said, “Come with me.”

CHAPTER TEN

Sage followed Dr. Coney down a narrow corridor that was brightly lit, with worn but clean white tiles underfoot. As they headed along the corridor, the temperature dropped, and by the time they reached the door at the end, it was cold enough to make Sage’s skin prickle.

The doctor used his access card to activate a sensor, and the door opened with a metallic click.

They headed inside, and Sage managed to take a quick breath of fresh air before the scent of the morgue enveloped him.

No matter how hard people tried, he knew that the scent of rot could never be banished from a place like this. It lingered under the reek of the disinfectant that bathed the place, a reminder that no matter how cold the frigid temperatures were kept, some level of decay was taking place.

Whistling under his breath, as if this was all in a day’s work for him, Dr. Coney checked the list on the wall near the door and then went to one of the drawers in the wall.

Gripping the long drawer, he pulled it open. Inside was the dark shape of a body bag.

“I don’t want to remove this body. We’re short on manpower this afternoon. Can you show me in situ?”

He unzipped the bag, and Sage did his best to prepare, steeling himself against the sight that he’d seen this morning and which had shocked him all the way back into the depths of his PTSD.

Her unseeing eyes, her engorged face, the marks on her neck. He forced himself to look, and to see, worrying that he’d made a mistake the first time and that he’d misjudged what he’d seen, and aware that Coney was watching him curiously.

Dammit, he needed to pull himself together. He was the ice man, the one who could look at the worst damage without batting an eyelid. Only, he wasn’t really Mr. Cool. All he’d been doing was burying his trauma. And boy, had it erupted.

Sage realized that he was taking a different approach now. He had to.

He couldn’t bury anything anymore. His mind wasn’t capable of it. No more denial. What he had to do now, hard as it was, was look and see.

This beautiful, dead woman had struggled and suffered and might have been murdered. He acknowledged her fear and despair. He let himself feel her pain. Better now than later. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he hoped that he was managing to keep himself on the edge of coherence, doing so by not trying to block out the feelings he felt.

“Any time, Agent?”

He must have taken longer than he’d realized, and now, Coney was staring at him impatiently, as if he was holding him up and he needed to get going.

“Right. Just running through my own mental checklist,” he said.

Those marks. That was where he needed to start.

“There, on her neck.”

“Yes?” Coney’s gaze sharpened as he stared down.

“Those ligature marks, to me, are in the wrong place for a hanging. They’re not at the top of the neck, right up against the jawbone. They’re further down, right on the larynx, exactly where you’d expect someone to strangle a victim. You’ve seen strangulation cases before?”

He asked the question as an afterthought, suddenly wondering what experience this Midwest pathologist had. He might not have seen this in his career. Strangulations were less common than hangings.

But the pathologist nodded as if Sage was confirming something that he could relate to his past experience.

“Yes, you’re right,” he said. “I can see that the marks are too low.”

“And the broken nails on her right hand?” Sage asked. “What’s your take on them?”

With his gloved fingers, Coney carefully lifted the corpse’s hand.

Rachel’s hand, Sage reminded himself, knowing that trying to dissociate now would only cause him to have another meltdown. Rachel’s hand.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Two broken nails? She could have been trying to save herself, pull the rope away, but if that’s the case then there should be some nail marks on the skin of her neck.” He bent closer, looking carefully. “Nope. I don’t see anything there. She didn’t try to do that, from what I can see.”

“That’s what I feel, too,” Sage said. “I think she resisted an attacker, and that’s how she broke the nails.”

“I’m going to keep that in mind when I do the autopsy,” Coney said. “Those are important details. They do point to another person being involved, but it’s not a given. You were observant, there, Agent. It’s my opinion that this might be more complex than a suicide. However, it’s not cut and dried.”

“Absolutely,” Sage agreed.

“There might be other evidence that points toward strangulation. I’ll see if I can get any forensic evidence from under her fingernails.” He zipped up the body bag again and closed the drawer carefully.

“Thanks,” Sage said.

“Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about the timing. The order of the autopsies is what it is, and I can’t change it now. But I’ll let you know, and also inform the police, obviously.”

Sage nodded, feeling grateful. At least he’d done what he could, and the pathologist agreed with him.

As they headed out of the morgue, Sage asked, “Do you have a lot of experience with the police detectives who attended the scene? The lead detective is Farham.”

The pathologist nodded. “Farham has attended a lot of scenes at the psychiatric hospitals. I don’t know if he’d be prepared to reopen the case, if he feels it’s already been wrapped up. You know, the problem is that in a place like that, I don’t think they want to rock the boat. They don’t like the police around; it upsets the patients, it interferes with the routine, it’s going to be a wrench in the works. He knows that. It would probably take more than just a few pieces of evidence, which can always be interpreted differently, to make him change his mind.”

“Do you get a lot of postmortems from the psychiatric center?” he asked, remembering what the police detective, Farham, had said before he’d stopped himself.

“That’s not something I can answer,” the pathologist said. “Privileged information.”

He still didn’t know, but he suspected this wasn’t just a once-off.

Reluctantly, Sage acknowledged that he had a tough job ahead of him.

If he wanted to look into this, then he’d have to get additional help. The police wanted the case closed, and didn’t want trouble at the institute, and that meant he had only one port of call.

When he’d looked at the location of the pathology lab, he’d noticed that it was a few miles away from the local FBI satellite office, one of only a couple in the state.

Maybe he should go there?

It couldn’t hurt to reach out to the local agents, Sage decided, thanking the doctor as he left.

It might even make the difference between this crime going unsolved and a killer being rooted out. One who probably thought that he or she had already gotten away with the crime.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sage got into the car again, determined to hustle to the FBI offices as fast as he could. Unfortunately, his mind had other plans.

As he closed the car door, he saw Rachel’s unseeing eyes again, her swollen face, the marks on her neck and the other, deeper ligature marks under her jaw. Cold self-blame flooded through him as he thought about how she’d suffered, how she’d died, and how he hadn’t been able to help.

The emotion brought another scene to his mind, the one he couldn’t bear to think of and had pushed away completely. The one that he knew had destroyed him and precipitated his plunge into PTSD.

For a moment, he saw the bright, crazed eyes of the man that he’d faced down.

He heard his own voice, deliberately calm, raised in an authoritative way. But inside, he’d already been feeling a torrent of self-doubt.

Hunched over the steering wheel, he had no choice but to wait until the thoughts had passed. There was no point in trying to suppress them. His mind had already reached a breaking point in that regard, and had quit doing that for good.

By the time he’d managed to get his shaking hands onto the wheel and force himself into a coherent enough state to drive, half an hour had passed.

Half an hour?

He shivered to think what would happen if he underwent the same stress response while out and about on a job, with a partner by his side. He’d be in the office and signing his exit papers before the day was up.

Actually, Marco had done him a huge favor by shunting him here, before his behavior could deteriorate to a point where that was needed.

Sage finally felt ready to start up the car again, although his hands were cold, and he felt sick inside.

He got the FBI satellite office on the maps app, and set off, weaving his way through town, looking out for the building he needed.

It was a typical Midwest medium-sized town. Sage was pleased to see that quite a few trees had been planted, giving the town beauty and character. Maybe Oakview referred to the oak trees here, he wondered, a flicker of amusement making him feel better. Maybe, with a pair of binoculars and on a very tall ladder, you could view these trees from the institution's roof. There even seemed to be a lake just outside the town, where there were more trees and some vacation homes. As he crested a small rise, he saw the shimmer of it in the afternoon sun.

There were a couple of restaurants, done up in the old Wild West style with wooden noticeboards. There was a bar, a school, a few shops, and, of course, the scattering of fast-food outlets that characterized every town located on a highway or a main road.

Then, ahead, was the FBI building. It was small, and in fact, he guessed it might even be an old, converted house. The two-story building stood behind a chest-high steel railing on a quiet street corner. There were a couple of cars parked in the lot at the back, which was also fenced.

Sage parked at the front, and for a moment, he sat in the car, wondering if this was sensible.

Maybe it was reckless. He knew that one of the signs of his own PTSD had been a tendency to be reckless. In the past few months, before his final breakdown, he’d been on the edge on a few of his assignments, feeling as if he had to force himself to cheat death yet again, and if he could do it this time, then he’d finally get the peace he was striving for.

His superiors had been partly admiring, but partly disapproving of the increased risks he took. In the end, disapproval had won, and he'd been called in and warned that he shouldn't endanger himself in the line of duty.

That had been a cutting blow to him because he'd been forced to confront the reasons behind his actions. He'd realized that he was no longer the hotshot wunderkind and that his own demons were catching up to him.

Of course, that had made things snowball even faster.

Sage shook his head. He didn’t think that simply stopping by a local satellite office and making an introduction could count as being reckless. But if he didn’t have control of himself during the conversation, then this would be another nail in his coffin for sure.

No angry words, Sage warned himself. No impatience suddenly rising out of control. And absolutely no catatonia, if that would be possible.

Feeling surprisingly nervous, he climbed out of the car and headed to the building’s front door.

There was a buzzer outside the solid wooden door. He pressed it, standing under the door’s overhang, and looking around him at the traffic passing by on the street outside.

“Who’s there?” The crackle of a woman’s voice from the intercom made him jump, wrenching his attention back to the door.

“It’s Sage West. I’m an agent from Quantico. I’d like to speak to someone about a police case that I’ve heard about.”

Heard about? Those weren’t exactly the right words, but then, this was the best he could do.

“Come on in, Agent West.”

The door buzzed open, and he stepped inside.

Definitely a converted house. He was standing in an entrance hall, which must once have been graciously equipped. Now, the black and white tiled floor contained only a filing cabinet and a coat hook. Beyond it, in what must have been the living room, was a conference table and chairs.

There were stairs on the other side of the corridor, and he heard footsteps on the wooden treads, gazing in that direction as an agent hurried downstairs.

She was probably a couple of years younger than him, with a heart shaped face, tan skin, and brown hair that was cut short in a pixie cut which was spiky on top. She wore a white blouse, black pants, and an inquiring expression.

“Agent West?” she said.

“That’s me,” Sage said, stepping forward.

“I’m Agent Maya Torres. I’m the only one here at the moment.”

This was a far cry from Quantico, and Sage felt surprised that the satellite office was so small, so informal, and so scantily staffed. At any rate, Maya seemed willing to hear him out, because she gestured briskly toward the meeting room.

“Come in here. I’ve got a telephone conference in ten minutes. The other agents aren’t back yet. Delays out in the field.” She gave a rueful smile, looking at Sage through her dark eyes as if she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. “So, why are you here? Are you on a case?”

“Actually, no,” Sage said. Time to damage his credentials. He knew that he’d see the change in her expression and attitude as he spoke.

“I’m undergoing some treatment at the Oakview Psychiatric Center,” he said.

“That’s…” She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, I know where that is. About fifty miles from here, right?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And is there a problem there?”

She hadn’t asked more about his treatment. Hadn’t even looked surprised when he’d explained. Perhaps he was going to be lucky, and this would be a fruitful meeting.

“A patient committed suicide last night. Her body was found this morning. I knew her slightly – I arrived yesterday – and I found the body. To me, there are a few indications that it might not have been suicide.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What makes you say that?” she asked.

“Just a few physical signs. I’ve just been at the coroner’s office, asking the pathologist if he can assess them during the postmortem.”

As she nodded thoughtfully, Maya then asked the question that he’d known was coming.

“Where are the police in all of this?”

“The police deemed it a suicide,” Sage said.

His mind veered uneasily back to his father. Same disorder. Same depressive low. Same result. Why did he think that things were different here? Was he sure about the evidence he'd seen? As the pathologist had said, there were different ways that evidence could be interpreted. Maybe he was just trying to find reasons for it that didn't lead him to the same terrible place that, ultimately, they'd faced with the death of his father.

Maya shrugged. "Then surely you need to go to the police and ask them if they can review things? I don't see a way that the FBI can intervene here, as it doesn't sound like a case that would be passed on to us anyway. A murder like that, the police would need to investigate."

What she said was what Sage had expected. He’d known that it wouldn’t be easy.

He wanted to argue, to push his point, to gain some kind of agreement. That was what he was used to doing. Sage, in his old life, had been just as fiery when it came to boardroom battles as he was in gunfights.

Problem was, he was technically on medical leave, the case was in the hands of the police – or rather, out of their hands since they’d already wrapped it up, and there was nothing he could do.

Yet.

Even though half of his mind was already waving the white flag in angry surrender, another part was slyly maneuvering behind the scenes.

Okay, so nothing was possible in his current MO. There was no way to do things the way he’d always done them. But maybe there was another way. As the great shining star of his unit, he’d never needed to go behind the scenes and get creative or be devious when it came to presenting cases.

Now, if he wanted to take this further, he was going to need to learn to do that.

No point in being angry. Anger would get him precisely nowhere. And if ever there was a time to stop his brittle mind from impulsively snapping out something he’d regret, that time was now.

“You’re right,” he said. “It is the police’s case. But if I manage to find anything else, would you be willing to help me ask them to review it?”

She stared at him a while, tapping her fingers on the plywood conference table.

“You really believe there’s something to be found here?”

“I really do believe it wasn’t a suicide. She was a good woman, and she was a fighter. She deserves better,” Sage said.

“I’m sorry about that.” Maya nodded, and Sage could see that she was sympathetic toward the possible murder of another woman. But then, her face changed. “You’re there for treatment?” she asked. Now, finally, she was reaching the conclusion that he’d hoped she wouldn’t. She was wondering if his own mental state was causing him to misread the situation.

“I’m getting treated for PTSD,” he said. “A case went bad.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I was in Quantico before this happened,” he then explained, and she raised her eyebrows.

“So, is that where you’re from originally? Virginia?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I was born in Mississippi, and I’ve been to a few different branches in my career. How about you?”

“I used to work in the Chicago field office, in the Organized Crime division, before I transferred here,” she said, which surprised Sage. That was a high-powered job, and he guessed that she was an exceptional agent. Now she was here, the only occupant of a converted house in the deepest Midwest?

He wondered if something had gone wrong, or if she’d simply wanted a change of pace, or whether the higher powers had decided that this office was understaffed, and she’d been summarily deployed by the stroke of a pen. He couldn’t tell from her face. She was giving nothing away.

“How do you like it?” he asked.

"Different crime profiles. Challenging in different ways," she said. "Actually, working with the police is often the hardest part. Out here, a lot of the departments don't really want the FBI getting involved. There's a small-town mentality that the police are capable and they take care of things, which is almost always true, but it means that when there is an overlap, things can get complicated."

“I can imagine that,” Sage said.

It was motivating to sit here and talk shop. It reminded him of how much he’d missed it, in the weeks that he‘d taken enforced leave and battled with his problems. But Maya was busy, and she had a meeting coming up; he couldn’t take any more of her time.

He stood up. “I’ll let you know if I do find anything else,” he said.

She gave him a conspiratorial nod. “I’ll help you work with the police if you need to convince them,” she promised. “I’m good at that. If you think there are other factors in play, don’t give up on her. And you take care. Good luck with your own treatment.”

Sage nodded in thanks as he turned away.

It was time to head back to Oakview.

He had Maya’s words in mind as he left the building.

Don’t give up.

He wasn’t going to. Rachel deserved better.

CHAPTER TWELVE

By the time Sage parked his car in the Oakview lot, it was nearly six p.m. As he climbed out, he saw that Doc Ellen was standing at the front door, looking anxiously in his direction. She hurried over to him.

“I was concerned about you,” she said. “You missed the group therapy session this afternoon.”

“I know,” Sage said. “Sorry about that. I needed to take a drive. Clear my head.”

It was better not to say where the drive had taken him. He continued, feeling surprised, “You actually had a group therapy session, after this?”

Doc Ellen nodded. “Yes. It was especially important. Therapy never stops, and after a tragic incident like this, it’s even more important that people get support. I’d like to see you after supper. You and I need to talk through what happened.”

Sage was about to default to an angry rebuff of the offer, before he realized that this would actually give him an opportunity to ask some questions about the incident – and about other incidents. Maybe he could start putting together a dossier on this, opening his own case file so that when more information was unearthed, it was ready to hand over.

“Okay,” he said agreeably. She looked surprised, as if she’d expected a fight, and now, there wasn’t one.

Sage headed inside, realizing that he hadn’t eaten since his sparing dinner the night before, and that once again, the food on offer was surprisingly tasty. There was roast chicken, corn, biscuits and gravy, and even some sort of toffee bake for dessert that smelled sickly sweet.

The conversation in the dining room was muted as people filtered in. Sage could pick up the sense of sadness that hung in the air, but at the same time, he could see that the nurses and assistants were already moving on.

Maybe that was how they coped – blotting out the tragedy, dissociating, just as he’d done in the FBI with his trauma and danger, and that last case that had broken him apart. If so, then they were probably relieved that it had been a suicide and nothing more suspicious.

As Sage ate, he remembered how Rachel had looked last night. How she’d picked at her food, worried and sad, on a downward swing, the drugs she was on not yet fighting the rollercoaster changes in her brain that her condition created.

Maybe things would have been different if her meds had been changed sooner.

Sage ate his chicken and vegetables at a table alone. Amy, the middle-aged woman who’d been so friendly last night, had organized to push two of the smaller tables together, and she was holding forth in a comforting way as she and a group of the other patients ate.

He didn’t feel ready for socializing yet. Thanks, but no thanks.

After finishing his lonely meal, he headed straight to Doc Ellen’s office.

She joined him just a couple of minutes later, and as she walked in, he saw that she assumed her professional demeanor, as if it was a garment she put on automatically when dealing with patients.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked. He settled himself in an armchair, and to his surprise, instead of going behind her desk, Doc Ellen took the other armchair, just as if they were having a friendly chat, and not a consultation at all.

“It was rough today,” Sage admitted. He couldn’t lie. It had been a struggle today. Every minute of the day had felt tough.

“That incident this morning came at a bad time,” Ellen said. “It flung you back into a stress mode, I think. And more than that, I believe that it brought up memories that you’ve been fighting hard to keep buried.”

He gave her a dubious glance, feeling defensive about this level of insight into his thinking. The fact that she was a hundred percent correct didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“I guess it did,” he acknowledged.

“We’re going to have to address that at some stage. Do you remember what came back to you at the time?”

Sage huffed out a deep breath as his mind moved around that particular topic, feeling as if he was being magnetically repelled from thinking about it.

