I’ve been in morgues that felt more alive than this place.
Whitmoor Psychiatric looms like something dragged forward from another century and slapped with a new nameplate. Once white paint now flakes from its concrete exterior in long curling strips, stained yellow near the drainage points and cracked from years of neglect. The windows are warped glass, double-paned and fogged like breath on a mirror, letting in only slivers of the morning sun. Signs warn against loitering. Another demands proper ID before entering. Cameras watch from every angle, like the building's nervous system doesn’t trust its own skin.
We pass through a set of double doors that wheeze when they open, and immediately, the smell hits—lemon-scented cleaner trying to smother metallic and institutional. Beneath the citrus is bleach. Beneath the bleach, fear. Elias steps up beside me, pulling the collar of his coat tighter like the place just reached for him. His ocean blue eyes do a slow sweep of the entryway and I know what he's thinking.
People disappear here, too.
The receptionist doesn’t look up. Her nails are painted a glossy pink that reminds me of bubblegum stretched too thin. She buzzes someone without asking why we’re here.
Administrator Alice Kinsey meets us by the front desk. She’s mid-50s, with a face that’s trying to age gracefully but can’t hide how tired her eyes are. Her blazer is navy, pinched at the shoulders, and her smile is more performance than welcome.
“You’re the detectives from Caven’s Hollow?” she asks.
I’m Detective Rowe, this is Detective Wexler,” I flash my badge. Elias does the same. “We’re here following up on Ruth Quinn’s discharge records. Four years ago. She was under care here.”
Kinsey doesn’t blink. “We don’t release patient information without a warrant.”
“We’re not asking for files,” I say calmly. “Just a conversation. Off the record.”
She tilts her head like I’ve asked her to recite the Hippocratic Oath backwards. “Let me check with compliance.”
Elias leans forward, charm switched on low. “We’re not here to cause trouble, Ms. Kinsey. We’re trying to find out what happened to a young woman who was in your care. She’s still missing. We think there might be a connection to an ongoing case.”
I try my best not to smile.
Kinsey's jaw shifts, but she doesn’t argue. A pause, then: “Wait here.”
She disappears behind a locked door, keys jangling. Elias glances at me and I raise an eyebrow in response. We both know the type—gatekeepers. Not villains, just people who’ve worked too long in broken systems. They protect the image because no one else will protect the reality.
Ten minutes later, she’s back with a man in a coffee-stained lab coat and a crooked name badge: Dr. Hal G. Cartwright. He’s older than the ID photo on his lanyard, grayer, with deep furrows in his brow and eyes that look like they haven’t closed fully since the '90s.
“You’re here about Ruth?” he asks wearily, as if she were someone who wandered off and might return any second.
I nod. He waves us down a hallway and into a break room with two plastic chairs, a vending machine stuck on "Out of Order", and an untouched pot of decaf coffee slowly congealing in the corner.
“She wasn’t violent,” he says, sitting with a groan. “Never raised her voice. But there was a fear in her I couldn’t reach, rooted deep.”
I shift uneasily on the plastic chair.
“What kind of fear?” Elias asks.
Cartwright rubs his temple. “She talked about being followed. Not by a person. Not exactly. She said it ‘dressed like people but didn’t move right.’ She said it left marks.”
Elias and I trade a glance.
“She ever document anything?” I ask.
“She wrote constantly. We encourage journaling. When she left, one of the interns boxed her things that got left behind, said there was a small notebook, possibly the journal.”
“We already looked in her discharge file,” Elias says. “It’s not there.”
Cartwright shrugs. “Might’ve been misplaced. Or she took it in the end. It happens.”
Elias leans back on his chair and crosses his arms. There isn't much to go on here.
“Would you mind if we checked the archives?” I ask. “Just for inventory logs. If it’s still here, we’d like to find it.”
Cartwright nods. “You’ll need Kinsey’s signoff.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I say.
Outside, Elias tilts his head toward the hallway. “I’ll go talk to Kinsey.”
Alice you-need-a-warrant Kinsey will never approve this but I nod and wait until he’s halfway down the corridor.
As Elias peels away to distract Kinsey, I take the corridor that veers left—away from reception, away from oversight. I’ve walked hospital wings before, but this one feels different. A quiet that isn’t sterile, but damp. Settled, like the air here hasn’t been disturbed in years and doesn’t want to be. Each hallway turns tighter. The signs thin out. Somewhere along the way, the linoleum gives up trying. It splits in uneven seams, revealing concrete underneath, stained with something that doesn’t smell like blood but looks close enough to make me notice. The light changes, too: overhead bulbs hum, casting dull, jaundiced halos that seem more performative than functional. I dread to think whether security noticed me rushing down the corridors.
Elias will be pissed.
The stairs to the archive level are steel and steep, groaning with every footfall like they’re remembering something unpleasant. I count them to calm myself down. Twelve steps down, and then a landing. Another four before the floor changes again—old hospital tile, pale gray, scuffed down to bone. The door at the end is unmarked, locked with a keycard reader.
I'm fucked.
