Page 33 of Controlled Chaos

“And where might that be?”

“I grew up in Mountain View and moved to Canfield, Colorado. They’re snowy cold mountain towns up north.”

Porter pulled open doors to the cabinets hanging on the wall and began rummaging through them.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a key.” He gestured toward the door with a lock.

While Porter continued looking, his irritated sighs turned louder.

I twisted the knob on the door and grinned. “They must not be worried about security this far out on the island.”

“Why do you say that?” He asked.

“Because it appears, they didn’t bother to lock the door.”

“And here I thoughtIwas the problem solver,” Porter said, abandoning his search.

He followed me into the office.

It was a small space. A desk, a few clipboards hanging on the wall, and a couple of filing cabinets with dust collecting on top of the surface. The hot stale air was like breathing in a car with the windows up and parked in the Florida sun during noon. The air and ventilation system was non-existent.

He moved to the filing cabinet, while I was sitting at the desk checking all the drawers. Ten minutes later, there was nothing to indicate anyone was smuggled on or off the island, much less, no proof that they’d ever flown a single patient to the compound. There were only manifests for food and equipment. “They sure do a lot of cooking on the island.”

“Well, there are a ton of mouths to feed,” Porter answered. I left the desk and slowly scanned the room for anything at all that the feds could use to prove that dead girl had been here. There was nothing. Everything looked above-board. Maybe the FBI and Porter had it wrong. I might have questioned that if I hadn’t experienced the Stepford feeling at the compound.

“There’s nothing here,” I said.

Porter slammed the filing cabinet drawer shut. “I was sure we’d find something to prove there was more than one way to smuggle someone on and off the island.”

“Maybe there is,” I said, walking to the door. “Maybe we need to look for a way that’s a bit less obvious.”

He followed and shut the door behind us. Back in the cart, he drove to the other side of the island, until we arrived at a chain-link fence that blocked our path from going any farther.

The forest was thicker and darker beyond the barrier. I hopped out and climbed over the chain link fence and dropped lightly on the other side.

“Clara, we’re forbidden to cross this property line. It’s for our own safety,” Porter said.

I tilted my head. “That’s an ex-addict talking, that’s not the words of a curious FBI agent searching for answers.”

“You’re right,” Porter’s brows pulled together. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Maybe you’re still under the influence of whatever they’re putting in the Kool-Aid.” I rested my hands on the top of the fence. “Haven’t you ever wondered why it’s off-limits? I mean, come on—maybe this is where they sneak people off and onto the island.”

“I’d need a warrant for anything we find to be admissible.”

“Two lost visitors on the island went exploring for some private time,” I said, wiggling my brows.

“They won’t buy that excuse from someone who has spent time here. They’d even expect better of me because of who I’m related to,” he said.

“Don’t worry. You can blame me. You had to follow me over the fence.” I smiled and winked. “I can convince a judge if need be.”

I turned and was headed into the forest to the sound of Porter cursing behind me and the clinking noise of the fence as he climbed it.

He caught up to me and walked by my side. The canopy of dark green trees blocked out the incoming sun and reduced it to an occasional ray hitting the forest floor.

Everything was different on this side of the island, or maybe it was just me.

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