But with Doc Ellen looking at him expectantly, he knew that he had to try.

“I think it was a single moment,” he said. “There was a single moment in my mind, and it was a moment where my own stress peaked too much for me to handle. It kind of caused a white-out. It happened then, and it happened now. I don’t know the cause of it, though, because my mind won’t release those memories. All I remember is that peak of stress, which was actually frightening. Like a tsunami, I guess.”

“That’s very well put,” she encouraged. “You did well to describe that. It’s not easy to analyze your own thinking.”

"I see now that it wasn't just that moment," he said. "I think that's partly why I feel so broken apart now. Because there were lots of other incidents, and I didn't take any of them seriously enough. I just swept them under the carpet and carried on. I was trying to live up to everyone's expectations of me as this invulnerable agent who nothing and nobody could touch. And I was ignoring everything. All the baggage, all the stress, all the dangerous moments."

Doc Ellen nodded, as if he’d done very well. “I’m pleased that you’ve figured that out,” she said. “Your PTSD is very deep; it’s very severe, and you’re absolutely right. I think it’s the buildup of numerous situations, deadly encounters, and narrow escapes. At some stage, though, we’re going to need to go back and explore the one that tipped you over the edge.”

Panic clenched his insides at the thought. “I’m not ready for that,” he said quickly.

She nodded, giving him a sympathetic look. “We have time,” she said.

“How long until I can leave?” he asked. “I really want to get back to work. Do you think you could sign me out in a couple more days? Would my bosses agree to that?”

If he was being honest with himself, he’d expected an evasive answer, and that Doc Ellen would probably not tell him the truth. But she turned to him, her expression sympathetic, her voice quiet, as always.

“Your employers have indicated that until you’ve been cleared for work again, they don’t want you back there at all. As of now, you are not employed with the FBI. I’m the only one who can clear you, and I don’t intend to do so until I can see you’re well on the road to recovery. Otherwise, you might suffer a complete mental breakdown. I’ve read your file, and I can see how close you are to that already.”

Sage stared at her in consternation. A complete breakdown? And there was a moratorium on his return to work?

He’d never even realized that. He never thought that there had been any behind-the-scenes conversations taking place. He’d thought that Marco had sent him here just to get over a bump in the road.

With a creeping sense of unease, he realized this was far worse than he’d thought.

“What if I don’t improve?”

“You will improve,” she said. “But based on your file, if we do see that there’s a clear worsening of your symptoms, then it might be necessary to hospitalize you for a while in one of our hospital rooms.”

“You mean – I’d be forced to stay here?”

She stared at him, her gaze both serious and regretful.

“If you want to return to work – any work – within the FBI, even a desk job, they would insist on it,” she explained. “We had a long meeting about it. I’m telling you the full truth here, because I want you to understand how important it is to stick to the protocol you’ve been given, to take your meds, and to show up for your therapy sessions. It's going to mean the difference between having your career back or losing it."

Jeez.

He took that in, his heart pounding. He’d never believed that he was this badly affected. Now, they were talking about taking him back in a desk job capacity. Not out in the field at all? They didn’t trust him?

After the high pressure of the field, could he settle for a desk job? He’d fretted his way through one of those in his first three months with the FBI, furiously tackling every challenge he was given. You wanted filing done? He’d take a week’s worth of filing and get it done in a day. Wanted records put online? The first time they’d given him that job, he’d stayed in the office until two a.m. for a solid week, getting the work done faster than anyone had believed possible.

He had longed to be out in the field and had been determined that he’d be promoted as soon as there was a space available – and preferably sooner than anyone else had been.

And it had happened that way.

“We can’t keep you behind a desk,” his superior had joked, calling him into a meeting on a Monday morning that marked his three-month anniversary with the Bureau. “We won’t have jobs left for anyone else at this rate. You’ve proved that you’re keen and that you’re prepared to do whatever it takes. So – please report to the meeting room at nine a.m. You’ll be assigned your first case there.”

Now, he might go back to a desk job.

Never.

It was all the more reason to try to get himself back on an even keel again and put his shattered pieces back together.

Now anxious to change the subject away from this uneasy topic, Sage decided it would be a good time to ask about other incidents at Oakview.

“The suicide,” he said. “How often does something like that happen here?”

Doc Ellen shook her head, as if she was discounting that question straight off the bat. “That’s privileged information,” she said. “It falls under the institute’s confidentiality rules. I am not allowed to disclose that to you, and in any case, it’s only going to pull you back if you dwell on it. We need to work through it, and we will, but for now, it’s not something that you need to think about.”

“Is there any way of giving me the stats?” he tried again.

She shook her head. “No. Like I said, they’re confidential. What I can tell you, though, is that at this place, and at Coolmore Creek which is the other place where I consulted, we do get a lot of referrals who haven’t been treated successfully by their original doctors.”

So, Doc Ellen did her therapy at more than one establishment, which he’d never known about. And both the places where she worked handled the cases that had already failed, and were severe.

Obviously, that would mean a higher failure rate, and Sage guessed that when you were dealing with such tricky psychological conditions, suicide was a harsh reality that couldn’t be ignored.

“It’s tough for us,” she agreed, in a gentle voice.

“I understand,” he said.

But still, he wanted to know the truth. She was a trained psychiatrist who operated at multiple hospitals, which for many were the last, desperate stop.

He was a trained investigator, and he could see patterns where they existed, and sometimes, he could pick them up where people had never seen them before.

As he stood up from the comfortable embrace of his armchair, he wondered if there was another way of finding out these stats.

They couldn’t be secret. Someone would surely know, and be prepared to tell.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The memory was deep and dark, and it bubbled up from his mind, pooling out in layers of fear.

“It’s okay,” Sage remembered himself saying. He didn’t know the circumstances; his mind wouldn’t let him remember that. But he knew that he was in the situation, unarmed, and he was facing down someone who was aggressive and desperate and erratic.

There were screams in the background. Terrified screams. He knew that lives depended on his actions – many lives. Vulnerable lives.

“It’s okay,” he was saying. “Be calm, because there’s no need to worry. We can sort this out in a peaceful way. You might not think it’s possible, but that’s what I’m here to help with.”

He had known, inside, that this rested on a knife edge, and that even while a fine balance might be achieved, it was on a blade that could slice through it at any moment. His stomach had been churning. His muscles had been aching from the simple imperative to stay still. He’d been in a big, echoing space. A clinical space, and now, his mind reminded him of the smell. Surgical spirits, disinfectant. Not the morgue. A different smell.

Terrified, but even more scared of not knowing, his mind grabbed at the memory and missed; Sage woke up, opening his eyes, bridging the gap between sleep and wakefulness in an instant as he sat up, breathing hard.

That was the worst incident, the worst one.

But he hadn’t dreamed of it. It was more as if he’d thought of it, as if the memory had surfaced while he was awakening.

And he’d slept well. Bizarrely, the days might have all hell breaking loose here, but the nights were quiet. He’d taken his meds, even though he’d deliberated over that for ages, and he’d almost refused them when the nurse had arrived.

But then, he’d remembered Doc Ellen’s serious face, and he’d remembered the dreamless night of sleep last night, and he’d remembered Rachel. He needed to try to figure out what had happened to her, and he couldn’t do that while he was on short sleep rations. No way.

So, he guessed it was the thought of Rachel that had finally convinced him to take those two tablets again. Even though as he did, he thought again of her meds, and how they hadn’t helped her, and how the change in medication had been too little, too late.

Now, he sat up, feeling more focused than he had for the past few days. Maybe the meds were helping, or else, the couple of sessions he’d had so far were gradually nudging him toward an acceptance, even though he didn’t really know of what.

“Time to figure out who’s been dying at this place. And other places,” he said.

He got dressed in another combination of jeans and casual shirt, checking the time before he headed out. It was half past seven. Breakfast smells filled the corridor, and he guessed that some patients took their meals in their rooms. He definitely hadn’t seen thirty people around, although there were thirty rooms.

He needed to find an assistant or a nurse, someone who could answer his questions honestly. Surely the staff were traumatized by this. Surely if it wasn't suicide, and was murder, they would be willing to help pinpoint who had done it and why.

Sage walked out of the building, seeing that the sky was cloudy and gloomy today, and a soft rain was falling.

One of his ideas had been to sneak into Doc Ellen’s office when she wasn’t around, when she was out for a walk with a patient, and see if there was any evidence of those stats so that he could build up a pattern for how often these deaths occurred. Yeah, he was a sneaky bastard when he wanted to be. He’d always been the first one in the team to attempt alternative solutions.

But if it was raining, he guessed that Doc Ellen might hold her sessions inside, so that idea was out the window.

Maybe he should just ask. That nurse who’d come in and explained his meds yesterday had seemed like he’d be willing to talk. What had his name been? His mind groped, missed, and then got it. Nathan. That was his name. Where would he be now?

Following no particular direction, but simply walking down one corridor at a time, Sage strolled through the buildings, checking out the passages, looking in the communal rooms, searching for any sign of the nurse.

He was about to give up when he saw him. He was walking out of a room that was locked and barred, labeled “Dispensary Room.” He had a tray of meds in his hand. Just like the tray that he’d brought into Sage’s own room, only there were a lot more meds on this tray.

“Morning,” Nathan said, with a brisk smile.

“Morning,” Sage replied. He hesitated. “Listen, I wanted to ask you something.”

A small frown wrinkled Nathan’s smooth forehead. “Sure,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know about the numbers of deaths that there have been here. Suicides, I mean. Are there many of them? Was Rachel’s death unusual?”

Nathan hesitated, and Sage could immediately see that he wasn’t going to get a clear answer from the nurse; he was going to evade the question. He knew instinctively, his experience reading the man before he even replied.

“I can’t really talk about that,” he said.

“Why?” Sage pressured him, hoping that he was doing the right thing, because Nathan might go immediately to Doc Ellen and say that he’d been asking inconvenient questions. “I’m just wondering if there were other factors in play here. I mean, this is a psychiatric hospital. She’s not the only patient with problems, right?”

He said no more, leaving the suggestion there, hoping that Nathan would take the bait and see what he was implying.

Sage could see in his eyes that he did know. His eyes widened, his mouth tensed, and for a moment, he looked grim.

“I don’t even want to think about what it would mean,” he said. “As for suicides, most times, the doctors manage to adjust the meds before a patient reaches that low point.”

He was talking in a switched off way. Funny how he was noticing this more himself, Sage thought, now that he wasn’t doing it anymore.

“So, this is a rarity?”

“Yes, it is, as far as I know. However, I admit I don’t know everything there is. Maybe things happen when I’m not around. I deal with a lot of the clinics,” Nathan said. “Doctors come and go, patients come and go.”

“So, what are you saying?” Sage thought Nathan was contradicting himself here. He’d started out denying that there were large numbers of suicides. Now, he was backtracking and saying he didn’t know. Which was it?

“I’m saying that I need to get to my patient. He’s waiting for his meds. Sorry, bud. I know you’re feeling anxious about this. I’m trying to tell you what I know, but I also have to report any discussions like this. Just focus on your recovery.”

Sage wasn’t sure what that meant. He stared after Nathan in a puzzled way as he walked off. He was sure that he knew more than he was telling.

He sighed. Getting the information from anyone in Oakview was going to be impossible. They’d clearly been trained to evade the question, and Sage worried that if he kept asking, then word would get back to Doc Ellen.

What he wanted now was to get out of here, to make a recovery, and get back to work.

The alternative might be to endure hospitalization. And that felt like a trap.

As he turned away, trailing back down the corridor, Sage realized that there was an answer, and it was in plain sight. All he had to do was make a call.

He had a contact now who was keen to help. Time to see if she would be willing to do the research.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Maya Torres tipped the last of the coffee into her cup before refilling the machine and putting the jug back on its stand. She stifled a yawn. Yesterday had been exhausting. The FBI satellite office was understaffed, and she ended up working a couple of hours later than she'd expected.

And then, on the way home, she needed to go past her brother’s place.

A change of pace.

That was the reason she gave people when they asked why she’d transferred from Chicago. But it wasn’t the real reason, even though she’d repeated it so often that it might as well have been.

She told them that she’d needed to take a step back from the pressured and dangerous world of investigating organized crime gangs and move to an office where there were different crime profiles and where it was quieter, on the whole.

People accepted that. The seasoned FBI officials were always sympathetic when she told them. The younger ones, the ambitious go-getters, looked at her with pity or contempt, because they thought she was mad.

Sage West had been one of those go-getters. Feeling curious after he’d left, and also wanting to confirm his credentials, she’d looked him up.

“Wow,” she whispered to herself, when she’d looked at the skyrocketing path of his career, his solve rate, and the number of dangerous and classified cases that he’d been assigned. But the skyrocket had burned out.

He looked haunted.

Handsome – she'd immediately taken in the strong bone structure of his face and the honesty in those deep blue eyes. But haunted.

Maybe six months ago, he’d have sneered at her decision, like all the career guys did. But when she mentioned that she’d been in Chicago and had transferred, he’d nodded, impressed by the career she’d had, and then accepted that she’d chosen to slow down. Funny how being in a situation yourself gave you empathy.

She hadn’t done this for herself, but for her brother, Mike.

He’d experienced problems with his own mental health. Mike had always been prone to depression and quick to stress. He’d suffered a breakdown as a result of his high-pressure job at a research lab, which had caused him to be hospitalized for a while and have a layoff from work.

She’d requested the transfer so that she could help him through it.

Mike needed a new direction in life, and she was helping him explore his options, as well as talk him down when his own mental health problems became too much and crowded out every other thought in his mind.

She'd seen the same with Sage yesterday. Those moments of being haunted, where he'd seemed to retreat all the way into his own mind. She'd felt deeply sympathetic, and helpless that she couldn't assist him.

Now, yawning thanks to the lack of sleep, she headed through to her office, greeting the other agent she worked with, who was about to head out on the road for the two-hour drive to where he needed to be. Distances, here – they were vast.

And then, her phone started buzzing in her pocket. Slurping down some coffee, she took it out and picked it up.

“Maya Torres,” she said.

She blinked in surprise as she heard a familiar voice on the other side.

“Maya? It’s Sage West. I came in yesterday. You met with me.”

“Sage. Yes, I was thinking about you.” Realizing too late that the comment she’d blurted out might be misconstrued, she hastened to add, “About your situation there, I mean. With the murder you told me about.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out if it’s part of a pattern,” Sage said. He had a nice voice. It was calm, and deep; it wasn’t rapid fire like a machine gun, which often seemed to be the case with the highly motivated guys.

"How do you mean a pattern?" she asked.

“It was something the police said – or rather, didn’t say. I’ve asked a few people at the institution here, and they’re also refusing to say. So I’m not getting answers, but yet, I am.”

Maya thought about that.

“You mean, if people really had nothing to hide, they’d just say there had been no deaths?” she asked.

“Exactly. That’s what I’m wondering, anyway. It seems ridiculous that it’s impossible to find this out, but it is. I suddenly realized that you would have access to all the death records, and I wondered if you’d be willing to help me?”

She was silent, thinking about this. Mainly, she was thinking of it from a mental health perspective, since her thoughts were there so much of the time anyway.

It would be better not to get involved in this, she decided. Sage was at this hospital because he had severe issues and he needed to rest. She was already involved with one person who had serious issues – her brother. She didn’t need to get caught up in anything else that could become complicated.

Also, what if the higher-ups found out, and she got into trouble?

That would impact her career, and she might be transferred. She knew that Chicago was begging to have her back there because she'd been damned good at her job. They had granted her this transfer partly as a favor, but Sage didn't want to push the Bureau's goodwill.

Sage clearly thought that she was about to say no, because he quickly jumped in with another argument.

"If there is someone there who's been murdering patients, then I'd like to root that person out. And if it wasn't that – if she was murdered because someone had a personal issue with her alone – then at least I'll know which direction to go."

“You sound very determined to do this,” she said. She was going to say no, but she could at least let him down gently.

“I am,” Sage replied. “That’s why I’m calling you now. I feel I owe it to her. She thought something was wrong.”

Maya sighed, feeling a little like his mother – which was an unwanted feeling – as she continued.

“Are you sure this is the right thing for you to be doing? Because you should be focusing on your recovery.”

He was silent a while. Then, he replied. “If you were hospitalized to try to get well, and you were worried that there might be shady goings-on at the hospital, would it make it easier or more difficult for you to get well?”

She shook her head. Pointless, because he couldn’t see her doing it, but at least it put her in the right mind frame to turn down his request.

“I’d focus on getting well if I were you, Sage. I really can’t help you with this. If all these records are classified, then they’re classified, and trying to dig out classified records isn’t going to help you with your recovery. Look, why not wait until you’re discharged, and then you can look into it?” With a brisk cheerfulness in her voice, she continued, pushing forward this great idea. “I think that sounds like the best plan. Don’t you?”

He hesitated. For a moment, she expected that there might be an explosion, that he was going to get emotional, the way that her brother did when he was teetering on the edge of stress. She was very used to managing that, even though she found it unpleasant and stressful herself.

But to her surprise, there was no explosion. In a pleasant voice, he said, “Don’t worry, Agent Torres. I appreciate your help. I’ll look for another way.”

Then, he hung up.

Maya sighed, feeling annoyed with herself for reasons that were complicated and which she couldn't quite pinpoint.

She walked through to the records room with her now-cool cup of coffee, slurping another mouthful and grimacing at the taste, more bitter than it had seemed.

Deaths at the psychiatric hospital? Really?

Now that he’d put the idea in her head to look it up, she found that she couldn’t get it out of her mind. It was a very troubling thought that such deaths could have occurred. It might be an idea just to look it up for herself.

If there wasn’t a big spike in suicides or unexplained deaths, it would set her own mind at rest, and she could also set Sage’s mind at rest. She could call him and say she’d checked the records, and there were no unexplained suicides – or more likely, only a couple, and that he should probably accept that this was just one more of them.

The records office, where she was now, was a secluded place that smelled musty from the cabinets of folders and papers that lined two of the walls. There was a move to make everything paperless, but they all knew that it could only work so well, and that inevitably, records had to be kept.

But luckily, from here, she could access online records. Like all the other rooms in the building, it was connected up to the FBI’s mainframe. She could also link up to certain police databases, thanks to the connections which they’d put into place a few years ago to make it easier for everyone to work.

Now intrigued, she logged in, heading to the records of deaths, and tracking them over the past days, then weeks, then months, and finally years.

