Page 57 of Lillian

I could reach through this phone and strangle her. But I need information first.

“When is the seventy-two hours up?” I grit out.

“Hmmm, well. Let’s see. She was admitted Thursday evening around five in the afternoon. So…” her voice is distant like she pulls the phone away from her ear, and I hear her mumbling as she counts out the days.Twenty-four, forty-eight, seventy-two.Then her voice is loud again, the phone back to her ear. “Should be tonight around five. Maybe–”

Before she can say anything else, I hang up the phone. The Equine Center is in San Diego—an almost six hour drive from me. It’s only noon now, Lillian and Grace left early so she could get Grace settled in before school tomorrow and a few things done around the house. So the rest of my day was free. Not anymore.

I rush around my apartment and put together a bag with a few days worth of clothes and my laptop to do work remotely. I’m going to be staying near Becca for the next few days in case anything else happens. I want to hear her side of this story, too. Something isn’t sitting right with me.

Even on Becca’s worst days, she’s never been violent toward other people. Sure, she has had thoughts of self-harm, but even that hasn’t been an issue since the first time when she was fourteen. It’s become much more manageable with all the therapy, group support, and education she has gotten the past four years. Some days, she talks aboutfeelinglike self-harming, but to my knowledge, there haven’t been any attempts since the first.

Which is why Rachel’s claim that Becca assaulted someone sounds like a load of fucking shit. I need to get Becca home with me sooner rather than later. But her birthday isn’t still for just under two more weeks.

Bag packed, I scoop up my phone and keys from the kitchen island, and jog to the elevator. This is about to be the longest fucking drive of my life.

As soon as I got on the road, I called Lillian to tell her what happened and that I’d be gone for at least a few days, possibly more depending on what I hear from my sister. The genuine worry in her voice, the acceptance, the way she told me to take as much time as I needed to make sure Becca was safe…it made me fall even deeper in love with her.

Five and a half hours later, I turn right into the therapy center. The driveway is about a mile of road lined with white horizontal slat fencing and trees. The grass beyond the fence is immaculate. You wouldn’t even realize they boarded horses here by the look of it. The front is definitely kept up for the aesthetics, to get as many people to bring their kids here as possible. The stables aren’t even kept close to the main property. It’s out back, miles from the public view, and they have to drive golf carts and gators to get back there.

The wrought iron gate comes into view, and I get as close to the intercom as I can so I’m not leaning halfway out my window.

A beep and then a dial tone rings out as I push the button to call up to security.

“Can I help you?” A man’s voice echoes through the staticky speaker.

“Lincoln Walton. I’m here to see my sister, Rebecca Walton.”

“Hold, please.” The speaker cuts off as the security guard goes to check Becca’s visitors list. A few seconds later, when he doesn’t come back right away, alarm bells ring off in my head. It’s never taken more than a two second glance for me to be buzzed in.

After about a minute, the man comes back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Walton. But you are no longer on Rebecca’s approved list of visitors. You’ll have to come back during visiting hours if you’d like to be admitted.”

My mind goes blank with rage. Jack and Gwen are behind this, too. I know it in my bones. “Yeah, I don’t fucking think so. The only person who is allowed to bar family entry is Becca, and I know for a fact she would never take my name off the list. You’re going to let me in to see my sister, or this fucking retreat is getting slapped with a lawsuit tomorrow morning,” I growl into the speaker.

I know it’s not this guy's fault. He’s just doing his job, and my fucking parents are the ones I really need to be mad at. But they’re not here, and he is. I also know a place like this, that looks like a rehab center for the kids of billionaires, politicians, and world leaders, cares too much about its publicity to let the news of a lawsuit hit the papers.

The speaker goes quiet, and I sit there, happy to wait. Right about now, he’s calling his boss and telling him what I just said. Two minutes later, the speaker buzzes, and the gates start to slowly swing open.

“That’s what I thought,” I mutter under my breath, too low for the security guard to hear, and drive through.

The frontof the rehab center has meticulously manicured hedges and flowers in front of a smaller stone welcome center. Not stopping at it, already knowing it’s closed, I continue down the drive to the much more grandiose main building. It’s a stone building, too, with large tan pillars holding up an outdoor patio area, a pool out back, and a large lit up fountain.

The main building is where the group sessions and classes are held. It has a gym for the residents and staff, a common area for study, and a game room for play.

Driving a little further, I make it to the long-term patient residential housing. As I do, I pull out my phone and give Becca a call. If they didn’t give her her phone back as soon as she was released from her psych hold, someone is getting fired.

“Hello?” she croaks out in a low voice, and I know someone isstillgetting fired. The defeated tone of her voice has my blood boiling. It hasn’t been like this for years. This place, for the most part, has been the best thing that has happened for her mental health.

“I’m outside, come let me in,” I tell her, and there’s a pause before she whispers, “Okay.” The line goes dead, and I park in one of the spots closest to her door. The residential living is setup like a college dorm room in the way that it’s a bunch of small apartments in one building, and you need a keycard to get into it.

It’s not top of the line security, but then again, they don’t really need SnowDen level shit when they already have another line of precautions to even get into the property.

The door swings open, and Becca’s blonde head pokes out. She took after our mom in that respect, where I took after my dad. She’s got mom’s small stature, blonde hair, and blue eyes. The only difference is that Becca is actually a good person. The best really.

Which is why her red-rimmed eyes, visible from even in my car, and the bags under them have me ready to punch something.

I hop out of my car, not bothering with my bag because she doesn’t have the space in her one bedroom to accommodate me. I'll be getting a hotel nearby after I check in with her.

Becca holds the door open with one arm for me, and as soon as I step in, I sweep her into a hug. Her tiny body collapses into me and, right there in the hall, she sobs into my chest. I let her, holding her tight to me until her tears dry up.

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