The Abandoned - By Amanda Stevens Page 0,21

sense of justice would have to be put on hold.

The evening went smoothly enough until Trudy summoned her to escort Alice Canton back to her room. Remembering how Alice had reacted to her two nights ago, Ree almost expected the woman to shy away from her. But instead Alice docilely followed her down the corridor, even humming under her breath as though she hadn’t a care in the world. When they got to her door, however, she turned to glance warily over Ree’s shoulder.

“Where is she?”

“Where is who?” Ree asked.

“The girl in the blue dress.”

Ree’s scalp began to prickle. “I don’t know.”

“She’ll come back.” Alice warned. Then she leaned in and lowered her voice to a terrified whisper. “They always come back.”

More than a little spooked, Ree settled Alice in and then hurried back up to the front desk.

“What’s the matter with you?” Trudy asked. “You look as if you just saw a ghost.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Ree muttered.

Trudy didn’t seem to hear her. “I need a favor before you sign out.” She shoved a thick stack of folders across the counter. “Apparently, Dr. Alden’s researching another book. He finished with these files two days ago, but nobody on days can be bothered to return them. They belong in the dungeon. You know where that is, right?”

Most of the patient records were computerized, but the archived files were stored in a separate wing in a basement-level room dubbed the dungeon. Where that designation had originated, Ree didn’t want to speculate.

“I don’t have access,” she said.

Trudy glanced around. “You didn’t get this from me.” She scribbled a number on the back of a note card and handed it to Ree. “Not that it matters. Nobody’s likely to be down there at this hour and the code changes every week. Just leave the files on the counter and skedaddle.”

The corridors were eerily silent as Ree made her way to the dungeon, but every now and then she could hear the distant wail of a restless mind. As she hurried along on her mission, she began to get the creepy sensation of being followed. Time and again she glanced over her shoulder, but the long hallway behind her was empty. She’ll come back. They always come back.

Gooseflesh quilled the hair at her nape. Ignoring a draft that could only be coming from the air-conditioning vents, Ree tapped in the code and entered the dungeon. The chill followed her in.

She gave herself a pep talk as she reached for the light switch. A moment later, the fluorescent bulbs flickered on, casting a harsh glow over the room. The area was large and well-organized, very different from the archives at Emerson. Above the long rows of metal storage cabinets, she could see darkness through the bars installed over the narrow windows.

Her sneakers made barely a sound as she moved along the tile floor. She placed the folders on the counter and started to turn. Something caught her attention, a sound that might have been a whisper.

Ree forced a laugh. Keep it together, girl. There’s nothing down here but a bunch of ancient files. Decades of recorded misery.

Then, whether it was a hallucination or another figment of her imagination, Ree couldn’t say, but suddenly she had a very clear vision of being in that room. An image formed in her mind…a young woman strapped to a gurney with electrodes attached to a metal apparatus fastened around her head.

Where is my baby? What have you done to her? Please don’t hurt her! Please don’t do this to her!

On and on the woman babbled until a long needle was inserted beneath one of her eyelids. And then her screams became incessant.

Ree clutched her head, trying to quell the disturbing tableau. It was an image from a movie, no doubt. Something that had been tucked away for years in the far recesses of her mind.

Again, she turned to leave, but something suddenly occurred to her. There was a very good chance that some of Violet Tisdale’s early records were stored down here. Confidentiality in the mental health care profession was sacrosanct so rummaging through patient files wasn’t something Ree took lightly. But this was an opportunity that might not come again.

A cursory examination revealed the files were sorted by decade. Ree had no idea when Miss Violet had first been committed. The only specific date she knew was Ilsa’s tenth birthday—June 3, 1915. Professor Meakin said she’d run off to Europe when she was seventeen, which would