With her own pen in her hand, she jotted down the results quickly before moving on to the next database. In this part of the world, there weren’t nearly the same massive numbers of deaths than there had been on her Chicago databases. Here, it was actually possible to look into every single record, given the lower populations that the area covered.

She did that, patiently, working her way through the system, and as she did, she started feeling a deep sense of unease.

"Cheers, Maya!" She barely heard the voice of her colleague as he prepared to get on the road for his two-hour drive.

“Cheers,” she called back, loud and late, just a moment before she heard his feet tread down the wooden staircase. She was now too focused on this for anything else to penetrate her mind.

When she finally had the results she needed, she let out a deep breath, staring in consternation at the notes she’d jotted down, which had become more frequent and detailed as she’d continued.

She hesitated, wondering what the right thing to do would be.

And then, figuring out that it was probably the wrong thing, but that she was going to do it anyway, she picked up the phone and dialed Sage West’s number.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I felt that I was in this room. Light, bright, but threatening. I was talking to someone, and what I said was going to make a huge difference. All the difference. I knew that I was on a knife edge. There was screaming in the background. People were screaming. They were terrified.”

Sitting in his comfortable armchair, Sage didn’t feel comfortable at all as he described his dream to Doc Ellen. Only it hadn’t really been a dream, more of a waking memory. That was why she was asking him to talk about it. She’d explained that it could mean his mind was ready to confront whatever it was that had traumatized him so badly – the incident that his memory refused to allow him to think about.

“And tell me, where were your hands?” she asked.

His hands? What kind of a question was that? Sage felt surprised as she asked, but since he was in the moment, he did his best to think back.

“My hands were in front of me.” Surprisingly, his memory offered this. “They were stretched out in front of me.”

That was unusual for the situation, he thought, even as his heart thundered with a peak of stress that he didn’t know the reasons for.

Why had his hands been in front of him? What were the reasons for that?

He’d had them outstretched. He didn’t usually do that in moments that were high tension. On the street, he’d be ready to shoot, his hand on the grip of his gun, his other arm ready to defend or attack. But outstretched? Why? What had he been doing?

“Good. It’s good you remember that. Probably, it’s enough now,” she said.

His heart was still hammering. Whatever this had been, it had peaked his stress levels higher than they’d ever been before. And it had gone bad. That, he knew with a cold certainty.

“Okay,” Doc Ellen said, glancing at her notes, and then looking at him in a relaxed way, as if she was satisfied with what they’d gotten done this morning. Maybe that was progress. He’d definitely remembered more than before, and he knew that until he had the repressed memories back, he wouldn’t be deemed recovered.

The question he was asking himself now was: was he ready for them?

“Thanks,” he said.

It was only now that he realized this office smelled slightly different than outside. He thought it was lavender. At any rate, he only now noticed the soothing scent that had infused the room, probably ever since the first moment he’d walked in.

Maybe she had pot-pourri somewhere in the room, or she sprayed a room scent to try to make it feel more peaceful.

As he walked out, taking his jacket from off the coat hook at the door’s entrance, his phone buzzed. He glanced down at it as he closed the office door, seeing that he had a text from Marco asking how things were going. Looking down at that text, he felt a whole lot of mixed emotions collide inside him.

Marco was investing in his health by sending him here, but he didn’t want him back, and that was tough to cope with. Tougher than he’d thought. The FBI didn’t even consider him fit for a desk job. He knew he needed to reply to this, but it felt tough to do it.

Everything good, he texted. I’m starting to remember more. I’ve got two different meds, mainly for sleeping. Low dose is working well.

Striding across the lobby, he sent the text, hoping that it sounded the way he wanted it to, even though he had misgivings about the meds himself. It was only then that he noticed he had a missed call.

From a local number that he didn't recognize. But the caller had left a message. He listened to it, standing in the lobby with his back to one of the stark walls and watching as a woman came in, sobbing, flanked by two people who looked like her parents.

Devastated. In pieces. Doesn’t want to be here. Forced.

She cast him a look of appeal as her parents practically carried her across the lobby. He met her blue, tear-filled eyes for a moment, feeling bad that he couldn’t help.

Sorry. I wish I could. Seems I’ve got my own problems to deal with.

They headed over to the desk, where the receptionist rushed to assist, and Sage’s phone finally connected so he could listen to his voicemail.

It was Maya Torres. His heart sped up as he heard the short, succinct message.

“Agent West, please call me when you get a chance. This number.”

He had a chance, right now. And just in case, he was going to make this call in private.

He strode out of the reception room and headed back to the accommodation wing. On the way, he passed the cleaner that he'd seen yesterday morning, when he'd asked her which room Rachel was in. She gave him a grim nod as if she sympathized with what he'd been through in the past day.

“What’s your name?” he asked her, stopping and deciding to talk. That felt like the old Sage, showing his face again. The old Sage had curiosity about people. He’d cared. His team had adored him. But over the past few months, somehow those people skills had evaporated as he’d become ever more brittle, barking out commands that he expected to be obeyed, feeling impatient and stressed when any of his team had problems with what he’d said, or brought personal issues to the table.

“My name’s Chantel,” she said, looking at him in a surprised way, as if she hadn’t thought he was the type of person to ask or care.

“I’m Sage,” he told her. “I wanted to thank you for keeping the place looking so good.”

It was scrupulously clean. You could probably have dished food out onto the floor and eaten it, without any danger of a germ straying onto your fork. Nope, the hygiene of this place was next-level. It was just the interior decorator that he wanted to grab by the shoulders and shake hard.

“Thank you,” she said.

“How long have you been working here?” he asked her.

“I’ve been here a year. They don’t keep staff in one place for very long. We all get rotated through the three different facilities that are part of the chain. So, in another year, I’ll probably head to Westgrove,” she said.

That was a new one. He hadn’t known it existed.

“You’re doing a great job here,” he told her. Then, he headed to his room, locked the door behind him, and got on the phone.

It rang three times, four times; he started worrying that she wasn’t going to answer, and he wouldn’t get the chance to connect with her and find out what she’d wanted to say. As he was about to give up, she picked up.

“Maya Torres,” she said.

“Maya, it’s Sage. You called?”

“Yes, I did.” She hesitated, and he listened expectantly. What was the reason for her call? Did he dare to hope that she’d changed her mind?

“I couldn’t help feeling curious about what you said,” she admitted, and he felt a surge of motivation.

“Did you find anything out?” he asked.

“I looked up the death rates for various towns, and then the causes of death, and then, I looked back from there. And there seems to be a pattern.”

“What pattern?” he asked.

She sighed. “I really shouldn’t be engaging with you on this. You’re here for recovery, and it might mean nothing. Statistics can sometimes be misleading. But to me, there seem to have been an abnormally high number of suicides at three local psychiatric hospitals, including the one that you’re currently admitted to.”

“I thought there might be,” Sage said.

There was silence, and he waited to see what she was going to say next.

“I’ve looked into the cases. Some of them, anyway.”

“And what did you find?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Different things. I’ve only looked into a few cases in detail. I actually do have a massive workload today, so I didn’t have time for a full deep dive, but what I saw was fairly divergent. A couple of them, I’d say, were definite suicide cases. I’d feel confident if I had been investigating them. Others, not so much.”

“Were they all the same MO?” he asked.

“No. That’s the confusing part. They were all different. There was one other hanging, and to me, that one looked as if it was a genuine suicide. Because it was a hanging, I went and read up on it first. It was a man, and he had been refusing his medication, and there had been some kind of a disaster back home and – well, you could see it would have happened. But there have been a few overdoses, which I guess is possible.”

Sage agreed with that. The patients who were at higher risk had their medication doled out, but he'd simply been issued two packets of tablets and instructed to take them. Presumably, they assessed the risk of that when a patient was admitted.

“Then there was a drowning in a bathtub – a couple of those, actually.”

Sage didn’t even have a bathtub in his room. Maybe there weren’t any in this building.

“A couple of slitting wrists.” She paused. “Look, are you okay that I tell you this?”

“It’s not going to send me over any edge,” he reassured her. “Right now, not knowing is more of a problem. That’s what’s really bothering me.”

“Okay,” she said. “There were a few others that were different MOs. In general, I’d say too many. I then got interested, and I selected a couple of other areas with psychiatric hospitals, at random.”

“You did a lot of work on this,” Sage said.

As he said that, he heard the encouraging tone in his own voice. Shadows of the old Sage. That was how he used to sound, although now, it surprised him. Maybe he’d get that person back one day.

He was going to hope that this was temporary and could be overcome.

“It was interesting, and when it comes to cases, if I see parallels or similarities, I’m like a pitbull,” she joked. “Anyway, taking a couple of control groups from other areas, the suicides do seem excessive. But then again, this could be just a blip in the stats. Is there any reason for it that you know of? Have you been given a possible explanation?”

Playing devil’s advocate now, Sage repeated what Doc Ellen had told him.

“This is, apparently, a referral hospital that takes cases that have failed to respond to treatment so far,” he said.

"It may be simply coincidence. I'll look into the cases more intensively as soon as I have time," she said. "I unfortunately can't tell from the reports where the victims were from. It just says psychiatric hospital, and it doesn't always specify which of the three it was. Maybe there are others, too. Those records are very difficult to research, and I think they are strict about withholding a lot of the details on them."

“Well,” Sage said, “for now, I’m here, and I can start looking into it. And I’m going to start by finding out what happened to Rachel while she was here. Maybe her friends and connections noticed something.”

"Look," Maya said, now sounding hesitant, "you shouldn't really be doing this at all. You're there to recover from your own issues, and I don't think that trying to solve a case like this is going to help you at all. It might not even be the case. It might be just an anomaly that we're seeing, and you have confirmation bias because this has happened just after you arrived."

“If so, then the sooner I find out more, the better,” Sage emphasized.

There was silence from the other end for a while. He wondered what Maya was thinking. She’d been excited enough about her findings to get hold of him immediately, but now she was backtracking, not wanting to get him in trouble, which he guessed was fair.

But she was sitting there in an office an hour away. He was the one at the coalface. And since he was here, it couldn’t hurt to ask some questions. Could it?

All he needed to do was to find the right people to ask. And since the nurses were proving unwilling to talk, he decided that the patients themselves might be better sources of information.

In particular, the gregarious Amy.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As people filed in for lunch, Sage could hear the conversation was less muted than it had been at suppertime the previous day. The other inmates were clearly recovering from the shock, regrouping, getting back on track. Sage wondered if some meds had been subtly adjusted to help people cope. Amy seemed as talkative as she had been the last time he saw her. Her presence brought a cheerfulness to the somber dining hall.

She walked in, joking with one of the other patients, her high-pitched laugh resounding around the dining hall.

The smell of the food – meatloaf and bean salad – hung in the air as she made her way to the serving hatch.

Sage discreetly slotted in behind her, dishing some food for himself, and then following her to one of the tables and sitting next to her.

She turned to him, her good-natured face now looking worried as she saw him.

“How are you doing?” she asked in a considerate way. “I’ve been thinking about you, Sage. We were all worried when we saw you outside the bedroom, just sitting there, looking so forlorn and not speaking at all. I hope you’re okay?”

The fact that he had no memory of that gnawed at his mind, but he reminded himself that he couldn’t focus on it now because this was more urgent.

"I'm okay. Getting there." He took a bite of his meatloaf and discreetly surveyed the table, checking to see who was listening in to the conversation. Luckily, the two people opposite him were talking quietly together, and there was an empty space on the other side of Amy. He was sure it would be filled soon. Time to ask what he needed, now.

“You were friends with Rachel, weren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes. We used to sit together at almost every mealtime,” she said, with a sad nod.

“Did she ever mention that she had any problems with anyone?” he asked quietly.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Any personal issues? Did anyone do or say anything that worried or disturbed her?”

She shook her head. “That’s difficult to say, you know, because a lot of people who come here are already disturbed. Everything can seem intimidating to them, and it takes them a while to settle.”

“Absolutely,” he encouraged, hoping that she’d continue. He sensed that what she was saying now might be laying the groundwork for opening up more. At any rate, he hoped so. “So, did Rachel settle in? She was here nearly a week.”

“She was beside herself the first couple of days. A lot like that poor woman there. Alison, I think.”

Amy jerked her head in the direction of the young woman that Sage had seen being escorted in by her parents earlier. She was walking in now, looking uncertainly around her, accompanied by one of the attendants who was obviously showing her the ropes – and maybe also making sure she ate.

“Did she settle in after that?”

Amy nodded, leaning forward and speaking in a low voice. “I’ll tell you who harassed her, the first day that she was trying to find some peace out in the greenhouse, was old Mike Reeves. When I say ‘old,’ he isn’t really. He’s probably in his forties, but you know, he seems a lot older. I guess he’s had a hard life.”

“He harassed her?”

“He sometimes targets the newer patients. Really, I feel that these orderlies should take a harder line with him.” Spearing a piece of meatloaf, Amy glanced critically at the three uniformed men who were sitting at a table nearby. “But maybe they thought he was just being kind. I knew better. I could tell he was being creepy, and I was ready to help her out when I saw him follow her in there, but she did the job on her own. She dealt with him, firmly. I guess that was a good day for her,” Amy said.

So, a problem patient? Suspicion darkened Sage’s thoughts as he considered that. A long-term patient would know all the ins and outs of the institute, and might find it very easy to move around unnoticed.

“Has Reeves been here a while?” Sage asked.

Amy nodded. “Oh, yes. He’s a real old-timer. Every time they think he’s getting better, he relapses. I’m not sure what his problem is – schizophrenia, I think – but he’s basically here full time. He’s been out once or twice, but his family has money, and I think they pay to put him away,” she said in a sad voice. “Easier than having him around, because, like I said, he’s a strange one.”

“Where is he now?” Sage said.

“He takes his meals in his room,” Amy replied. “They’ve discouraged him from joining the rest of the group for mealtimes because he ends up causing conflict.”

“And which room does he stay in?” Sage lowered his voice as he asked that crucial question.

Amy lowered hers in turn, in a conspiratorial way, as she replied.

“He’s in room four. But don’t say I told you so.”

Sage nodded. Then, pretending to be casual, he changed the subject and finished up his plate of food, looking around again to make sure that nobody had overheard them speaking. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was going.

With his lunch eaten, he got up casually, put his plate and cutlery in the washing-up tub, and then headed out.

He walked back to the rooms, heading down the row of doors all the way to number four, which was right at the end.

As he approached it, a cleaner appeared from one of the doorways, having serviced the room all the way at the end. Sage’s pulse quickened, and he veered aside, checking his phone and seeing with a guilty start that Marco had messaged him again, asking about the food and exercise. He was clearly keen to chat, and maybe also to find out more about the workings of the place, seeing Sage was there on the FBI’s ticket.

He hadn’t even seen the message yet. Hadn’t heard his phone buzz.

Now, he stood, head bowed, typing a bland reply that described the meatloaf and the roast chicken and the walking trails. The cleaner passed by, and headed down the corridor, disappearing from sight. Now, with nobody watching, he could continue with an investigation that he knew had to be discreet.

The door to room number four was closed. Sage walked up to it on quiet feet, stopped, and listened. He couldn’t hear anything from inside.

He tapped on the door, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what excuse he’d give for being here, and what might allow him in.

“Who’s there?” The voice from the other side was grainy and hoarse. If Amy hadn’t told Sage that Reeves was in his forties, he’d have thought that this sounded like the voice of an older man.

“It’s me. Sage,” he replied, giving no other information.

“Who?” The voice sounded irritable, but the footsteps crossed the room, and the door was opened.

Sage found himself staring at a man with a haggard-looking face, a short, graying beard, and dark eyes that had a manic glint to them.

Taller than average, fitter than he looks, strong, unstable.

His inner voice summarized the threat he saw in front of him, instantly, before he’d even had a chance to confirm it. That was what his instinct threw out, and after hundreds of confrontations with criminals, Sage trusted that instinct.

“I’m Sage West. I’ve been here a couple of days. Can I come in and speak to you?”

The bed in the small room was unmade. Instead of a wooden writing desk, there was a steel one, with the chair made up as part of the unit, and looking at that, Sage wondered whether Reeves was sometimes violent. Was there a reason for the furniture arrangement being that way?

"Sage West?" Reeves replied in a taunting voice as Sage moved a step away from the door and pushed it closed. He'd hoped that he could do this discreetly, but those dark eyes were tracking his every movement.

“I wanted to talk to you about the incident that happened here recently.”

As he spoke the words, Sage felt a stab of guilt. He shouldn’t be in here, talking to a patient about something potentially disturbing. He had no right to do that. He could be setting back this man’s recovery or destabilizing him – although from what Amy said, he was a long-term patient who wasn’t likely to be going home anytime soon.

“And why do you want to talk to me? I can’t tell you anything!” Reeves stood his ground, his hands on his hips, his gaze darting around as if he was scouring his surroundings for what he might need.

“I know you spoke to Rachel,” Sage said, deciding that he needed a more tactful approach. He couldn’t come in, guns blazing, and start accusing this man of having harmed her. That would get him into serious trouble.

Now, for some reason, he felt as if he was capable of a more balanced approach, and he knew he needed to use it.

“I wondered if you thought she looked troubled. I’m just trying to figure out why she did what she did.”

“Everyone here is troubled,” Reeves said, cackling with laughter.

Then, before Sage could think of anything else to say, his gaze shifted again, and he spoke in a totally different voice, as if another side of his personality had suddenly taken over.

“You won’t be able to find what happened. I’ve been here a long time. A long time. Eons. And I’ve seen them come and go. I’ve seen them kill themselves. Some of them mean to do it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But for others, it just… seems to happen to them, even though they don’t want it.”

Sage felt confused and troubled. The intensity with which Reeves was speaking told him that the man really believed his own words. But he clearly had different facets to his personality. The person that Sage had seen when he walked in wasn't the same person he was speaking to now. Everything was different. The way of speaking, the mannerisms, the tilt of his head, even the pitch of his voice, which had now dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

"You know what I mean," Reeves retorted, still in that soft, muted voice. "I'm sure you can figure out what happens here. Can't you? There are people with a thirst for blood. And they take what they want. We don't have a chance, us patients. I fear they're going to come for me one day, and you should be careful, because they might also come for you." He paused. "Although they do seem to prefer women, I think. That's who they love to feed on."

Sage stared at him, shivers chasing up and down his spine from the quiet intensity with which Reeves was speaking. He didn’t understand what he was saying, though. Who were ‘they’ and what did this man mean?

