Page 123 of Lock Every Door

When I wake, it’s with jolting suddenness. My eyelids don’t flutter open. There’s no lazy, dry-mouthed yawn. I simply go from darkness to light in an instant, feeling the same way I did before I went to sleep.

Panicked.

I understand the situation with neon clarity. Chloe is in danger. Ingrid, too, if they ever find her. I need to help them.

Right now.

I look to the open door. The room is dark, the hallway silent. Nary a whisper or sneaker squeak to be heard.

“Hello?” Thirst has distorted my voice, turning it into an ungainly croak. “I need—”

To call the police.

That’s what I want to say. But my throat seizes up, cutting me off. I force out a cough, more to get the attention of a nurse than to revive my voice.

I try again, louder this time. “Hello?”

No one answers.

The hall, for the moment, appears to be empty.

I search the table by the bed for a phone. There isn’t one. Nor is there a call button with which to summon a nurse.

I slide out of bed, relieved to discover I can walk, although not very well. My legs are wobbly and weak, and my entire body is gripped with pain. Butsoon I’m out of the room and into a hallway that’s shorter than I expected. Just a dim corridor with doors leading to two other rooms and a small nurses’ station that’s currently empty.

There’s no phone there, either.

“Hello?” I call out. “I need help.”

Another door sits at the end of the hall, closed tight.

It’s white.

Windowless.

And heavy, a fact I learn when I try to pry it open. It takes an extra tug and a pain-flaring grunt to finally get it to budge.

I pass through it, finding myself in another hallway.

One I think I’ve seen before. Like all my recollections of late, it’s vague in my mind. A half memory made hazy by pain and worry and sedatives.

The hallway turns. I turn with it, rounding the corner into another hall.

To my right is a kitchen done up in muted earth tones. Above the sink is a painting. A snake curled into a perfect figure eight, chomping on its own tail.

Beyond the kitchen is a dining room. Beyond that are windows. Beyond them is Central Park colored orange by the setting sun, making it look like the whole park is on fire.

Seeing it sends a stark, cold fear pulsing through me.

I’m still in the Bartholomew.

I have been the whole time.

The realization makes me want to scream even though my throat won’t allow it. Fear and thirst have clenched it shut.

I start to move, my bare feet smacking the floor in worried, hurried steps. I get only a few feet before a voice rises from somewhere behind me.

Hearing it opens my throat, despite the thirst and fear. A scream erupts from deep inside me, only to be pushed back by a hand clamping over my mouth. Another hand spins me around so I can see who it is.

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