Page 67 of Gilded Locks
She lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “I don’t remember anything like that, but they kept me so medicated, I’m not sure. I was angry, but I think—based on my circumstances—that was a normal emotion.”
“Sure.”
“Since then, I’ve been unable to trust my own thoughts. I even question my memories.”
“Trauma can do that to a person.”
“They said my delusions about Jordan were symptoms of severe mental illness.”
“What do you feel in your gut?”
“I know what he is. What he did to your sister only confirms my instincts. Jordan’s a predator.”
He looked away, and the library chilled. “So you know better.”
“I know what I saw before they had me committed. The girls he brought home. The way they looked afterward. Broken. Confused. Regretful. Jordan knew I was on to him, so he convinced my father to send me away.”
“Why didn’t your father question his accusations?”
She bit her lip. “I’ve always had anxiety. When I was young, I’d have attacks. My mom used to talk me through them, because my father couldn’t understand what was happening. He doesn’t like inconvenient emotions. Jordan said my behavior was getting worse. He played on my father’s fears of social ruin and convinced him I was a danger to the family’s reputation.”
“And your mother?”
“She tried to stop him. But she couldn’t get through his fear. He needed to protect the Calder name, and my accusations about Jordan were a threat.” She let out a breath. “After that, every time I tried to tell someone, tried to make them understand, they’d increase my dosage.”
The memories came in flashes—white rooms, white uniforms, white pills that turned her thoughts to cotton. The taste of chemical compliance on her tongue.
“How long before you stopped fighting?” Ash asked.
“Six months.” The admission felt like failure. “Six months of being told I was crazy, that my memories weren’t real, that Jordan was perfect, and I was sick. Eventually, I believed them.”
“But not completely.”
“No. There was always this voice in the back of my head, so small I could barely hear it, whispering that they were wrong. That what I’d seen was real.” She looked up at him. “Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.” His fingers combed through her hair with gentle precision. “Gaslighting is a weapon, printessa. They tried to steal your reality. But some part of you refused to let go.”
The understanding in his voice made tears prick her eyes. “Once you’re there and they realize your family has no interest in letting you out, they move you to a different floor. The rules are different there. The rooms aren’t cleaned as often. The food’s not as fresh. And the orderlies… Well, they follow different rules, too.”
“Tell me.”
She didn’t know where to start or how much he wanted to know. In a way, if felt like a relief to unburden herself to someone who might actually care, someone who could spare an ounce of compassion for all she’d suffered. However, self-preservation kept her silent. If she told him, he’d know her darkest secrets and see her truest shame.
She thought about the bars on the windows that cast prison shadows across their beds. About the orderlies who enjoyed their power a little too much, who found excuses to conduct ‘wellness checks’ that left the female patients violated and cowering.
“There was one orderly,” Marigold whispered, her eyes trained on the bookshelves ahead. “Willum. He only worked at night. And when he made his rounds, he’d…”
Her mind jumped to the last time she tried to tell on Willum. The doctors said she was having more paranoid delusions. They increased her medication until she could barely form complete sentences. That made Willum’s job a lot easier.
Ash’s jaw clenched, muscle jumping beneath his skin. “What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. I can see it still has power over you.”
“I was one of the lucky ones. My meds were strong. I couldn’t feel or think. In a way, I’m grateful. My roommate wasn’t so lucky.”
Ash hissed a sharp Russian profanity. “What did he do to her?”