“Vampires,” Reeves said. “That’s not what they are, but it’s how I perceive them. Bloodsuckers. They take the blood of people here, they take the souls. This place eats souls. You can feel it, can’t you? You can feel the evil in the walls. This place reeks of it.”

“Who do you think is the soul eater?” Sage asked, not knowing what to say, but deciding that if he tried to get on Reeves’s wavelength as much as he could, it might help.

As he did so, scenes sprang back into his mind, the memories suddenly overwhelming, of tens of times that he’d done the same thing, where he’d had to change his own approach, striving to get onto the wavelength of the criminal he was speaking to. Sometimes it had been during a pursuit, when the criminal was cornered. Sometimes, it had been across the steel table in the interview room.

And once – once, it had been during the confrontation that had gone bad. Sage suddenly felt breathless when he thought about it, as if a bubble of memory was welling up, and that if it formed fully, he’d know more about the incident that had sent him here.

“The soul eater? I know, but I won’t tell,” Reeves said. “I could see that Rachel was vulnerable, that she was going to get chosen.”

“Is it one of the other patients? One of the people who work here?” Did he even know, or was Sage wasting his time asking? Although it was clear that Reeves believed his own words, Sage didn’t know if he believed him.

Suddenly, his demeanor changed again, and instead of the whispering, furtive persona, Reeves was back to the rough, suspicious, and aggressive person that he’d been when Sage walked in.

“I’ve had enough of you being in here. What are you trying to do? Waste my time? You’ll never find out what goes on in here. You’re part of the system now, like I am. Just a cog in the wheels that they’ll keep turning until they crush you.”

He lunged forward and abruptly grabbed Sage’s arm. His fingers were as strong as a vise. Sage’s immediate reaction, honed and sharpened by a hundred confrontations, was to jerk away. But he forced himself to keep still, to keep calm, and to listen as Reeves continued.

“I tried to save her, but I couldn’t, of course. I couldn’t save her. I knew she was a target from the moment she walked in. I wish I could have guarded her – but it was impossible.”

He glanced at the steel hospital bed which this room was equipped with. For the first time, Sage saw what he hadn’t seen before. There were soft but strong ties on each corner of the bed, with padded cuffs that had small locks on them.

At night, this man was not allowed to be free. Maybe even with the medications, he had the potential for violence.

Reeves chuckled as he saw Sage’s astonished glance.

"I've broken out before. I've managed to escape my room, but they don't like that here. So now, they fasten me in at night. They say it's to make sure that I get my rest without disturbing the other patients. But I know the truth. It's because I know – and they want to silence me. You know who you need to look out for? The one in charge. The one who calls the shots. They're always the ones with the power, aren't they?"

“What do you mean? Who are you talking about?” Sage did his best to keep his voice steady, even though, right now, in the other man’s grasp, he was feeling decidedly claustrophobic.

Reeves didn’t answer, but instead let out a long, hissing sigh.

His grip loosened on Sage’s arm, and feeling as if he’d reached his limits with this strange, intense, and damaged man, he wrenched his arm free and took a step back.

“Keep in line.”

Now, disturbingly, Reeves seemed to be somebody else again. He waggled his finger at Sage as if he was an elderly man chiding his errant grandson. “You keep in line. That’s all I can say to you now, because if you don’t, they’ll force you to.”

“Thank you,” Sage said. He glanced at the door, his escape route. He turned to it and opened it and stepped through.

Reeves was unstable, and he might be potentially violent; they didn’t trust him at night, although he seemed to be allowed to roam at will during the day. But Rachel had been murdered at night, and during that time, Reeves was restrained.

He hadn't killed her. Sage had no idea if he knew there was a killer or if it was simply his own paranoia talking. That confrontation had been disturbing.

“The one in charge. The one who calls the shots,” he muttered to himself.

At the moment, there was only one person he could think of who fit that description, and that was Doc Ellen herself.

As he had that disturbing thought, his phone started buzzing in his pocket again.

Pulling it out, as he hustled back to his room, he saw it was Maya Torres calling.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Maya?” Sage could hear the aftermath of stress in his own voice as he picked up the call. He hoped he sounded more together than he felt after that encounter.

“Sage. Can you talk?” Maya asked.

“Yes, I can. I’m in my room.”

Sage would never have thought that his simple room, with its bare walls, could be considered a sanctuary. But after being in Reeves's room, with that steel desk unit and the ties on the hospital bed, this felt luxurious and safe and comforting.

“You won’t believe this, but my appointment to interview a witness got postponed as I climbed into my car,” she said. “So, I didn’t have to spend two hours driving into Nowhereville.”

“That’s great,” he said, feeling expectant. Did that mean she’d been able to do something else with the time?

“I decided I was going to research those cases more intensively. I just – you know, I feel like I should. I feel like if there’s been a crime like this, happening right under the FBI’s noses at these local clinics, it’s wrong of me not to look into it more deeply.”

“I feel the same way,” Sage said. “It’s a risky job, I’ve already seen that, but I’m still doing it.”

He turned to the bed and sat down on it, letting out a long breath, decompressing after that tense time in Reeves’s room. If that encounter had taught him anything, it was that interviewing other patients was a precarious business. Some of them, like Amy, seemed to be on an even keel – though if they were here, they probably weren’t, and he was only seeing a tiny fraction of who they were.

But some, like Reeves, were seriously challenged. He needed to be careful. This was the end of the road for him, the last stop on the line. The sayings ran through his head, sayings that up until now had always applied to other people and never to him.

“So,” he asked, “what have you found?”

“I’ve found out what the codes mean. There are codes that they assigned to each patient, and I’ve figured out that those codes apply to one of three hospitals in the area. And there have been suicides in all the hospitals. There haven’t been any exceptions. All three hospitals have had more than their fair share of unexplained deaths.”

Sage took a deep breath. “Can you send me the documents you’ve gotten so far? I’d also like to see them. I might be able to figure out more if I have them.”

She hesitated again. Sage had already deduced that with Maya Torres, it was two steps forward and one step back. She was very hesitant about sharing information.

He waited, and after a moment, she said, “Yeah. I guess I can send them to you.”

“I’m going to see what I can find out on my side,” he said. “Shall we chat later?”

“Sounds good,” she replied.

The rain had stopped, and the sky was clearing, and that might mean that Doc Ellen was out on one of her healthful therapy walks with a patient.

She might not keep patients’ death records in her office, but Sage was sure that she must keep a record of which staff worked where. Knowing who was assigned to which hospital might allow him to rule a few people out – or else, focus on them more sharply.

He pocketed his phone and headed out, locking his room door behind him.

The encounter with Reeves had flared his adrenaline, and although he’d managed it at the time, he was paying the price now. Thudding heart, racing mind, fractured thoughts. A feeling of paranoia. Yup, he had a long way to go before this condition was under control, and again, that brought a flash of fear into his mind.

What if this was just the start of a longer battle, and he was also going to end up severely bipolar, just like his dad had been?

Please, no, he silently begged, as he made his way to Doc Ellen’s office, trying his best to get his thoughts under control.

He got there, looked around, checked that nobody was watching. His blood was still pounding, and he felt jumpy and hyper-vigilant.

Tapping on the door, he waited to see if there was any answer from inside.

He couldn’t hear a thing, and so he tried the door, guessing that it might be locked, but then wondering if Ellen would bother when she was on a half-hour walk with a patient. He didn’t think she’d locked it when they’d set out for their walk.

It opened, which told him immediately that she kept nothing of value, or sensitive information, in this office. If she did, it would probably be locked away under another layer of security.

Stepping inside, he felt like a traitor – or a thief.

Cameras. Were there any?

His head jerked up to ceiling level, inspecting the cornices, looking at the light fittings, but he couldn’t see any sign of a security camera in here. The office was quiet, and to him, it felt expectant. Waiting.

He took a deep breath, trying to contain the surge of paranoia that was threatening to explode his thoughts. Right now, he didn’t have time to deal with it. He needed to channel the old Sage, the one who could move confidently in a space when he had the opportunity to search it. His old self would have been able to triage the situation in a flash. He could do it again. Couldn’t he?

First, the desk, his calm voice told him. The desk is where she works, and if there’s going to be a staff roster in written format, it’ll be there.

There might not be. All of this might be online, and it felt like a big step too far, going into her computer.

There wasn’t even a computer on the desk.

Was that a noise outside?

As he approached the desk, he whirled around, heart hammering, staring at the door with thoughts coursing through his mind. What would he do if she walked in now? How would he explain his presence here?

If you’re kicked out of here, you have nowhere to go. Nowhere, he reminded himself. You’ll be fired from the FBI; they’ll say it was for medical reasons, and then everything you’ve worked for, your whole life long, will be over. Don’t do it.

There was nobody at the door. Someone had been passing by, that was all.

Even so, the voice in his head got more intense now. It was pleading with him not to do this, that it was a terrible idea. The voice of logic was insisting that this was one of those reckless acts that was a symptom of his PTSD. He knew that his superiors had filled that in on the questionnaire when they'd applied for him to stay here because Marco had mentioned it to him.

“You’ve been acting recklessly, bud. That’s one of the things we picked up. There’s bravery, but then there’s…” His voice trailed away.

Whatever words he hadn’t said, Sage knew that they were describing his behavior now.

He reached the desk, put his hand on the top drawer and pulled the handle, feeling a disproportionate surge of disappointment as he realized the drawer was locked.

Well, that was to be expected. Obviously, if the office itself wasn't locked, then one of the drawers would have to be. There had to be a place she kept her wallet and her valuables and her computer. But a duty roster wasn't valuable.

How about the next drawer?

That one was open, and he gasped as he felt it shift, pulling out obediently on its runners. There was an unused notebook there, like the one she’d scribbled her notes in, which he guessed she either carried with her or locked away.

There was an access card. He looked at that, his heart accelerating. It was under the unused notebook, and he was sure it was a spare, but it would allow him into the parts of this institute that were locked. Such as the other residential wing.

Sage knew he shouldn’t do this, that he was crossing a line, that this was stealing.

But on the other hand, the agent inside him was saying, “Take it! You might need it. Take it!”

He grabbed the access card and stuffed it into his pocket. Maybe he would return it unused. He already felt guilty.

Below it, there was a plastic flip file that looked promising, so he took it out.

It was a shift roster. Bingo.

Again, the thinking part of his brain, which was still eclipsed by the chaotic part, offered him an urgent warning.

Don’t try to figure this out while you’re standing here – there’s no time. Photograph it and take it away and get the hell out, seriously!

He yanked his phone out of his pocket, opened the camera, and snapped away, hoping that his hands were steady enough that the shots weren’t blurred. There were ten full pages of dates and tables and names. He captured them all. Then, he closed the book, freezing as he heard more footsteps outside. There was nowhere to hide in this office. He’d be a deer in the headlights.

The footsteps passed by, and the hammering of his own heart threatened to suffocate him.

Opening the drawer, he slammed the folder back inside, remembering just in time that the notebook had been on top of it. With clumsy, shaking fingers, he rearranged things. Then, he closed the drawer and hotfooted it to the door.

He got outside, closed it gently, and only then checked the corridor. There was a cleaner who was heading away from him, but he didn’t think she’d seen him. Maybe she had, though.

Letting out a deep breath, he turned. And at that moment, he heard Doc Ellen’s voice, coming from the direction he was facing.

Managing to pull himself together, Sage kept his chin up and his expression as calm as he could make it.

The doc rounded the corner. She was walking with the young, blonde, tearful woman who must have had her first session. That had been so close. Just a few seconds had separated him from certain disaster.

Doc Ellen nodded at him, but Sage thought that she looked at him more closely than usual. Did she see something in his face? A sign of guilt?

He managed to meet her eyes and give her a calm nod.

“Will you be joining the group session later?” she asked.

“Yes,” he got out. “Yes, absolutely. See you there?” He looked at the young woman, who met his eyes in a doubtful way, as if she didn’t trust the thought of group therapy and wasn’t looking forward to it.

Feeling lightheaded from stress, he returned to his room.

Hopefully, he had an important piece of the puzzle. This roster would show who was on duty and where. With this, they might even be able to work out which of the staff was on site – or else, off duty and free to roam – at the time of the murders.

And he had an access card now. Where they went, he could follow.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Had Doc Ellen known something was wrong? That thought was uppermost in Sage’s mind as he took refuge in his room. The way she’d looked at him had been uncharacteristically sharp. She was used to reading her patients. Had he been inadvertently displaying a guilty tell?

Sage felt uncomfortable, as if the clock was already ticking, and Doc Ellen might put two and two together and figure out what he had done. Maybe there were cameras there. Just because he hadn’t seen any didn’t mean they didn’t exist. She could be logging into them right now and tracking his movements. He might not have time.

“Okay, so work as fast as possible,” he told himself. He had his camera synced to his laptop, so he sat down at the desk and opened that up, trying to be calm, to focus logically on what he was doing, and not to allow anxiety and panic to slow him down.

He took a look at the rosters, seeing that, as he'd been told, all the staff circulated around the three hospitals, spending a few shifts at each.

So, the only way that he’d be able to clear a staff member was if they had actually been on duty at another hospital when the murders took place. There was nothing to stop an off-duty staff member from gaining access.

He felt the logical wheels of his mind turning in a way that reassured him. This was what he’d been trained to do; to do it, to focus on this puzzle, felt soothing and familiar to him now that he got into it.

Making notes, he then turned to his emails, seeing that Maya had sent him the case summaries. Not the original files. Just the summaries, with the names of the hospitals added.

Now, he was cooking with charcoal.

He sent Maya back the information that he’d discovered, so that she could also compare the shift lists

Paging through the list, Sage saw that not only were there a high number of suicides, but there were also a surprisingly high number of female suicides. The women who’d died from suicide – or apparent suicide – outnumbered the men.

That bucked the trend, because as far as Sage could remember, suicide rates tended to be higher among men.

Was someone targeting the women, in particular? What if all the men were genuine suicides, and the women were a mix of genuine and murders?

With that in mind, he studied the list, seeing that the last suicide prior to Rachel had been two months ago, at a different hospital, and the victim had been a young woman called Jennifer Martinez.

Jennifer had injected herself with an overdose of tranquilizing meds so severe that it had stopped her heart.

Really?

Sage’s eyes flew wide as he read that. Presumably, the scene had been set in such a way that there had been no doubt about the MO. She must have been found with the hypodermic in her hand and a needle mark in her arm. But did anyone ask questions about how she’d managed to get hold of a supply of lethal drugs? Why had nobody looked into this more deeply?

Maybe the fact that it might be true was bad enough because it pointed to breaches in protocol. And that was something the hospitals wouldn't want to publicize. Nobody would send their family members or work colleagues to a place where there were such gaps in management.

He wondered if anyone had been fired as a result. Was there negligence?

Or had this been deliberate?

At any rate, the one thing that he saw immediately was that Doc Ellen couldn’t have committed the Martinez murder. There was a note in the file to say that she’d been at a medical conference in New York and had flown back the next day to give a statement and manage the situation.

But how about Dr. Fleming? Sage didn’t trust him. He hadn’t trusted him from the first time he’d seen him. He could have been on site. Sage didn’t see him anywhere on the roster, and what that meant was that his time wasn’t accounted for at another hospital.

There were a couple of names that he was able to check off the list – nurses and assistants who had definitely been on shift at the time, at another hospital. But the list was still surprisingly long, and the problem was that all these incidents occurred at night.

Night was the time when there was a skeleton staff on duty, and the majority of the workers were off duty. That didn’t help at all.

Surely there was more to be gained from looking into this? What wasn’t he seeing?

Sage took another look at the case summaries, reading with the analytical side of his brain while he let the creative side roam – something he was used to doing.

He noted something in the case notes for Jennifer’s death that tugged at his attention.

Turning back to Rachel’s case notes – which were very recent and not even fully complete – he looked again. And finally, he realized the connection. There was one, and at last, he saw it.

Both of these women had their meds adjusted the morning before their death – or their murder.

Both of them had been attended to by Dr. Fleming just before they had died.

Was this the correlation they needed?

He looked back at the other cases. Jennifer was number two. He went to numbers three and four. Both had been attended by Dr. Fleming, both were women.

Then, the fifth suicide, nearly a year ago, was a man. He’d killed himself while out on a walk. With a history of depression, he’d run onto a busy road in front of an oncoming truck. Witnesses had seen him do it. The truck driver had tried and failed to avoid him. Sage believed that this was the first genuine suicide he was reading about in the records that Maya had sent.

All the others between then and now had been deaths that were covered up to look like suicides.

Now, who’d dispensed the man’s medications?

His eyes narrowed as he saw that there were two different doctors who worked in conjunction with Doc Ellen to prescribe the right meds. Dr. Fleming was one, Dr. Rodney was the other. And Dr. Rodney had been the doctor allocated to the suicidal man.

There was a correlation here between Dr. Fleming, nighttime ‘suicides’ that were probably covered up murders, and the dispensation of meds.

Maybe he’d dispensed additional meds, given a heavier dose on the night that he planned to kill them, so that they would be drowsy and wouldn’t put up a fight?

His brain was racing. Sage realized that for the first time in the past couple of months, he was thinking methodically again, as if he’d been able to identify and solve a problem without feeling overwhelmed, angry, and ineffectual.

That had to be good. Maybe he was healing?

As he had the thought, the vision veered into his mind, closer and more intense than he’d seen it before. Bright, the lighting searing his retinas. The screams of people who were huddled in a corner. His own hands held out in front of him in appeal. The lightness at his hip, because he’d gone in without a gun. That had been a decision that they’d made deliberately. He knew that now.

His gaze had veered around the room, taking in the situation with sharp glances but never taking his focus off the person he was talking to.

Talking down.

“Look,” he’d said, “I’m empty handed and I don’t have a weapon. Why don’t you drop yours?”

And as he remembered the words, his mind revealed that the man he'd been facing had a gun. The barrel was pressed against a woman's head. She was silent, terrified, wild-eyed. He'd been holding her head still with his other hand, his fingers clenched in her hair.

And behind him, two dead bodies were sprawled, and others were screaming; this was just the start.

With a rush of horror, Sage knew that he’d been there to defuse a life-or-death situation, and that something must have gone badly wrong.

His mind shut down again. It wasn't giving him anything more. Maybe he didn't want anything right now.

He picked up the phone and called Maya.

She answered within two rings.

