Chapter 3
The lock clicked behind me.
I turned around, reaching instinctively for the handle.
It spun uselessly in my palm.
"The phone," I said, keeping my voice level. "You said I could make a call."
The woman in scrubs stood between me and the reception desk, her hands resting against the pockets of her scrubs.
"You can use the desk phone after intake," she said.
Her tone stayed polite, as if I had asked about visiting hours.
"I'm Tori, the intake nurse. Let's get you settled into room four."
"I don't need a room. I need to make a phone call."
I raised my wrist, shaking the white plastic band.
"This says Inpatient. I never signed an admission form."
"We received an emergency hold authorizing up to five days of evaluation, signed by Dr. Keene," Tori replied smoothly.
I stopped.
"Dr. Keene is Graham's family physician," I said. "He has never examined me for a psychiatric condition."
"Your driver reported that you tried to jump from a moving vehicle."
"The car was stopped at a red light," I said. "I was trying to get help."
"Walk toward room four, Merritt. Do not raise your voice."
Before she could block me again, I crossed to the desk, lifted the receiver, and pressed the button marked OUTSIDE LINE.
"Briarfield security," a man answered on the other end.
"I need an outside line."
"Outside calls aren't available until a doctor clears you."
The line went silent.
Tori watched me replace the receiver, then pointed down the corridor.
"Room four."
Before I could answer, the inner office door clicked open.
Dr. Keene stepped into the hall, reading from a tablet.
I had met him at Hollowell dinners for years.
He treated Graham's father's blood pressure and listened to him complain about golf over dessert.
"Ah, Mrs. Hollowell," Dr. Keene said, looking over his screen. "Graham called while you were on the road. He's terribly concerned about your blood pressure."
I stood in the middle of the pale green corridor, my hands pressed against my sides.
A dull ache had settled across my lower back, but I kept my posture straight.
"Bring her chart," Dr. Keene instructed Tori without looking up from his screen. "Check her blood pressure and put her under observation. No outside calls until I finish the evaluation."
"I am willing to have my blood pressure checked," I said, my voice carrying clearly down the hall.
Dr. Keene paused, looking up from his tablet.
I saw the camera in the corner and turned to face it.
"My name is Merritt Hollowell," I said. "I am thirty-seven weeks pregnant. I was brought here without my phone. I have asked to call my obstetrician. I will answer your questions, but I did not agree to stay here."
Dr. Keene answered with the same soothing smile Graham used when a donor asked an uncomfortable question.
"That's the sensible choice, Merritt," Dr. Keene said softly. "Cooperation will make this easier for everyone. Let's get you inside."
Tori held out a clear plastic bag.
"Your coat and anything metal."
My hand closed around the velvet box in my pocket.
For one second, I considered leaving it there and letting her find it herself.
That would give them another reason to search me.
I took out the box and opened it.
The silver rattle rested against the blue lining.
Della Rose caught the hallway light.
The engraving was less than two hours old.
Dr. Keene glanced at it.
"That too."
I ran my thumb once across my daughter's name.
Then I placed the rattle in the bag myself.
Tori sealed the top.
The plastic clouded over the silver until I could no longer read the engraving.
She wrote my room number across the bag and carried it away.
Tori guided me down the corridor toward room four.
She unlocked the heavy wooden door with a plastic badge, held it open, and waited for me to step inside.
The room was small, clean, and empty of personal items.
A narrow bed stood beneath a thick window that opened no more than two inches.
Tori stepped out into the hall and pulled the door shut.
She hesitated for half a second, then walked away.
I walked slowly over to the narrow bed and sat down on the edge of the stiff mattress.
The plastic band scraped against my skin when I lifted my arm.
Beneath my name was another line.
ADMITTED: 11:42 A.M.
Graham's interview had ended at noon.
The number mattered because Graham had built his life on schedules.
His interviews began on time.
His cars arrived early.
Nothing connected to his name happened twenty-nine minutes by accident.
I pressed my thumb beneath the edge of the band until the plastic bit into my skin.
If I tore it off, they could call it agitation.
So I left it where the camera could see it.
Briarfield had admitted me twenty-nine minutes before I found Graham in bed with Camille - and eighteen minutes before his interview even ended.