Crestview is a twenty-eight-bed operation in the middle of some South Dakotan town no one’s ever heard of, and it’s 100 percent private pay. They cater mostly to the well-to-do, those wanting to hide away while they get better, those wanting to fly under the radar—and that’s exactly what we need, or the entirety of Quinnesec Bluff will know our business by the end of the weekend.
I wheel her bag to the corner of her room and park it beside a small dresser that appears to be secured to the wall.
She takes a seat on the side of a twin mattress. There are no headboards. Nothing metal or ornamental or potentially hazardous. A frameless oil painting on simple canvas is mounted to the far wall, but other than that, it’s austerity at its finest—which is exactly what she needs after everything she’s gone through in the last twenty-four hours.
“How long was I away last time?” she asks. There’s a childlike sadness in her eyes as she stares up at me with her deep-set gaze.
“It wasn’t longer than a month,” I say.
“We’ll do our best to make your path to wellness as efficient as possible,” the center administrator says from the doorway, her posture rigid. “But we do ask that you try your best to take it one day at a time.”
Cynthia’s gaze passes between the two of us, like she’s anxious for me to leave before one of us changes our mind. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner she can bleed us dry. This place isn’t cheap. Six hundred twenty dollars a night, last I checked. I could put her up at a Four Seasons for less than that, but this is what she needs.
It’s the way it has to be.
It’s the only way.
“Mrs. Emberlin, we have you scheduled for your complete physical evaluation in an hour and a half. They’re getting ready to serve lunch in about twenty minutes. I can walk you to the dining hall now if you’re hungry?” Cynthia motions for us to exit the room. “Dr. Emberlin, you said you had some records for me?”
“Right,” I say. “I’ll grab them as soon as we’re finished here.”
“Perfect. I have a few forms for you to sign before you leave as well.” She redirects her attention, pivoting on the ball of her foot. “And Mrs. Emberlin, you do understand that your husband is acting as your agent in accordance with your psychiatric advance directive, and that while your stay technically falls under voluntary committal, you are not permitted to come and go as you please.”
“It’s just a technicality,” I add. I go to her, taking her hands in mine. “And I’ll come see you every weekend. You’ll be home before you know it.”
“Thirty days, Niall,” she says. Her glassy blues squeeze shut, and she bites her lip to stop it from quivering, a far departure from her determined mind-set in the car a short while ago.
“You can do this. You’ve done it before,” I say. I almost add, “Remember?” But then I catch myself.
Of course she doesn’t remember.
She won’t.
She can’t.
And she’ll never.
Because it never happened.
“I love you,” I lie, cupping her cheek before depositing an unfeeling kiss on her trembling mouth. She doesn’t want to be here, and I don’t blame her. I saw the medicated zombies perched on chairs in the “social hall” on our way in here. I heard the wailing screams coming from behind closed doors. I saw the orderlies running down the halls with syringes full of tranquilizers in their hands. I felt the burn of airborne bleach and antiseptic as it filled my lungs.
She doesn’t belong here.
But she doesn’t know that.
“Mrs. Emberlin,” Cynthia says, “I’d hate for you to miss lunch as we don’t serve dinner until six PM. Why don’t you come with me?”
She throws her arms around me, clinging to me like a child silently begging not to be left at summer camp, and then she lets me go.
I watch her trek down the hall, my chest bursting with pride at the fact that I’m a goddamned genius and I pulled this off—not that I doubted myself for one second.
CHAPTER 24
“If you’ll just sign here.” Cynthia presses a garish red fingernail against a highlighted line at the bottom of a legal-sized sheet filled with fine print.
I have no idea what I’m signing. I haven’t read any of it, only pretended, ensuring it seems as though I’m taking my time. All I know (and all that matters) is that I’m committing her, and they won’t let her leave without my permission. By the time they realize what’s going on, I’ll be long gone. Unreachable and untraceable, my pockets fat with Dougray dollar bills.
“And did you have a preferential method of payment?” Cynthia asks. “We accept all major credit cards as well as personal and bankers’ checks.”
I retrieve the cashier’s check from my wallet that I’d had prepared yesterday afternoon as I was putting the finishing touches on this piece of my plan. It took a bit of finagling, transferring money from one of Brienne’s accounts to another and stopping into her local bank branch armed with Photoshopped documents designating me as Brienne Dougray’s power of attorney, but I managed to move twenty grand around without getting any guff.
It’s amazing how easy it is to get people to trust you when you’re dressed in hospital scrubs and offer a compassionate “good doctor” smile to anyone who so much as looks your way.
Perception is everything.
And at the end of the day, people believe what they want to believe, and no one wants to believe someone who looks so nice could be anything but.
“Perfect.” Cynthia records the check number in her computer and places the check in a nearby leather pouch. “And you’d mentioned medical records?”
I produce the manila folder I’d grabbed from the back of my car when we first came in.
I’m nothing if not prepared.
“Oh.” Cynthia nips the inner corner of her lip. “These aren’t sealed. Technically they have to be sealed, or they have to come directly from the previous provider to us; otherwise we can’t use them.”
I’m well aware.
But I need to buy some time.
“Yes, well, everything happened so quickly. All I had on hand were our personal copies,” I say. “This should hopefully get you by until I can put in the request with the last hospital.”
Cynthia gives me a nod and nothing more. Legally she can’t use these records, but she’s not about to discharge us and lose out on this easy windfall.
“If there’s no further paperwork, I should head back to Iowa.” I stand and check my watch. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long.
“Of course,” Cynthia says. She walks me to the front door. “Your wife is in good hands, Dr. Emberlin. We’ll take excellent care of her. Dr. Schneider is one of the best; in fact, he’s published several papers on dissociative identity disorder.”
I clear my throat.
That fact was one I wasn’t exactly aware of when I chose this facility.
I reply with a quick and cordial, “Why do you think I chose Crestview?”
“Feel free to call for updates anytime you need, day or night,” she says. “Mrs. Emberlin did sign a release and you’re listed on her directive, so you’re privy to any and all her treatment plan and progress notes.”