“Maya,” he said, “I’ve been looking back over the histories, and I’ve found a common factor.”

“Yes,” she said immediately. She sounded excited. “I’ve been doing the same, Sage, and I think the doctor might have medicated all those patients before their deaths.”

“Except for the man. Going back nearly a year, I reckon that’s the first genuine suicide, the first patient who was truly depressed enough to take his own life.”

“And Dr. Fleming didn’t medicate him,” she said thoughtfully.

He imagined her, her head tilted in thought, her eyes alight below those spiky pixie bangs.

“I’m going to confront him,” Sage said. “I have to, Maya. This can’t carry on.”

"No, no," she said, her voice intense. "Sage, don't do it. You can't afford to get involved in this as a patient. This isn't just your recovery at stake, it's your career. Plus, if there is a serial murder case, it's going to need to be handled by our field office anyway. That's within our jurisdiction. You need to carry on as normal. I'm going to come there now, and I'll speak to Dr. Fleming about this myself. I see from the roster that he's on shift there today."

Sage was silent awhile, conflicted about the decision he knew he had to make.

Maya had to be the one to do this. He wasn’t even an official FBI employee at this stage, for all he knew. His career was in limbo, and Maya was right. If this went wrong, which it was far more likely to do if he spoke up, then his own future with the FBI might be over.

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

He didn't know how he was going to get through the rest of the afternoon or the group therapy session, pretending everything was normal. But he was going to keep his eyes open, just in case this went bad, and Maya needed back-up.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Maya checked the time as she arrived at the Oakview Psychiatric Center.

Pulling up outside, she stared in bemusement at the stark, sprawling brick buildings. Did it have to look so institutional? And where on earth were the oak trees that were supposed to comprise the view, according to the name? There didn’t seem to be any of them around.

Her thoughts flickered back to Sage, and she wondered if he also found this environment unappealing, or if he hadn’t noticed because his own thoughts were as stark as the center itself.

Then, she wrenched her mind back to the importance of what she was here for.

There wasn’t an open case. This was merely a suspicion, and she knew that she was going to have to tread carefully, because her powers here would be limited.

And she’d already seen how the center kept its secrets close.

It was four-thirty p.m. She wondered if the doctor would have completed his rounds by now. Where would he be?

Maya headed inside to the reception area. She breathed in the smell of the place – an institutional whiff of floor polish and a tang of disinfectant.

The receptionist looked up as she approached.

“Afternoon. Can I help?” she asked Maya. At least her smile made the place feel warmer – the only thing that had so far.

Maya discreetly showed her badge.

“Is Dr. Fleming here?” she asked.

“Ma’am, he may be consulting with patients at this time.” The receptionist’s tone made it clear that if he was, that came first. She checked her computer, looking at a screen that Maya couldn’t see. She wondered if it listed the doctor’s activities, and if so, where he was now and who he was prescribing meds to.

Would any of the women here be targeted tonight? The thought was chilling. Back in the records, there had previously been two suicides, just two days apart, about a year and a half ago. The killer wouldn’t be departing from his pattern if he did the same again.

“Could I wait in his office?” Maya asked.

“He’ll probably be wrapping up about now,” the receptionist replied with a nod. “His office is in the next building. Second door on the right. You’ll see the notice outside. Please don’t go anywhere else in the building,” she said emphatically.

“Thank you. I’ll make sure I wait there,” Maya said.

She guessed she was lucky to have gotten this far. At least she had a chance of getting face to face with the doctor himself.

Walking out of the reception area, she headed along the walkway in the direction that the receptionist had told her to go.

She passed a row of rooms that she guessed must be the patient bedrooms. There was a notice at the entrance to the row that said: Private – Accommodation.

Maya’s attention was drawn that way by a sound – a long, wailing scream, coming from somewhere down that corridor. The sound rose and fell, seeming almost otherworldly, as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Okay, as a visitor here, she’d decided that the place wasn’t just unappealing, but downright creepy.

She hesitated, listening, waiting with a sense of dread to see if the scream was repeated.

But there was only silence from the corridor.

Shaking her head, she continued on her way, heading to the offices wing.

And, as she strode down the walkway, she heard a hissed voice coming from a corridor to her right.

“Maya.”

She couldn’t help jumping at the sudden noise and spun around. That scream had awakened all her nerves. Immediately, feeling embarrassed at her own reaction, she tried to control herself as she saw Sage heading toward her from one of the other buildings. He was wearing a dark blue golf shirt, faded jeans, and she thought he looked sharper, more together, than the last time she’d seen him.

“Sage. I was wondering if I’d see you.”

“I’ve been looking out for you,” he said.

“I’ve been told to go and wait in the office, and that Dr. Fleming will be there when he’s finished his rounds. So far, so good,” she said, forcing a smile.

“I’m heading to group therapy right now. I’m going to try to act normal – as far as I can,” he said grimly. “I’m worried, though.”

After hearing that strange, eerie scream, she was worried, too. “Why’s that?” she asked.

He stepped closer to her and spoke in a low voice.

“Because I noticed something else in the case files. I read the reports closely, and I see that the women who were labeled supposed ‘suicides’ were all in an anxious and stressed state before their deaths. That was partly why their meds were adjusted – and maybe that was a motivating factor for the timing.”

She had a horrible feeling there was more to come, and sure enough, there was.

"There's a new inmate who was admitted this morning. She's hysterical and distressed, and I know for sure that Dr. Fleming has visited her at least twice today to give her sedation."

Maya nodded, her skin crawling as she remembered that shrill, desperate scream.

“I don’t like the timing of it,” Sage said. “It seems to me that the circumstances are right for him to strike again. Just so you know.”

“Thanks for telling me that.” Now, Maya had a knot in her stomach as she considered what might happen, and the fact that a potential victim had been admitted.

“I know there might not be much you can do, because there’s no official FBI investigation as yet, but I wanted you to know, in case it helps. Her name is Alison. Not sure of her last name. I tried to find it out, but no luck.”

“I’ll mention that name if I need to.”

“And I’ll keep looking and listening out for you – as far as I can, because the therapy room is in the next block. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” she said.

There was a flicker of movement from the corridor behind him, and Maya glanced that way. She didn’t see anyone, but wondered if someone had been passing by, and had noticed them speaking.

She headed to the administration building where the doctors’ offices were.

Fleming’s office was the second one on the right. His name was on a brass plate on the door. The door itself was ajar, and she saw that it led into a small waiting area, with a row of three seats affixed to the wall, and another closed door beyond.

She tapped on that door, but heard no response. He must still be doing his rounds. Uneasily, she wondered if he’d been attending to that screaming woman at the time when she’d heard that cry.

Perching on the seat, Maya waited, listening for any footsteps that would break the silence. She sat straighter when, after just a minute, she heard a brisk set of footsteps coming her way.

Dr. Fleming pushed open the door to his lobby and walked in.

He had a brisk demeanor, a stethoscope around his neck, and was carrying a small black bag. His white jacket had a few smears on it, and although his bearded face had warm, pleasant features, she saw that his eyes were cold.

“Good afternoon.” Maya sprang to her feet as he regarded her curiously. She showed her ID, which did nothing to warm the expression on his face. “Agent Torres, from the Iowa satellite office.”

“Agent Torres?” His gaze chilled her. “And what’s the reason for your visit? I don’t recall having been in any trouble with the law. And we work by appointment here. We’re very busy, and this center is under strict medical supervision.”

Strict? Maybe that was a good starting point. Maya decided to go in, guns blazing.

"I'm here because I was made aware of the death at your establishment the day before yesterday. I've checked the records, and it seems that you've had a much higher than average number of deaths over the past few years, at the three clinics where you work. A high number of suicides, and particularly, a high number of female suicides."

They were still talking on their feet, facing each other in this small lobby. He looked antagonistic. Maya didn’t think she was going to get as far as his office. She sensed that he wanted her out of here, and his words confirmed it.

“You think that I’m responsible? Is that what you’re saying?”

Under the beard, his chin jutted. His shoulders flexed, making Maya aware of what a powerful and bulky man he was. That white coat was covering broad, solid muscle.

“I would like to know how you feel about that, as their treating physician. Were there any red flags before their deaths that these patients were suicide risks?”

He drew in a sharp breath, and she could see the fury in his eyes now.

"I am a psychiatrist who specializes in bipolar disorder. I have treated hundreds, if not thousands of patients successfully." He was angry, defiant, and defensive now, his face flushing as he continued. "Do you really think I would intentionally harm any of my patients? Is that really what you're implying, Agent Torres? Because, let me tell you this now, there has been no foul play connected with my treatments at all. I took an oath to do my best for my patients, and so I do every day. Bipolar patients are at a higher risk for suicide, and I deal with referrals who are in a very serious condition. That's it. And if you insist on poking your nose into my business any further, then I will sue you."

He drew in a sharp breath, opened the office door, stepped inside, and slammed it in Maya’s face.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“So, your turn, Sage.”

As Doc Ellen turned to him, Sage did his best to unclench his hands and focus on the session, trying to be present even though his thoughts were all the way on the other side of the building. What was happening there? Was Maya making any headway? Would she be able to get anything from the doctor, who Sage feared would be a tough nut to crack?

They were focusing on memory. That was what the group session had been about today. It was about the tricks that memory could play, the memory gaps that people had, the false memories that could rush in and take their place.

He knew this was an incredibly valuable session for him, and that his own memory was hiding things from him; until he broke through that barrier, he wouldn’t be able to progress in his recovery.

If only he wasn't so sidetracked by the worries about the undercurrents at this institute and what was happening right now in Dr. Fleming's office.

He looked around at the anxious face of Amy, and two other patients who were new to him at this session, and the serious yet calm face of Doc Ellen as she waited for him to pull himself together.

“I’ve had difficulty remembering several of the showdowns in my cases,” he said. “Particularly the last one. I’m getting flashes back, and I know that whatever happened, it went really bad. I’m trying to prepare myself to face that. I know that I’m going to need to deal with it if I’m going to overcome my PTSD.”

There. That was a breakthrough, and he saw Doc Ellen’s approving nod. Two days ago, he hadn’t been able to admit to a group of people that he was suffering from this condition. Now, he was able to speak about it, and surely this meant there was progress.

“I remember that I was facing someone. I was negotiating with him, and he was armed. He had a gun.” Now, the memories were surging in. The tautness in the other man’s hands. The desperation with which he’d clutched the woman’s hair. Four serious faces were turned to him as another few fragments of the case lit up his mind.

“We’d been negotiating a while,” he said, his voice heavy. “I thought it was going well – as well as it could be. We were walking a tightrope. Not only because of the circumstances, but also because – well, because he was unbalanced. He was mentally fragile. The man with the gun. I was talking him down. And I remember that as I spoke, I was able to reason with him. I think we reached a stage where I got through to him.”

That felt like a breakthrough now, and he remembered it had then, too. Relief had replaced the tension as he walked the tightrope. He’d felt that he would succeed, that he would manage to save lives.

And then, the image that had glimmered in his mind darkened and shut off, and all he saw were the faces of the others in the group.

“I think you did very well there,” Amy said in encouraging tones.

“You’re making good strides. You’re doing very well. I think tomorrow, if your progress continues this way, you’ll make more breakthroughs,” Doc Ellen said, the words filling him with a sense of achievement.

It was replaced by anxiousness as he wondered where Maya was.

“Can you excuse me?” he said.

It wasn’t good protocol to leave a group session halfway through. He knew it would draw attention to himself, but hopefully, after such a positive start, Doc Ellen might think he just needed some alone time. Although she cast him a doubtful glance, her attention was now fixed on Amy, whose turn it was next.

"Come back as soon as you're ready," she said. "Amy, do you feel like you're ready to talk more about your daughter and what happened that day when she went down to the river?"

Sage had already heard some of the story, which had torn at his heart. Amy had been sucked into a depressive vortex after her only daughter had drowned. Listening to her sobs during the last group therapy session had been heart-wrenching.

Sage stood up, with a scrape of his chair, and headed out. He headed straight to the office block where the doctor’s offices were located. Pausing at the entrance, he listened before heading in. The door to Dr. Fleming’s office was closed. He couldn’t hear anything from inside – or could he?

He tensed, as he heard the rapid clack of computer keys, and an irritable throat clearing.

Fleming was in there alone – so where was Maya?

He headed back, checking his phone as he went, and as he did, he saw that she had texted him.

In the parking lot, her text read.

Sage hurried there, running down the last corridor, sprinting out into the parking lot, his mind filled with questions.

“How did it go?” he asked.

Her expression told him the news before she’d even spoken. Standing by her car, she shook her head, pressing her lips together.

“He denied that there was any wrongdoing. And then, he got aggressive, and ordered me to leave, or else he was going to sue me.”

Sage felt a surge of anger. Was the killer continuing his cover-up?

"I'm going to have to go back to the office. I don't have a choice. I came here to question him informally, and although I don't like his answers or his attitude, we don't have an open case. He was forceful and emphatic that he'd done his best for them."

She shrugged, and he could see that she was as frustrated as he was about the intangible nature of the evidence.

No proof that they were anything but suicides. They were dealing with fragile patients who were heavily medicated and who had very serious mental issues.

Sage found he was doubting himself. His mind veered all the way to the other side of the scenario, and he imagined what would happen if he was wrong, if he pushed this any further.

“Look,” he said, “I appreciate you coming by. And thank you for speaking to him.”

“I don’t think it did any good, and I feel as discouraged as I’m sure you are,” Maya said.

“Surely there’s another solution, instead of waiting for the next murder, hidden as suicide?” Sage asked.

“I could set up a camera system in the rooms of those people that you feel are vulnerable,” Maya offered. “That’s a wild card idea. I know there might be privacy issues, and we might need to get the patients’ permission, but it’s about the only thing I can think of to keep them safe. At least we’d see if anyone came in.”

That was a wild card idea. But it got Sage thinking. If he was to keep a lookout tonight, would he stand a chance of seeing the doctor?

“I’ll do my best in the meantime,” he said.

“And I’ll speak to my department head and see what we can do,” Maya said.

But, as she said goodbye and got into her car, Sage had a cold feeling that she would be limited in her powers. As was he. The doctor was the common factor, and he had flatly denied any involvement, denied that there was even a problem, and then threatened Maya, forcing her to back off. That was highly suspicious. Add in the fact that there was an unstable patient who was probably going to be heavily medicated, and Sage worried that circumstances would create the perfect storm for another death.

He needed to make sure that Alison felt supported – both now and later.

More than that, she needed to be protected. And damn the consequences. Sage was going to do it.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Heading back to his room, Sage’s mind was spinning as he considered how he could do this. He’d need to be awake and alert, perhaps until late into the night. He wasn’t sure what time Rachel had died, but he guessed it must have been late, once all the patients had taken their meds, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

He couldn’t take his meds tonight. He would have to refuse them, or palm the pills. He was a low security patient, who was free to come and go, so maybe whoever the dispensing nurse was wouldn’t watch too closely.

He’d need to stay alert and awake and watchful. If Alison was going to be taken, then he’d need to listen. Her room was in the other wing, and if anyone tried to get in, he needed to be close enough to hear. He had an access card.

He had a plan in mind, and he hoped it would be enough to save her – for tonight at least, until Maya could get the wheels turning.

Now, he needed to go to dinner, and pretend that everything was okay, while keeping a lookout.

He changed his clothes, choosing a dark shirt, just in case tonight he ended up following someone. There wasn’t much else he could do. No other tools in his possession right now.

He remembered how he’d prepared for a raid. The helmet, the Kevlar vest, the stun gun and his firearm, a flashlight, handcuffs. He remembered the breathless tension he’d felt. At first, it had been excitement. Then, somehow, it had become dread. Everyone expected him to be the miracle worker, the guy who could win in any situation, the agent with the magic touch. And they’d thrown him into tougher and tougher situations, and he’d volunteered for more of them; at the start of every one of them, the pressure had gotten worse.

He’d had visions in his mind about what could go wrong. He’d known that with his one hundred percent success rate and a zero percent failure rate, there was no room for even the smallest error.

That had worked on him, without him knowing it. He’d gradually realized that the pressure was becoming unbearable, but he couldn’t go back, he’d just have to keep forging on, knowing that the sword of Damocles hanging over him was now swinging by the most fragile thread, and that just because of the law of averages, it was going to fall.

“Stop it,” he said aloud. Now wasn’t the time to think about that, even though the bubble in his mind was getting bigger and bigger, to the extent that it was taking over sometimes, dragging him back to that strange, brightly lit scenario that he couldn’t yet understand.

“Just get to dinner, and save a life,” he said to himself, looking resentfully at the bottles of tablets on the desk.

They were an anchor right now. He needed them – but not tonight. Tonight, he was going to have to let himself go where the winds took him.

Just before he headed out, his phone started buzzing in his pocket.

Grabbing the call, he saw that it was Marco.

Now that he was focused on something more important – saving a life – it was easier to feel calm about Marco’s decision on his future.

“Hey, bud,” Marco said. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going well,” Sage said. “Today was a good day, therapy wise. There are a few other issues in this place, but they’re not related to my recovery. They’re not something you need to worry about.”

As soon as he had spoken the words, he found himself wishing he hadn’t shared that much. Even that information could count against him if things went wrong or if Marco asked any questions.

He didn’t, though. Instead, he said, in a conversational way, “Have you thought of relocating?”

“Relocating?” Repeating the word, feeling surprised, Sage had no idea where this was heading. He’d worried it was going somewhere totally different.

“Yes. It was just an idea that we had, in conversation with each other this afternoon.”

He didn’t say who ‘we’ happened to be, and Sage didn’t ask. He knew that Marco was in constant communication with various high-ups for all sorts of reasons, and this must have been one of the discussions.

As he took in the significance of the word, it felt as if his insides were being ripped out. Relocating? He’d been proud to be working at Quantico, being deployed to any crisis area countrywide when necessary. He’d thought that this was the peak of his career.

Maybe it was the end of his career. He should be careful about what he said next. The wrong words might seal his fate. The warning voice in the back of his mind reminded him of that, even as the more tempestuous voice wanted to start protesting, questioning what the hell this was all about.

“Marco, why are you asking this?” he said.

The stress inside him was peaking now, his emotions shattering again as he wondered what on earth he was doing here, if there was no chance at all that he’d get back to where he was.