I move between rows of old metal shelving, fingers skimming the edges of sagging boxes, paper tabs curling like brittle petals. Maybe there's something here. My boots tread softly, but even that echoes too loud.
And then—
A shape moves near the far end of the aisle. A man. Janitor or low-level records clerk—he's holding a clipboard and a half-eaten protein bar, startled mid-chew when he sees me. His eyebrows lift. Not in alarm, just confusion.
“Sorry, this area’s closed to outside personnel,” he says.
I don’t hesitate, pulling my badge from my coat pocket and flashing it clean, quick, the way you do when you want to look like you're too busy to be questioned. “Detective Dalia Rowe, homicide division. We’ve been given access to review archived records tied to a cold case. I’ll be in and out.”
His eyes dip to the badge, then flick to my face. He opens his mouth.
I cut him off immediately. “Unless you’d prefer I call your supervisor to explain why your delay cost us hours on a time-sensitive case.”
Another beat. His jaw clicks shut.
“Nah. No need.” He raises both hands slightly, steps back with an awkward shuffle. “You do what you need to.”
I nod once. Dismissive enough to close the conversation, but inside I'm burning up from the lies. “Appreciated.”
He opens the door with the keycard and I move fast. Q-1487. Ruth Quinn. That’s what I’m here for.
I hunch beside the records box, knees cracking, hands already smudged with whatever damp residue lives in forgotten paper. The files are packed in no logical order: thick folders with warped spines, water-stained envelopes, rubber bands so brittle they could snap the second I touch them. Patient numbers blend together.
Where is it?
I flip through pages with the kind of speed that feels reckless. That awful lemon cleaner stings my nose and I'm struggling to breathe.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
I pull another folder open, fingers digging past discharge reports, prescription slips, hand-scrawled session notes. My pulse is too loud. I swear I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, a hard drum keeping pace with the rising anxiety. I wipe my palm against my thigh, try again.
There’s a sharp sound above me—maybe a voice. Maybe footsteps.
I force myself to keep going. I reach the bottom of the box labelled "2020" and find a thin manila folder, wedged beneath a loose paperclip and a half-crushed plastic name tag. I pull it out. Q-1487, but someone’s drawn a shaky X across it in red ink. Ruth. Inside: standard paperwork, just like the rest. But buried near the back is a loose, folded page, creased and refolded, over and over. I smooth it out, hands trembling.
Not a journal. But close enough to count.
Then—my phone buzzes, a tremor against my hip.
I hear a door slam somewhere above.
I'm out of time.
I shove the paper into my coat pocket, slam the box shut, and rise too fast. My legs scream. The room tilts, but I catch myself on the metal shelf, heart racing.
Footsteps rushing. Heavy. Determined.
I bolt for the far aisle, already too late.
“Excuse me?” Kinsey’s voice cuts like a scalpel as she materializes in front of me. “What are you doing down here?”
There's no point in lying. “Looking for Ruth.”
“You’re trespassing,” she says sharply. “You want access? Get a warrant.”
Elias rounds the corner too late to do anything but watch her usher us out like kids caught with spray paint.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Elias is furious. He hasn’t said a word since Kinsey threw us out.
I don’t blame him.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t move at first. Don’t want to. Whatever this is, it’s not going to help. It's probably our boss calling me to tell me we are off the case because I'm a reckless idiot.
It buzzes again. Longer. I glance at the screen reluctantly.
Markus. Shit. I swipe to answer and angle my body toward the window watching the scenery.
“Hey."
“Dalia.” His voice sounds sharp. Controlled, but just barely. “Where are you?”
I close my eyes for a beat. “On a case. Fieldwork. I told you that yesterday.”
“You told me you’d be back in the morning.”
“I’m sorry,” I say too quickly. “We hit something unexpected.”
“Yeah, I got that impression when I dropped by the precinct and you weren’t there.”
He went to the station to look for me like I'm some lost puppy?
“We’re following up a lead,” I offer. Neutral. Professional.
He exhales hard through the speaker. “Do I get to know where you are, or is that privileged information now?”
“Caven’s Hollow,” I say. “We were looking into a cold case. Something connected to our victim.”
“You and sunshine boy, huh.”
I press my fingers into my thigh, like grounding myself will stop the defensiveness from rising. “It's my job, Markus.”
“Sure,” he says. "You could’ve called. Ever since Wren...”
I shut my eyes, tears stinging. Wren, my girl. “I know. I should’ve. I will. I’m… sorry.”
Silence stretches across the line. Static buzzes faintly in the background. Maybe he’s pacing, he does that when he is anxious. Maybe he’s waiting for me to say more. I don’t.
“I will have dinner ready.” he says finally, like it’s a peace offering. Soft, caring.
“I’ll make it up to you.” I murmur and hang up before he can keep going.
Elias doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the shift in his posture. The flicker of attention.
“He’s worried,” I say.
“You don’t have to explain,” he mutters.
I watch trees blur past, watch the road reach out in front of us like it knows we’re chasing something we can’t name yet. The note’s still in my coat pocket.
Whatever was coming for Ruth Quinn—I don’t think it’s finished.
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