Page 16 of Shattered Dreams

When Gage and I were still together, I should have asked him. He was checking into Quiet Meadows, but I never thought to ask if he found out anything. I need to start being an active participant in my own life. There’s no excuse for not knowing these things.

I’ve been hiding because I’m scared. I don’t like the thought of what I’ll find if I start digging. The things that they were doing at Quiet Meadows, to me and the other girls. Why those girls are dead, and if they’re connected. What happened to Ingrid. I’m a part of it, somehow, and I don’t want to be. Ash pulled me into something I don’t want anything to do with.

I change out of my dress and wash my face. It’s not that late, and I’m not hungry. I could start walking from room to room, writing down the things I want done. The kitchen needs a facelift, and the living room could use new furniture and a fresh wallpaper. I redecorated my room after Zane discharged me, butthat’s already been a year and a half ago and it still screams little girl, though it’s better than it used to be.

Wearing my pajamas, I walk around the penthouse, catching glimpses of a young Stella carrying a coffee tray into Zane’s room or getting ready in the bathroom to go out. She fit into our lives so seamlessly, my best friend, my brother’s lover. It’s like she’s always been with us.

Leaning into my parents’ room, I can imagine them lying in bed, laughing about the day, or my dad talking through a problem, my mom giving him a willing ear. They were more than a couple, more than husband and wife. It’s easy to say they were soulmates, but they were more than even that. They were passionately in love until the moment they died, and I know how rare that is, to still be in love thirty years after saying “I do.” People grow bored, they grow apart, through no fault of their own, but my mom and dad admired each other, respected each other, and always took the other’s opinion to heart.

That’s another failure of mine. Gage said I wouldn’t hold him back, and that was my own belief. My problems, my history, they would hold anyone back, not only Gage, but he said he wanted to be there and help me find my way and I didn’t believe him. I should have. I thought I knew better than him, and in the end, I took his choices away.

My parents never would have done that to each other.

I sigh, pad barefoot downstairs, and ride the elevator down to the twenty-fifth floor. I want to use Zane’s computer in his office. Not interested in most things online, I still don’t have a laptop, and I don’t want to do any searching on my phone. It’s time I start researching a few things, if I can figure out where to start.

Zane’s office is locked, and I lean against the door in disappointment. I didn’t consider he’d lock his door, but he has no reason to leave it open. Especially since he’s taking a few days off.

Now what?

Not wanting to give up so easily, I eye Peggy’s computer, sit in her chair, and wiggle the mouse. The monitor blinks on, and I squint against the bright light. Our company logo pops onto the screen then dissolves into a password field.Crap.There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to guess her password. Having no choice but to give up now, I start to push away, but a pink sticky note stuck to the edge of the monitor catches my eye, and I pause. It’s a string of letters and numbers, creating the perfect password. As a lark, I carefully type them in, one by one so I don’t have to start over and risk getting locked out. I press Enter, and Peggy’s desktop appears.

I sag in relief.

Folders and icons clutter the screen, and I don’t know what any of them mean. They’re a cruel reminder of what little I’ve done to support our company.

Does Zane feel powerful running Maddox Industries or is it a burden he resents? He finally has people he can depend on, but he still does most of the work himself. I should be by his side helping him. I should go to school and pick up my share of the responsibilities.

I’m embarrassed to say I don’t even know what we do, not in any real sense I could explain to anyone, but we make a lot of money doing it.

Tucking a leg under my butt and settling deeper into Peggy’s chair, I click on the Chrome icon. That’s what Gage uses on his laptop, otherwise I wouldn’t have known how to connect to the internet at all.

I start small, getting used to Peggy’s keyboard, and I bring upTruth or Dare. I took a few pictures of Zane and Stella saying their vows, but earlier we agreed to sell them as an exclusive to a celebrity magazine and put the money toward the people whowere hurt the day Gage’s truck exploded and the women Ash used who are still struggling.

Scrolling through the website, I pick up a few boring bits and pieces of other socialites in the city who are having their moment without Stella and me in the picture. There are a couple photos of us going into the spa and the short post guesses at what we’re getting ready for, but luckily, there’s nothing more. Paparazzi still follow Gage—they’re hoping for something juicy. The timestamp on the photo says the photographer took it about the time Zane, Stella, and I were eating dinner. I try to view the picture like I would anything else, a dress or a bracelet, but it’s hard to see Gage through my tears opening his truck’s door for Sierra outside what I assume is her apartment building.

He’s with her again tonight.

I press my lips together against a sob. He has every right to go out. He’s available, and he is because I made him that way. Now he has a shoulder to cry on, a rebound girlfriend. I should call Tate and have my own pictures flashed about online. That would show him.

He probably wouldn’t care.

I wipe my cheeks, exit out of the website, and navigate to a Google search page. I have no idea what I’m looking for, and this isn’t the way to find what I need. I should ask Zane to let me have my medical records. Not knowing where else to start, I search Jerricka’s name. She’s a psychiatrist to the rich and famous, and the search engine tosses up a lot of websites and pictures in the results. I scroll through the images. I always thought she was pretty in a cool, classic kind of way. The platinum hair, the way she holds herself, never revealing any emotion.

One photo shows her at some kind of convention, and she’s standing near a man I know. The photo’s caption says his name is Dr. Martin Pederson, and I remember him from Quiet Meadows. He wasn’t the doctor working for Ash, but hewould lead some of the group therapy sessions they forced me to attend. He seemed nice, in a dispassionate sort of way, like Jerricka, not willing to get too close, physical or otherwise. He never looked twice at me, and I don’t know if it’s because he thought I was a lost cause or if he knew I was under Ash’s control and didn’t want to interfere.

Skimming the article that goes along with the picture, it says it was taken at an awards dinner recognizing Dr. Pederson for the work he’s done on behalf of individuals suffering from bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I click through some of the other photos and stop on a stocky, dark-haired man who’s wearing glasses, a black suit, and an electric blue tie. It’s a candid photo, his face partially hidden by a white column. I know this man. He would wheel me down to the basement. Looking at his picture, I smell peppermint and cigarette smoke, and all of a sudden my stomach pitches.

Dr. Stephen Mallory, the country’s leading authority on dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. There were several patients at Quiet Meadows who had dementia whose families were hoping for a cure. I didn’t consider that. I thought they were using the facility to dump the family they didn’t want burdening them anymore.

Like what Zane did to me.

I push the thought away. That’s not what he did, even if it feels like it.

Hmmm. I wonder where Dr. Mallory’s practicing now that Quiet Meadows is closed.

I search his name separately and scroll through the results. He has a practice in the building where Jerricka’s office is located, and he’s affiliated with a private hospital on the south side of King’s Crossing.

I click around various sites poking for more information. I read a few testimonials written by patients and their familieshe helped, gushing about what a wonderful, intelligent, kind man he is, and that seems to be true—he’s been a recipient of several medical grants throughout the years. He’s done a lot in his lifetime, and a Wikipedia page listing his birthdate says he’s twenty years older than Gage. He seemed younger, but I’m remembering him through a haze of drugs.

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