“I’m trying to look at options.” Marco sounded unusually reluctant. Usually, gung-ho emanated from his every word. “I’ve been in a few tough meetings today, Sage. I’ve been fighting for you, but the problem is that the full incident report from that case has been circulated to everyone, and they’ve taken a look.” He paused. “Sage, it’s not good. They’re extremely concerned about what happened during and directly after the case. Looking back, they’re seeing parallels in other cases. They’re mentioning erratic behavior, recklessness, and that it might endanger your team to have you out in the field. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to tell you this, but I must.”

Sage felt every muscle in his body tense.

This was so damned unfair. How could he be saying this?

“I don’t even remember what happened,” he said.

“That’s the point,” Marco said.

“Whose side are you on?” Yet again, that brittle anger surged, and Sage found it impossible to control. Even though he knew this was probably hammering the nails into his coffin, he couldn’t hold back. “You sent me the whole way here. Why? Did you just want me as far away as possible when you made that call? Is this fair in any way? Damn it and damn you. I’m not waiting around to let you give me the – the death of a thousand cuts.”

He didn’t know why that phrase jumped into his mind, even though he heard Marco catch his breath.

“I quit!” Sage shouted.

“Sage, wait –”

“I quit, as of now.”

He hung up without waiting for Marco to answer.

Then, he sat, shaking all over, waiting for the anger and the helplessness to ebb away.

He’d just ruined his own life.

But then, it had probably been going that way anyway.

He thought of taking his meds and simply having an early night, surrendering himself to oblivion. But then, he remembered that there was another new, young, and vulnerable patient who might need some company and support.

Even though he didn’t feel in the right frame of mind to offer it, he had promised himself. He had let Rachel down. It couldn’t happen again.

On leaden feet, he headed to the dining room.

There were people thronging into the dining hall, and the smell of a rich beef stew filled the air. There was Alison, sitting on her own, with an untouched plate in front of her. He decided to go and join her. It was time to break out of his own prison of isolation. She needed the support – and he wouldn’t be the person he wanted to be unless he smashed his own barriers.

“What can I get you?” Nathan said in a friendly way as he approached the serving hatch.

“I’ll have some stew and some rice,” Sage replied. “Thank you.”

Heading over to the table where Alison was sitting, he took a seat next to her.

“How are you feeling this evening?” he asked, putting his plate down.

She shook her head silently, pushing her food around with a fork.

“I know it’s hectic when you come in here. I just want you to know that I, and a lot of others, are rooting for you, and we’re going to look after you. You’ll make it through this.”

She stared at him, her blue eyes filling with tears again at the kindness.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Do you want to go on a walk tomorrow morning?” Sage asked. “I’ve found walking helps a lot when you’re feeling down.”

“Okay,” she replied, looking a little more cheerful. “That sounds good.”

Then, at least, she started eating a little. Amy joined him, and between her and Sage, they did their best to make sure there was some cheerful conversation at the table. Amy was so naturally gregarious that Alison came out of her shell even further. Before Sage knew it, the walk tomorrow had become a group outing. There were four of them going on it.

Then, Sage froze, his fork poised in the air, as Fleming walked in.

He seemed in a grim mood. His eyes were narrowed, and as he strode into the dining hall, his gaze swept the tables, and snagged onto Sage.

He headed his way. When he reached the table, he surveyed everyone sitting there, and his eyes focused specifically on Sage.

“I need to see you tomorrow morning,” he snapped out. “I want to review your meds. I think there are going to be some changes needed.”

Sage felt a knot tighten deep inside him. Was this a challenge – or an ultimatum?

“Let me know what time works for you,” he said in tones as polite as he could make them. Inside, he felt like a coiled spring.

The doctor walked straight past him, his bulky hip jostling Sage’s shoulder, and he headed to the serving station.

It was a challenge, Sage thought. A challenge – and he was ready to meet it.

He finished his food quickly, and with the adrenaline that was now running through his veins, he even managed to participate in some of the small talk. He made sure to laugh loudly once or twice when Amy said something amusing, and he was rewarded by Fleming’s head jerking around, as the doctor gave him a dark gaze.

Finally, dinner was done.

Sage took his plate to the washing tub, and then he headed out. There was no point in staying here any longer. Now it was time to prepare.

He strode down the corridor to his room, his stomach twisting as he thought about what lay ahead. The air-conditioning was warmer than usual, he realized, as he unlocked his room. Whether it was that or the pressure he was under, he didn’t know, but he had a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He wiped it away with the back of his hand as he prepared for his stakeout.

But as he sat on the bed, he had a strange, dizzy feeling. For a moment, his legs felt boneless, as if all the strength had been sucked from them.

He landed on the bed hard, the springs bouncing and confusion filling his mind.

Was this a flashback? Was he having a memory surge that would finally bring him the full picture of what had happened in the time that he couldn’t remember?

Sage tensed, breathing in hard, preparing himself for whatever was coming his way. If this was going to be the breakthrough, then he’d need to handle it, and then he’d need to get moving, no matter what the fallout was.

He was back in that brightly lit room but this time, it all seemed to be playing out in slow motion, the edges fuzzy. His own hands were weak, and he could hardly move them. The gun pressed to the woman’s temple seemed to somehow be moving inward. Then, the whole scene became misty, swirling in and out.

The voice in Sage’s mind shouted out sharply. “Do something! Now! Something bad is happening, and this is going to be another disaster!”

What could have happened? Trying to gather his thoughts together, Sage now found that they were hazy and disorganized, fractured and fragmented, not in a way that felt like trauma.

He thought back to a few of the times after particularly vicious takedowns, when he and his team had celebrated, going over the top, drinking way too much.

Sage wasn’t a drug user, but he thought that once or twice, when he was too far gone as a result of the alcohol, someone had offered him something that he’d accepted, and that had given him the same dissociated feeling – and an agonizing hangover the next day.

He was floating.

His mind was back in that crowded bar, with his team. He remembered the raucous laughs, the rough, bitter taste of the tequila as he swallowed it, and the mellow, malty flavor of the beer. The back slaps and the celebrations and the memories locked tightly away, the trauma all bottled into the space of an atom.

No!

Sage sat up, panting hard. What the hell was happening here? He was falling asleep, he was totally out of it, and there was no way this was his own mind doing this. In the moment of truth, as he gasped oxygen into his lungs, Sage had the insight to realize that this was not trauma.

He’d been drugged.

“Get it out of your system. Get it the hell out,” he muttered.

His arms felt heavy, like weights at the end of a windmill, as he pushed himself up off the bed. His legs felt even worse. He was on heavy stilts, he had seven league boots that were dysfunctional, a piece of invisible string was tugging him in a totally different direction than he wanted to go, and his head was whirling.

He collided with the wall, the impact managing to wake him from his daze as he took the final stumbling step to the bathroom.

Collapsing on his knees in front of the toilet bowl, he struggled hard against the effects of sleep, knowing that if he let it take him, there would be no going back, and it would be too late.

He got his hand to his mouth and shoved his finger down his throat, begging for the gag reflex, which seemed to have been subdued by whatever the hell he had inadvertently taken.

He shoved his fingers harder, and as he did, he tried his best to summon up the goriest, most horrible scene he could think of. Maybe that would make him throw up.

He saw it in slow motion, as if in this moment of desperation, his brain dredged up what it could.

The scalpel flashed in the light, moving in a deliberate but lazy arc as it traveled, and his horrified eyes watched it pierce the flesh, tearing through it, ripping a path that he knew he had to stop, no matter what…

His stomach hitched and heaved, and he clutched the bowl as the vomit spilled out of him, stinking and hot and harsh.

Finally, he managed to sit upright, spitting and gagging. His mouth felt vile. There was a chemical aftertaste that now he could pick up. He didn’t know if what he’d done had been enough, though. It might not have been.

He didn’t know if he could get to his feet. Vomiting might have removed some of what he’d had, but a lot of it was already being absorbed, circulating in his blood.

Sage knew, with an implacable certainty, that the fact he’d been drugged meant the killer had noticed his recent actions, and had suspected that he was looking into this.

It must have happened at dinner. Somehow, his food or drink had been laced with the sedative.

And that meant the killer planned to move. Tonight.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Fury twisted Dr. Fleming’s mouth as he left the dining room, marching back to his office. This was unacceptable. The plans that he’d made were collapsing, and now he didn’t know if it would be possible for him to achieve his aims.

That nosy, interfering man. He narrowed his eyes as his face swam into his consciousness again. That determined expression, those even features. Handsome and resolute. The kind of person that people believed in, even when he was underweight and hollow cheeked and had haunted eyes.

He was painted like the hero of a movie even though Fleming knew that he was a traitor, that he was clutching at straws, desiring only to redeem his career, even if it meant dredging up information that Fleming would rather keep hidden.

Damn it, he’d known that Sage West would try to interfere, from the first moment that he’d walked into Doc Ellen’s office to dispense his meds. He had seen his dubious expression, the way that he’d seemed to come out of his shell as he watched the interaction between Fleming and Doc Ellen. He’d been suspicious from the start.

And then, he’d become too alert. Too aware. He’d started joining the dots, and he'd done it in a way that Fleming feared could jeopardize everything. Everything.

Back in his office, he slammed his hands down on the desk so hard that it felt as if he was bruising his bones. How could he stop this?

He let out his breath in a gasp, realizing that he’d thought in his mind that there was a ‘this.’ That there was something that he needed to stop.

That FBI agent had seen there was a problem. He’d seen her eyes, raking his face, glancing around the bare and sterile waiting room as if she could manufacture evidence out of it. Now, she was on his trail, and he knew that once he’d attracted someone like that, they were like a sniffer dog who’d never give up.

Suddenly, his life was collapsing around him and his career, too. There was a reason why he did what he did. There was a motive behind it, and he needed to continue, no matter what.

Breathing hard, he considered his options, knowing that there weren’t many.

But what he had, he needed to do, even though it wasn’t the time.

“It is the time,” he muttered. “You have to go.”

It was a departure from what he wanted to do, and he was worried his actions would implicate him, but it seemed like the only way. He had to try.

He picked up his black bag and headed out.

Instead of turning in the direction of the parking lot, he went back into the building, touching his key card to the screen, and gaining access to the patients’ accommodation.

His breath was coming fast in his throat. This was reckless. It was unscripted. And if he was found, he knew that he would get into terrible trouble.

But it was necessary. Of that, he had now convinced himself, as every step brought him closer to the room where he needed to be.

Here he was. His card would override the lock and grant him automatic access. He seldom used it in this way. Only in the direst emergencies. But it would get him in quietly, and maybe that would be best. Maybe nobody would see what he was going to do.

He raised his card to the small touchscreen on the side of the door, doubt and nerves churning in his stomach. The card bleeped softly, and then flashed green.

Groping in his bag, he curled his palm around the small vial that he would need. Nothing more than this. Nobody would ever know.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he walked into the room. "I don't want to do this. It feels so wrong."

He stared down at the sleeping figure in the bed. She had an angelic face, even though her eyes were still swollen from her earlier tears. She was resting quietly, but as he watched, she shifted, throwing out a hand, her eyes opening briefly.

Did she see him?

He gasped, deciding that this hesitation would destroy him. It was time to act.

He drew the medication from the vial into the hypodermic.

And then, he moved to the bed, staring down at her, his mind racing.

He bent – but as he did so, he heard a tiny noise behind him, no more than a whisper of sound.

As he spun, he was in time to see the solid metal object whistling down toward him, bashing his head.

The world spun away in a vortex filled with pain.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Maya Torres stopped at the junction with her foot on the brake, filled with uncertainty. She’d finished off the routine interview that had provided the weak excuse to drive out to Oakview, assuming that she needed to account for her time in the future.

Now, it was dark and late. She’d stopped on the way out of the small town where she’d been speaking to a witness and grabbed a burger from the closest takeaway.

She hadn’t eaten it, though. Every time she thought about doing that, her stomach twisted, and she felt a twinge of doubt, worry, and guilt.

“Why am I leaving Sage?” she asked.

She didn’t have time to answer her own question, because at that moment, her phone rang, and she saw it was her brother calling.

Mike was five years younger than she was, and he’d always been her adored little brother. Even when his problems had started in senior high school, she’d fiercely protected him. When she’d taken the job in Chicago and moved to Illinois, she’d worried about him and tried her best to do double duty as a career FBI agent, and as a devoted sister to a brother who had serious psychological problems. She thought they’d started soon after their parents had been killed in a horrific crash. She’d been eighteen at the time. He’d been thirteen. Those two ages were a world away when it came to coping. She’d managed to, he hadn’t. Mike had fallen apart, and at the time they hadn’t realized that this tragedy had actually triggered a more serious condition, one that had taken over his life and his personality for a while.

He'd veered from bad to worse. Lost his job. Been arrested, even though he’d been released without charges.

She’d moved back to help him, and they’d gotten a diagnosis of his condition at last. Now, step by dogged step, he was rebuilding his life. She was proud of every step he took. He’d even gotten a part-time job at a furniture factory that specialized in handmade goods. He’d always had an eye for detail and was meticulous about polishing and finishing the products.

Hopefully, he'd be able to live a full and happy life on his meds now that he'd gotten this beast under control.

“Hey, Mike,” she said, picking up.

“Hey, Maya,” he replied. “I see you called. I wanted to check in on you.”

That was the kind thing about Mike. He was always concerned for her. Always. Her decision to come back to Iowa had stressed him out big time. He hadn’t wanted her to give up her career for him. Every small achievement that she told him about made him proud – and vice versa.

“Do you need anything? I can pass by your house. I was out at Oakview, interviewing someone, and then I had to take a statement from a witness, half an hour from there.”

Again, that guilty twist lanced her stomach. What a hopeless mission it had been. How could she have done things differently? Was there a way? Or had it been set up for failure from the time she’d walked into Doc Fleming’s waiting room?

“Oakview?” Mike asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes, that’s right,” Maya said.

“Did you see my friend there?” he asked her.

"Your friend? Who's she?" Maya asked. She was pleased that Mike had made a few good friends after his schizophrenia had driven everyone close to him away – except her.

“Her name is Alison. She went there because her meds weren’t working. She was so stressed about it. She was crying for days, saying that she was terrified of being there. That she thought the doctors would kill her and she was worried about being on stronger meds; she felt that it was a prison that she’d never escape from.”

“Is that so?” Maya asked, now feeling intensely troubled.

“Yes. I tried to comfort her, but the problem is, she knew someone – a friend of a friend called Jennifer – who went to one of these places and killed herself, and Alison is sure that the same will happen to her. I’ve actually been stressed about it,” Mike admitted.

Now, Maya’s stomach was a tight knot.

She’d already been feeling conflicted about turning away from this, despite the serious threats that Dr. Fleming had made. He’d made it clear that Maya shouldn’t set foot in the place again unless she wanted all levels of trouble to come crashing down on her shoulders. But now, it seemed that the person Sage was worried about was also a connection of her brother. Not just a connection, but a close friend.

Her brother needed his friends. He was already worried about Alison, empathizing with her fearfulness and her sense of isolation. It had taken a long time for Mike himself to gain trust in his doctors. Accepting a medication regime was a mental and physical hurdle, even if the regime was for the good eventually.

She didn’t want anything to go wrong with one of her brother’s valued friends, and now, Maya was even more worried. She had to force herself to leave Oakview because she couldn’t stay. She had no legitimate reason to be there, other than to ask a few preliminary questions. The doctor’s threats, and also the potential career damage to Sage, if they found out he was involved, had tipped the balance, and she’d decided it would be better to leave.

She needed to go back. She had been forced to leave, but the decision had gone against all of her instincts.

And now, she realized, she had an excuse to return to Oakview, even if it was a flimsy one. Her brother had literally asked her if she would check on the well-being of one of his recently admitted friends. She could stop by and make sure Alison was okay. Maybe having her come back and pay attention to Alison would at least deflect any trouble for long enough that she could get her boss involved.

“It’ll take me about an hour to get there,” she said. The distances in this state, and the vast territory they were in charge of, were so far outside her old normal. She still hadn’t gotten used to them, even if there were times when Chicago traffic snarl-ups had meant she’d taken ages to get from one place to another.

“I’d really appreciate it if you could do that,” Mike said. “Maybe you can even call her, and I can speak to her? I tried earlier, but her phone was turned off. I think they probably took it away for a while. She warned me that they might do that just while she settles in."

“I’ll see if I can do that,” Maya said.

If she hit the gas, she could probably do the hour’s drive in forty-five minutes. The sooner she got there, the better.

Maya said goodbye to her brother and hung up, deciding that now would be a good time to call Sage and tell him she was on her way. Then, they could make some plans while she was still en-route.

But when Maya dialed Sage’s number, it rang and rang, unanswered.

“Hmmm,” she murmured. Maybe she wouldn’t be getting Sage’s help after all. Even though it was fairly early in the evening, he must have gone to bed already. If he’d taken meds, then it wouldn’t be easy to wake him.

Funny, though. He’d said that he was going to stay up and keep watch.

Maya hadn’t known Sage West for very long, and it was clear that he was battling some serious demons, but she didn’t think he was the kind of guy who’d break his word like that – not unless he was forced to.

Gripping the wheel, and wishing that she didn’t have a sixty-mile drive ahead of her, she hoped nothing had gone wrong

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Light burned his eyes, clearing the mists. There was a foul taste in Sage’s mouth as he took in his circumstances.

He was slumped over the toilet bowl, which was still filled with his vomit. The smell of it got him retching again, prompting him to struggle into a sitting position as reality slowly filtered back.

What had happened? Memories pieced together as he fumbled his way to his feet. He was a mess. His mind was cloudy; he was so uncoordinated he was careening into the bathroom walls, and he was filled with a looming worry that he was too late.

He’d been going somewhere important. There had been a life to save.

Gagging again on the dregs of vomit, he managed to make it as far as the bedroom. How long had he been out for?

He didn’t think it was that long. He’d been… he’d been standing guard tonight, making sure that he was on the alert, watching out for anyone breaking into Alison’s room.

He’d failed. Failed.

The knowledge felt as bitter as the aftertaste in his mouth. This was the second time, and now that his mind acknowledged it, he felt that the shadows of the first time were rising in his mind and becoming visible at last.

If they could get there, through the fog. What had happened?

Swaying toward the door, Sage tried to figure it out. He’d been drugged, somehow. It wouldn’t have happened to the old Sage. That man was too savvy, too wired. The new one was less so, still finding his way, and hadn’t been suspecting a thing, because he wasn’t actually on a case.

But he was.

As soon as he had taken steps to try to uncover this, someone had been counter-moving, ready to protect their interests at all costs. Now, he might be too late, and he had to check on her.

Even if he made a noise, even if he caused a disruption, he had to make sure that Alison, no-last-name-known, was okay, because he wasn’t going to let another vulnerable, troubled woman be killed on his watch.

Although, as he smashed into the door, bumping his head, Sage knew with a cold certainty that it might be too late. Whatever was playing out might already have happened.

Breathe, he told himself. Fragments of the exercises in the FBI training academy came back to him. One of the most important, the most basic, was breathing. Oxygen was life.

“Flood your muscles, flood your lungs,” his instructor had chanted, as Sage and the others had drawn in deep breaths, filling their lungs, doing it again, rapidly, so that a surge of oxygen entered their bloodstream. Oxygen like that could be reviving, energizing. It might help his body to fight this more effectively.

He called up his old breathing exercises, and as he did, he felt his memory return, as if he was actually in that gymnasium building, with its high, echoing roof from which ropes and bars swung, and the faint smell of old sweat that was ingrained into the air.

“Breathe! Breathe! See what the oxygen does! Get that air inside you and then, do that rope climb again. This time, I want you to beat your last time. Aim for a minute faster.”

Sage breathed in and out, gulping the air deeply, forcing the oxygen into his lungs, not letting up, just doing it over and over.

And now, his head was spinning in a different way, but a better way, as he absorbed the extra flood of oxygen that his efforts had given him. He imagined it suffusing his bloodstream, and providing that extra boost of energy that might fight the effects of what he’d been given.

At dinnertime. Somehow. Cleverly planned. His sludgy mind fought for answers, but although he couldn’t yet figure out how, he was sure he knew who.

“Damn you, Dr. Fleming, you murderer,” he muttered.

The mists were lifting, though, and now he felt as if he wasn’t moving like a puppet on rusty strings. Now, he had a chance of doing what he needed to.

One last breath.

Then, Sage opened his door and stepped outside as quietly as he could. He still couldn’t balance. He felt as if he was walking on a ship at sea. But he knew he needed to get to that door as soon as he could.

The lights in the corridor were dazzlingly bright. They were throwing everything around him into a strange relief, sending his shadow lurching from one wall to another. The door ahead of him was closed. Locked. He turned the handle, making sure.

It stayed firmly shut, and he felt panic add to the clamor of his thoughts.

Maybe it was always locked at night for security reasons, and he’d only found this out now.

That was okay, though. Why was it okay?

Why was his mind telling him this didn’t matter?

It was because of the card he had. With an overpowering sense of relief, Sage remembered the card he’d taken from Doc Ellen’s drawer.

He tried his stolen card, fumbling it out of his pocket and managing to swipe it over the sensor with numb fingers that weren’t working properly at all.

He’d expected that this would override the systems and allow him to get through. He’d seen people use their cards many times so far. In fact, he’d even tested the card, he remembered. It wasn’t working now, though, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Unless this section had been locked in a different way for the sole purpose of making sure that he didn’t escape it tonight.

He couldn’t get out, couldn’t get to the other wing.

He’d thought he was free to come and go as he pleased from this side of the accommodation, but that was clearly wrong. Or, at any rate, it wasn't allowed tonight. Because tonight, an agenda was being followed.

As he agonized over his seemingly nonexistent options, he made himself breathe. Forced the air in and out, in and out, desperately trying to speed up his circulation, to oxygenate himself, to drive the sedative out of his system.

How had Dr. Fleming gotten it into his food or drink? He must have done it when he pushed past Sage in the dining hall. In that jostling moment. He could easily have squirted a vial of potent liquid sedative that he clearly hadn’t been able to smell or taste into his drinking glass or onto his food. He’d never believed that the doctor would have been capable of that, but then again, he obviously had experience in doing this, and probably a lot of available tools.

Okay, if the door wouldn’t work, then how about the windows?

He needed to go back, get out of his window, and then get across to the other building, and get in the same way.

He stared for another moment at the strange, criss-crossing shadows from the overhead lights, and memories loomed in his mind again, intense and disturbing.

He’d been walking into a place like this.

The knowledge hit him like a fist. This was where he’d been when everything went bad.

“It was a callout at a psychiatric hospital,” he gasped.

He’d been called out, urgently, to a psychiatric unit in Virginia, where a patient had gotten hold of a gun, and had shot two others, before holding the entire room hostage.

That was why they’d sent him here, so far away. They hadn’t wanted to send him to a place in Virginia because of what had played out there.

Now, the memory came back to him of those early moments, chilling in its intensity. He remembered the guy’s name. He’d been called Keegan. Keegan – with tousled hair and troubled eyes and a face that was pocked with scars from time spent on the streets.

He’d been a problem patient from the get-go, but he hadn’t escalated into violence before. That was what the institute manager had told Sage and his team, in a shaking voice, as they’d arrived on site. As Sage headed in, he’d heard another gunshot split the air, and more screams. He’d seen from beyond the window in the door ahead of him that this patient had a gun pressed to the head of another hostage, and he knew that if he showed any weapon at all, then that man would shoot.

He'd felt himself on the highwire, going out over a drop that felt unfathomable, and he’d turned back to his team.

“I’m going in there alone,” he had said in a low voice.

“No, man. He’ll shoot you. He has experience with guns. I believe he’s ex-Army from a while back,” one of his team had said, the fear and worry in his own voice audible.

“It’s the only way. Any weapon will trigger him.”

Working with frantic haste, Sage had taken off his entire gun belt, heavy with equipment, and set it down on the floor. He’d made sure that his shirt was tucked in so that Keegan could see he had no weapons and he was unarmed.

“You’re mad. This is crazy. I think this is a step too far,” the comments had come from behind him, adding to Sage’s pressure, because he knew that it was a step too far, and he could tell that his team had lost faith in him; if this operation didn’t have a totally successful outcome, the failure he’d feared for so long might finally catch up with him.

“Let’s see what happens,” he said. “There’s no other way, and too many lives at stake here. I can do it. I know I can.”

He didn’t know. As he’d stepped into that room, holding his hands out in front of him, he’d felt as if he was stepping into the abyss.

Turning away, Sage now tried to banish those memories from his mind. Thinking of the past wouldn’t help him now, when the present was so urgent. And the second round of deep breathing had helped him. He felt as if the mists were starting to lift.

Going back to his room felt easier than leaving it had. He lurched in a more coordinated way, at least, as he crossed the floor and headed to the window.

At least the windows on his side of the building hadn’t been sealed closed. The doctor might have shut the connecting door, but there had been nothing he could do about the window. He’d probably assumed that there was no way Sage could get through it, but he’d reckoned without Sage’s build – which was deceptively lithe – and his training, which had taught him the techniques for wriggling through tight gaps.

He could get out of this window if he could open it far enough.

It was sticky, and stiff, as if it hadn’t been opened for a long while, but it still worked. Sage shoved it up, managing to have some control over his own hands as he did so, wrenching at it with all the strength he could summon.

He managed to get it open far enough for his shoulders to get through. If his shoulders could fit, then the rest of him could fit. Thank goodness this room was on the first floor, and all of this institute so low to the ground. He’d shimmied down drainpipes in the course of his career and up them, too, but not now. Not when he still felt that his arms were only loosely connected to his body, and that every movement he now made was causing new memories to flood in.

As he wriggled through the window gap, which even at its widest was barely big enough, he remembered the back and forth of their conversation. It had lasted more than an hour. For an hour – or longer – he’d stood near the door of that psychiatric center, and he’d tried his hardest to talk Keegan down.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I do! It’s gone too far. You don’t understand.”

“I understand that you feel you have to do this. Things will be better if you can put the gun down. Holding it won’t help anyone. Shooting it again won’t help anyone.”

“I can’t put it down!” His voice crescendoed in panic. “How can I do that?”

“Easy. Just lower it to the floor. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Everyone will stay calm.”

He’d addressed the room at large with that statement, hoping that the terrified patients would take it in.

Keegan had lowered the gun, and then raised it again, his breath coming fast, and Sage had seen that panic and aggression, and defense were all colliding in him again.

“I can’t! I can’t!” 

This time, still with his hand clutched in his female hostage’s hair, he’d pointed the gun directly at Sage, who had stared into its dark eye, seen it aimed directly at his neck. From four yards away, this trained shooter wouldn’t miss, and if he had a fully loaded weapon then there were ten shots left in here.

Sage had a Kevlar vest on, but that only protected his center mass. Not his neck. Not his head. The other bodies lying in the room were proof of this killer’s marksmanship.

He had tried his best not to show a fear reaction, not to show anything at all.

The room smelled of blood, from the corpses that were lying there. His nose picked up its taint, reminding him of the harsh reality of what this patient had already done.

And it had started again, the slow back and forth. Gradually, the gun’s muzzle had dropped, along with Sage’s blood pressure. Although Keegan had shifted and fidgeted during that time, Sage hadn’t been able to move a muscle beyond making the slowest and gentlest hand gestures. He’d been aching all over as they had started to discuss the past, and finally, Keegan had started telling him about his abusive dad, and what he’d undergone as a teen; Sage had thought that, at last, he’d been getting through to him, and that he had a connection that would allow him to resolve this standoff peacefully, with no more deaths.

Now, his mind was wrenched back to the present again as his feet landed on the ground. The air outside was cool. He could hear the soft rustle of the wind in the branches of the single oak tree.

Getting his bearings, he forced his muddy brain to figure out where he needed to go.

Then, he got going at a shambling run, heading for the door of the other wing and hoping he wasn’t going to be too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Sage reached the door and again he tried his card, his stomach already tensing with a sense of dread that this one wouldn’t work.

But it worked. The sensor flicked green, and the door eased open.

He staggered down the corridor, gasping, feeling as if the effort had now drained away his last strength, and the second phase of the tranquilizer that he’d been given had kicked in. He had to kick it out.

That little joke made him feel better as he headed toward the room. He was going to get there, he was going to save Alison. From around him, the corridor was strangely silent, and he guessed that every inmate was sound asleep, well sedated tonight.

Maybe, additionally sedated tonight.

Ahead of him was Alison’s room. He could get in there. He had an access card. Even if it was locked, he could use the card.

Be quiet, he told himself, conscious of the noises that he was making, although he couldn’t help them. The gasp of his breath, the slap of his feet on the floor, the results of being drugged and unable to have full control over his body. The lack of coordination was not improving.

He reached the door, and he tried the handle.

It wasn’t locked, and that fact gave him a jolt of apprehension. He remembered Rachel's door and how it had also been left open.

Turning the handle, he tried to open it as quietly as possible.

And then, as he entered, he drew in a soft, hissing breath as he saw what was there.

Alison was lying in her hospital bed, deeply unconscious, her eyes rolled back in her head, which was resting on the pillow, one of her wrists attached to the padded ties.

And slumped at the foot of the bed was Dr. Fleming. The doctor was out cold, but Sage didn’t know why. What had gone down here? Had he slipped, had Alison managed to free one of her hands from those ties and defended herself before the drugs kicked in?

Staring at the scene, he felt totally puzzled by what he saw.

His bemused mind did its best to piece together what might have happened from the evidence that was there.

There was a fallen hypodermic on the floor below the bed, near the doctor's hand. That would explain it. The doctor had tried to come in, ready to murder Alison, but she'd fought him off, somehow managed to push him down, and he'd fallen, hitting his head on the nightstand next to the bed. He was breathing shallowly but harshly, so he was still alive.

But his investigator’s mind, dazed as it was, still felt that there were pieces missing. If only he could see what they were. As he stared at the strange, puzzling scene, he felt a desperate need to triage the situation.

Start with Alison, he urged himself. Is she okay? Does she still have a pulse? If yes, then you need to call someone and get her help. Maybe she can still be saved?

He thought her skin looked bright. She didn’t have the waxy pallor of a corpse. Stepping forward, he touched her wrist, encouraged that it still felt warm.

There was a pulse. He could feel it. She could still be saved, and all he had to do was to call for help.

But, as he turned, he gasped because he'd been so focused on Alison that he hadn't noticed the person behind him.

Stumbling, clumsy thanks to the devastating effect of the drugs he’d been fed, he stared into the triumphant eyes of the nurse.

Nathan Crawford. The nurse who dispensed the meds.

Hidden, fake, murderer.

“It was you, all along?” he whispered. “You?”

As his astounded brain took in the full reality of the situation, his eyes noticed an important detail. In his gloved right hand, Nathan was holding a hypodermic. It was three-quarters full of a clear solution. And from the intent in his eyes as Nathan moved toward him, Sage knew where he planned for the contents to go.

“No,” he blurted out, as he attempted to dodge the hypodermic, but Nathan grabbed his wrist.

Sage tried to pull away, feeling shocked by the second wave of the sedative that was still turning his muscles to water. He knew what he needed to do, but he simply didn’t have the strength.

Nathan was watching him with wicked amusement in his eyes.

“Too late,” he said. “Nobody will come. Everyone in this wing got a little bit extra of the good stuff in their food tonight, thanks to me. So easy to add sedative when you dish dinner up. You know, I was the one who first proposed that the nurses should serve up the food when the place was short-staffed. Made life so simple. You got a lot of it, of course. So did Alison.”

He wanted to talk. Although Sage’s body felt as slow as treacle, he knew that this was the one weapon he still had. His voice.

Now, the memory of that time he’d spent with the gunman in the psychiatric ward was sharp and intense. He remembered every detail, every nuance. His muscles might still be compromised from this sedative, but his brain was clearing.

“You did this, didn’t you?” he asked. “You set it up so that Dr. Fleming would think it was his own medications going wrong and causing these suicides?”

Nathan gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “He was so stressed about it. He had this idea, you see, that he was better than anyone else. That he could have the most perfect balance of medication, and that he could fix impossible cases. It was so easy to time these deaths for when there was a need for meds adjustment. He had such an ego; he was doing his best to downplay the deaths, so that he wouldn’t take blame for them. You see him here? He sneaked in here to tranquilize Alison more heavily tonight because he feared she’d commit suicide. I knew he’d end up doing that at some stage. Inside, he was stressing, though. I think he was about to break. So, it’s time to get rid of him now. I’ll find a new place and start again. Psychiatric hospital nurses are very sought after, you know. I won’t battle to get another job – and thanks to this beautiful end scenario, I won’t be implicated at all.”

Breathe. Breathe, Sage told himself. If he could keep the oxygen flowing, keep his body flushing out the sedative, he might have a chance.

Nathan’s muscles tensed, and Sage knew that he’d had his say, and that now, he was going to plunge that hypodermic into his arm, and that he wouldn’t be able to stop him.

“Why did you do it?” he asked conversationally, with a note of genuine interest in his voice, although it was slurring, and sounded as if he was drunk.

He’d been known as the man who could talk his way out of any situation. The guys in his unit, when they went out on these takedowns, had joked that his body language was so subtle he could probably even talk his way out of a scenario if the criminal spoke a different language.

And even now, at this moment of crisis, he still had what it took.

Nathan grimaced. “I guess I can tell you, seeing I’m going to kill you,” he said with a harsh laugh. “It’s my mother’s fault. She went off the rails a while ago. Bipolar, you know? My teenage years were hell because of her. She ruined my life. Screaming, sleepless, mood swings, getting fired, getting into trouble. She was an embarrassment and a burden to me.”

What a thing to say. Sage was furious over that disparaging, throwaway comment.

"Eventually, I got the better of her," Nathan whispered in a confidential tone. "I was able to save up her meds and feed them to her all at once. Everyone thought it was suicide. Only I knew the truth."

Even though Sage was a seasoned investigator, the words made him feel sick. This was evil, pure evil.

And as Nathan spoke, it felt as if Sage heard echoes in his own head.

“I had to do it. I had to kill them. And it’s not over yet.”

Even though he couldn’t put a precise context to the words, Sage had the feeling that the truth was closing in, barreling toward him like a runaway train.

“So you’re trying to get over it?” he asked, forcing his mind back to the current deadly situation he was in.

"I'm making sure that these patients don't survive," Nathan said, and the intent in his voice was enough to give Sage goosebumps. "I want to eradicate as many of them as I can so that nobody else has to go through what I suffered. They shouldn’t have to ruin their families’ lives, should they? I’m doing it for the sake of others. Selfless.”

Only it wasn’t, of course. Sage could see right through that fake sycophantic tone, and he could see the gleeful monster capering behind it. He wasn’t selfless. He was glorying in his murder spree, and in the power he had over helpless people.

Power.

He tried to twist his wrist away, but it wasn’t strong enough. He still felt drunk – drunk and yet sober. Nathan laughed.

“At least, this means I can take my time with you,” he said. “That drug’s perfect, because it removes all your strength and coordination. I thought that if you made it this far, I’d have to deal with you, but honestly, I’m surprised that you did. You’re tougher than I gave you credit for.”

You’re not the first person to think that, the old Sage said in the back of his mind, even though the current Sage had to admit that he was stumped over what to do.

“So you’re going to make it look like I was involved?” he asked, even though he knew that he didn’t have much time left to play for, and his time was running out.

“Exactly. It’ll be the perfect scenario, actually. The police will piece it together just fine. I saw you looking at the scene. You’re the missing link. You came in here to try to save Alison from the murderous doc, but of course, you were too late to do that, although you managed to give him a serious head injury and kill him. And then, you looked at what you did, and you had another of those PTSD breakdowns, and you couldn’t handle things. So, you killed yourself. You see? It all makes sense, and it’ll be easy for the police to figure out.” He glanced at the scene. “Of course, I’m not done yet. Neither of them is dead yet. I was busy getting more meds when you stumbled in and setting up the scene. But to be honest, it’s better with you here. It all makes more sense.”

Better with you here.

There weren’t many criminals that had said that and not regretted it. But now, he felt a creeping fear that Nathan would succeed.

He yanked his wrist toward him. Sage tried to resist. He had more strength in his arms this time, but still not enough. Even so, Nathan’s face changed and he saw that a focused, intent look was replacing his earlier triumph.

“Now, let’s get this inside you. I don’t have time to waste.”

He grabbed his wrist. And as Sage looked into his eyes, the last of his repressed memories came rushing back.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Like an explosion, the memories surged back into Sage’s mind, as he gulped in air, unable to stop Nathan as he grasped his elbow in a practiced manner, looking for a vein.

“Drop the gun. It’ll be better for everyone,” he’d pleaded with Keegan.

He’d felt as if he’d been cracking under the strain, and keeping his voice even had been impossible. Somehow, he’d managed. He was shaking with the strain of calmly keeping himself quiet and still. But he felt that he’d connected with this troubled man. He was talking him down. Sage could see that the tension was ebbing from him, and the frantic stress in his eyes was lessening.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll do it.”

Just as Sage realized that this had taken him to his limits, and that he had no more left in his own tank, Keegan had thrown the gun toward him, and it had thudded to the ground in front of him. He’d felt relief overwhelm him. He’d been so exhausted from that showdown that there had been no room for anything except blank, utter relief.

He’d done it, he’d talked somebody down, and Sage knew that this meant more than just saving lives.

It was what he’d failed to do with his own father, who had taken his life after his first round of treatment.

It was what he needed, desperately, to do in order to bring himself the peace and validation he needed.

But Keegan’s hands were still coiled in the woman’s hair, and as Sage stepped toward him, his hands tautened.

“I can’t do it!” he’d screamed. “I can’t! I can’t!” He’d yanked her toward him even harder and, in front of Sage’s horrified eyes, he yanked a scalpel out of his jacket, and drew it across the woman’s throat, cutting off her scream in one deep, bloody line.

“No!” Sage had reacted instantly, picking up the fallen gun and aiming it at Keegan – the man that he’d spent the past two hours talking with, reasoning with, sharing some stories about their families as he tried to talk him down.

This was the troubled man who’d confessed to Sage, during that endless talk, that he loved chocolate milkshakes, and he wanted his own dog one day, and that when this was over, he was going to call his mother, who he hadn’t spoken to for a decade, and make his peace with her.

Sage aimed and fired and shot him in the head, and he fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

After that, it had been bloody mayhem. He’d yelled for help, and the door had burst open, and the rest of his SWAT team had come storming in. Keegan was dead. The girl whose neck he’d sliced open was close to death. She had a severed artery and had been rushed to the hospital, and despite all their efforts, she’d died there, too.

Sage hadn’t remembered it until now. He hadn’t remembered looking into the eyes of that man, raising his gun, and deliberately shooting him in the head.

The rest of his team had tried to console him as he’d folded down and sat with his hands over his head, shaking at what he ended up doing. They’d said it was inevitable, and that nobody could have prevented what happened, and that most likely, he’d intended on suicide by cop all along.

He’d thought that he’d been able to prevent this, to save two lives. He hadn’t.

And within an hour, he couldn’t remember it at all, and had been a shaking, stammering wreck.

*

Now, that scene came screaming back into his mind, and with it came such a flood of panic and adrenaline that he found the strength to do what he needed to.

He jerked his hand away from Nathan, just as the needle touched his skin.

Sage managed to stumble back, panting as he relived the horrors that had sent him deep inside himself, knowing he didn’t have the strength for anything else.

At least he’d faced his demons. Maybe, he’d be able to muster up one more kick, before his legs buckled.

Nathan lunged toward him, desperation etched in his face, and with all his strength, Sage let out that kick, raising his leg and lashing it out, nearly toppling over as he lost his balance, but Nathan sprawled back, ricocheting from off the bedrail and then nearly tripping over Dr. Fleming’s leg. The doctor was starting to come around, groaning and muttering, but he still wouldn’t be enough help to Sage. Sage needed to do this on his own, if he could.

Collecting his marshmallow limbs as best he could, he prepared to deliver another kick, this one stronger. But Nathan leaped forward and shoved him back, so that Sage crashed against the wall, nearly losing his balance.

He was going to lose the fight. Again.

Scrambling to his feet, he looked desperately around for something to defend himself with as Nathan advanced, his face twisted in fury. But the only thing he could find in this sterile room was the empty travel bag belonging to Alison.

Maybe he could throw it. His fingers fastened around it. Every moment brought hope. Every delaying tactic meant the possibility of a win.

He flung the bag toward Nathan, aiming for his head. But the nurse twisted aside to avoid it, and it bashed his shoulder, causing him to let out a cry of pain. He advanced again, and Sage readied himself for a head butt that he feared would end with him running straight into the hypodermic.

And then, from outside the window, he heard a shout.

“Sage! Sage, where are you? Are you okay?”

It was Maya.

Nathan tensed, freezing in place as he turned to stare at the window. The blinds were down. Sage couldn’t see outside. But Maya was there. She’d come back to help him, and she must have heard the struggle from outside the building.

Using his voice, Sage roared out in reply.

“I’m here! I’m in here. Smash the window! Get someone to the main door.”

Nathan’s face paled; he tensed, dropped the hypodermic, and ran out of the room.

“He’s running!” Sage yelled, just as the window glass splintered. On boneless legs, he shambled to the door and headed down the corridor, pursuing him. But Maya hadn’t been working alone. She’d sounded the alarm, and Sage now saw that people were flooding toward the residential building.

There was the night guard, and there was Doc Ellen, wearing a blue dressing gown, her hair rumpled and her face drawn with tension.

Nathan stopped, gasping, his voice high.

“He was trying to corner me! He was trying to kill me!” he said, pointing to Sage.

“Nice try,” Sage said to Nathan, as the guard moved forward to grab Nathan by his wrists. “Nice try. You should have taken your gloves off before you decided on that lie. And maybe explaining your entire process to me was a bad idea. And so was drugging my food."

With that delivered, Sage’s knees buckled.

Not exactly the way the old Sage would have wrapped up a case, he thought, as he slid to the ground, seeing Maya’s face tauten in concern. She rushed over to him. There were cries for help. Strong hands grabbed him and helped him into a sitting position as he clumsily tried to comply.

But strangely, Sage felt a sense of peace as he was taken care of. With Nathan now being hauled away by the security guard, Sage found he didn’t care that he was vulnerable.

He wasn’t the old Sage anymore.

EPILOGUE

"It's been over a week since Nathan's arrest," Sage said, perched on the edge of his bed, his foot swinging. He had his sneakers on because he was going to go for a long walk before lunch. "And I'm feeling much better, Marco."

His boss had called him just after he’d finished a therapy session with Doc Ellen. It had been the first time he’d called since Sage had lost his temper and quit.

During the session, they’d taken a deep dive into Sage’s earlier life, and for the first time ever, he’d been ready to admit the helplessness and fear that he’d felt as he watched his father’s condition deteriorate, his moods worsen, the triggers that sent him into a spiral becoming more and more common.

Only now was Sage understanding the gaping scars which he’d armor-plated over, but which had never healed. And each subsequent career trauma, each showdown, each brush with danger, had buried them deeper, where they’d festered.

Strangely, the incident with Nathan had been a giant leap forward in his healing. Not only had that showdown finally allowed him to face his worst repressed memory, but Sage felt as if, for the first time, he'd truly been able to debrief after the threat and the tension.

Doc Ellen had walked him through the whole process the next day after the police had left, taking a statement from him about his actions through the evening.

The case against Nathan was strong. He was responsible for more than ten ‘suicides’ that were really murders during the three years he’d worked in the area as a nurse – and now it was clear that where he’d worked before, in Ohio, there had been another string of murders.

Everything had been handed over to Maya and the FBI, who were still rooting out every case. Nathan was cooperating, mostly, which was helping. Alison had hazy memories of the entire episode, thanks to the dose of sedative that Nathan had given her with her dinner, but she was physically unharmed and would be continuing with her treatment at Oakview.

Dr. Fleming’s head injury was serious, and he’d be taking a few months of leave to fully recuperate from the severe concussion. Sage hoped that when he came back to work, he’d rethink his approach and wouldn’t be so egotistical as to try to minimize the deaths that had happened on his watch, believing that they were mistakes that he couldn’t admit to making.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Marco said. “We all cheered when we heard that you’d managed to do a takedown at that hospital and get your memory back in the process. Seriously, we were all rooting for you, but we never thought the start of your recovery would be this dramatic.”

The start of his recovery. Those words reminded Sage that he was not fully healed. He had a long way to go. He was going to need to be on meds for a long time to come, and there would need to be many more sessions as he explored the buildup of trauma that had led to the breakdown.

He guessed he wouldn’t be coming back to Quantico anytime soon.

“There’s a long road still to go,” he acknowledged.

He didn’t even know if he was going to inherit his father’s bipolar disorder, which only seemed to show itself in the thirties. That was a ticking time bomb that he wasn’t allowing himself to worry about – not when there were so many other, more important worries.

Like his career. He guessed that Marco was calling for a reason today.

“Listen, we’ve been thinking. And talking,” his boss said.

“Yes?” Nathan asked.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to reconsider your resignation.”

“Why?” Sage asked, his heart pounding.

“Look, we don’t want to put you in a situation where you’re going to go through what you went through last time. No matter what happens next, I can’t authorize your return to Quantico. Or to any busy field office. Not yet. Not for at least another year.” Then, Marco added, “I’ve been talking to the head of the Bureau there in Iowa. And he’s agreed to an arrangement, if you’re keen.”

“What’s that?”

“It isn’t the same type of role you had previously, I know. But there’s a job available in the satellite field office, which isn’t far from where you are now. Apparently, they’re desperate for help there, and would be grateful for someone as qualified as you. It’s mainly a desk job, but of course, there will be opportunities to assist with investigations. It’s all we can do now, Sage, for your own sake. What do you think?”

Marco’s last words were falsely cheerful, and for a reason. At the words, Sage hadn’t been able to stifle a feeling of crushing disappointment. He was being sidelined. He wasn’t good enough for a pressurized environment. They didn’t want him on the high profile investigations, on the SWAT teams, or in dangerous situations.

On the other hand, though, he was being given a chance. They were counter-offering and hadn’t accepted that he was quitting.

And he'd get to work with Maya. He liked her. She had grit and tenacity, and she’d come to help him. If it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have survived the showdown with Nathan.

The least he could do was take the opportunity that they’d generously offered in a place where he was needed.

He could spend the year reinventing himself, get to know the new Sage, and see where his career path led him.

“That sounds like a great idea,” he said.

“Well, good.” Marco sounded astonished, as if he’d never expected such a reply from the Sage West that had headed off to Oakview, just over a week ago.

He’d gotten a second chance, and he was determined that he was going to make the most of it.

Now, to find out what he was capable of.

NOW AVAILABLE!

KEEP RUNNING

(A Sage West FBI Suspense Thriller—Book Two)

“Molly Black has written a taut thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat… I absolutely loved this book and can’t wait to read the next book in the series!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

Shaken by PTSD from a traumatic case, brilliant FBI Agent Sage West recovers in a psychiatric clinic tucked away in the vast Midwest farmlands—when a local case demands his expertise, and local cops need his help before a killer strikes again….

When a chain of disparate murders strikes rural America, all signs suggest an array of killers—but FBI Agent Sage West suspects a more sinister force at work. His investigation leads him to confront his own fractured psyche, while an erratic killing spree remains as unpredictable as it is deadly. Can Sage stop a multifaceted menace before another life is claimed?

“I binge read this book. It hooked me in and didn't stop till the last few pages… I look forward to reading more!”

—Reader review for Found You

KEEP RUNNING is book #2 in a long anticipated new series by critically-acclaimed and #1 bestselling mystery and suspense author Molly Black, whose books have received over 2,000 five-star reviews and ratings. The series begins with KEEP STILL (Book #1).

Immerse yourself in the thrilling Sage West series, where mystery intertwines with heart-pounding suspense. With its rapid-fire storytelling and gripping plot revelations, this heart-pounding thriller promises an engrossing read that will keep you turning pages all night! Fans of Lisa Gardner, Melinda Leigh, and Kendra Elliot are sure to fall in love.

Future books in the series are now available!

“I loved this book! Fast-paced plot, great characters and interesting insights into investigating cold cases. I can't wait to read the next book!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

“Very good book… You will feel like you are right there looking for the kidnapper! I know I will be reading more in this series!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

“This is a very well written book and holds your interest from page 1… Definitely looking forward to reading the next one in the series, and hopefully others as well!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

“Wow, I cannot wait for the next in this series. Starts with a bang and just keeps going.”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

“Well written book with a great plot, one that will keep you up at night. A page turner!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

“A great suspense that keeps you reading… can't wait for the next in this series!”

—Reader review for Found You

“Sooo soo good! There are a few unforeseen twists… I binge read this like I binge watch Netflix. It just sucks you in.”

—Reader review for Found You

KEEP RUNNING

(A Sage West FBI Suspense Thriller—Book Two)

Molly Black

Bestselling author Molly Black is author of the MAYA GRAY FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eleven books; of the RYLIE WOLF FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books; of the TAYLOR SAGE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eight books; of the KATIE WINTER FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the RUBY HUNTER FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the CAITLIN DARE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books (and counting); of the REESE LINK mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the CLAIRE KING FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the PIPER WOODS mystery series, comprising eight books; of the GRACE FORD mystery series, comprising eight books (and counting); of the CASEY BOLT mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the JADE SAVAGE mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the ELISE CLOSE psychological thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the TESSA FLINT mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the CLARA PIKE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the CASSANDRA FIERCE suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the SERENA KNOX suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting).

GIRL ONE: MURDER (a Maya Gray FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), FOUND YOU (a Rylie Wolf FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), SAVE ME (a Katie Winter FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), and DON’T LOOK (a Taylor Sage FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1) are available as free downloads on Amazon!

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Molly loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.mollyblackauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

BOOKS BY MOLLY BLACK

SERENA KNOX SUSPENSE THRILLER

RUN AWAY (Book #1)

RUN FROM HERE (Book #2)

RUN HOME (Book #3)

RUN FROM HIM (Book #4)

RUN OUT OF TIME (Book #5)

RUN NOW (Book #6)

RUN SCARED (Book #7)

CASSANDRA FIERCE SUSPENSE THRILLER

RISING TIDE (Book #1)

RISING FEAR (Book #2)

RISING ABYSS (Book #3)

RISING TERROR (Book #4)

RISING DARKNESS(Book #5)

RISING DOUBT (Book #6)

RISING NIGHT (Book #7)

ELISE CLOSE SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND HER LIES (Book #1)

BEHIND HER SMILE (Book #2)

BEHIND HER SECRETS (Book #3)

BEHIND HER GATES (Book #4)

BEHIND LOCKED DOORS (Book #5)

CLARA PIKE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

REMEMBER THE FEAR (Book #1)

REMEMBER THE DEAD (Book #2)

REMEMBER THE LIES (Book #3)

REMEMBER THE SILENCE (Book #4)

REMEMBER THE PAST (Book #5)

TESSA FLINT MYSTERY SERIES

BARELY SEEN (Book #1)

BARELY HEARD (Book #2)

BARELY FORGOTTEN (Book #3)

BARELY MISSING (Book #4)

BARELY ALIVE (Book #5)

BARELY THERE (Book #6)

BARELY SILENT (Book #7)

JADE SAVAGE MYSTERY SERIES

ALL SHE FEARS (Book #1)

ALL SHE WANTS (Book #2)

ALL SHE REMEMBERS (Book #3)

ALL SHE NEEDS (Book #4)

ALL SHE HIDES (Book #5)

ALL SHE DREADS(Book #6)

ALL SHE LOST (Book #7)

CASEY BOLT MYSTERY SERIES

BROKEN (Book #1)

FLAWED (Book #2)

BLEMISHED (Book #3)

DAMAGED (Book #4)

TWISTED (Book #5)

FRACTURED (Book #6)

TAINTED (Book #7)

GRACE FORD MYSTERY SERIES

NEARLY MINE (Book #1)

NEARLY SAFE (Book #2)

NEARLY FREE (Book #3)

NEARLY GONE (Book #4)

NEARLY HIS (Book #5)

NEARLY LOST (Book #6)

NEARLY DONE (Book #7)

NEARLY NEXT (Book #8)

CLAIRE KING MYSTERY SERIES

ONCE HE SEES (Book #1)

ONCE HE LONGS (Book #2)

ONCE HE TAKES (Book #3)

ONCE HE FEELS (Book #4)

ONCE HE KNOWS (Book #5)

MAYA GRAY MYSTERY SERIES

GIRL ONE: MURDER (Book #1)

GIRL TWO: TAKEN (Book #2)

GIRL THREE: TRAPPED (Book #3)

GIRL FOUR: LURED (Book #4)

GIRL FIVE: BOUND (Book #5)

GIRL SIX: FORSAKEN (Book #6)

GIRL SEVEN: CRAVED (Book #7)

GIRL EIGHT: HUNTED (Book #8)

GIRL NINE: GONE (Book #9)

GIRL TEN: WANTED (Book #10)

GIRL ELEVEN: VANISHED (Book #11)

RYLIE WOLF FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

FOUND YOU (Book #1)

CAUGHT YOU (Book #2)

SEE YOU (Book #3)

WANT YOU (Book #4)

TAKE YOU (Book #5)

DARE YOU (Book #6)

TAYLOR SAGE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

DON’T LOOK (Book #1)

DON’T BREATHE (Book #2)

DON’T RUN (Book #3)

DON’T FLINCH (Book #4)

DON’T REMEMBER (Book #5)

DON’T TELL (Book #6)

KATIE WINTER FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SAVE ME (Book #1)

REACH ME (Book #2)

HIDE ME (Book #3)

BELIEVE ME (Book #4)

HELP ME (Book #5)

FORGET ME (Book #6)

HOLD ME (Book #7)

PROTECT ME (Book #8)

REMEMBER ME (Book #9)

CATCH ME (Book #10)

WATCH ME (Book #11)

RUBY HUNTER FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IF I RUN (Book #1)

IF I TELL (Book #2)

IF I LIVE (Book #3)

IF I FORGET (Book #4)

IF I RETURN (Book #5)

CAITLIN DARE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

COME GET ME (Book #1)

COME FIND ME (Book #2)

COME TAKE ME (Book #3)

COME CATCH ME (Book #4)

COME SAVE ME (Book #5)

REESE LINK MYSTERY

BEYOND REASON (Book #1)

BEYOND REACH (Book #2)

BEYOND REPAIR (Book #3)

BEYOND DOUBT (Book #4)

BEYOND NORMAL (Book #5)

PIPER WOODS FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMEWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

SOMEWHERE SANE(Book #2)

SOMEWHERE WHOLE (Book #3)

SOMEWHERE FAR (Book #4)

SOMEWHERE WRONG (Book #5)

SOMEWHERE HIDDEN (Book #6)

SOMEWHERE DARK (Book #7)

SOMEWHERE SILENT (Book #8)