The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,14

a priest, so don’t waste your time confessing to me.”

“I’m not looking for your forgiveness, dickhead.”

“We have an arrangement, Lucy.”

“It’s forever, Jesse. It never goes away. Their grandkids will be able to search it.”

“And?”

“And I have to live with these people, look them in the eye. They know it’s me. I see the look of betrayal on their faces when they read this crap on your site.”

“Not crap,” Jesse admonished. “Content. That you provide. Besides, you dropped out. You barely see these people except for a few hours across some sticky leather banquet.”

“I need a break.”

“You can’t cash checks without consequences, Lucy.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Jesus, Jesse,” she said, revolted by his desperation at pimping her out.

“If we don’t get the picture in the next hour, the buzz dies,” he said. She could hear the desperation in his voice.

“It’s always the next thing—the next shot, the next tragedy, the next failure, the next high. Always chasing . . . something.”

“Just remember what’s at stake.”

“You mean like the reputations of people I rat out for a slimy item?”

“Their reputations,” he began. “Or yours.”

3 The nurse escorted Agnes out and handed her a plain white Dixie cup with a mint green pill.

“Take it,” the nurse demanded.

“No more therapy or anything?” Agnes asked.

“This is therapy.”

Agnes placed the pill on her tongue. Stuck it out at the nurse and then washed it down with a swig of metallic-tasting tap water. Normally, she would be reluctant to take such a medication. She only took holistic remedies, unless she was really ill. But now, she hoped that this pill would help her to stop thinking of Sayer, or anyone else she’d ever fallen for. She wanted to be numb.

“Open,” the nurse ordered.

Agnes opened her mouth to show the nurse that she did indeed swallow.

After documenting the proof on her clipboard, she handed Agnes a loose-fitting bleached ultrawhite psych ward top and white scrub pants and then led her down the hallway.

Once there, she was stripped down.

Bare.

All except for her bandage and her concealed bracelet.

A maze of tiled and mildewed shower rooms beckoned, each with open stalls, steamy windows, oversize showerheads, and ceramic flooring, slightly beveled toward the center to promote proper drainage. In the entry room, there was a little sitting area, also tiled and peppered with drains and a long, wooden, locker-room bench.

She couldn’t decide whether it looked more like a condemned day spa or the funeral home that she worked at for one unforgettable summer job. While there, it was her responsibility at the end of the day to pull out the hose and wash the hair, nails, flakes of skin, powder, gauze, and whatever else was mixed in down the drain—all of it swirling together with the bright orange embalming fluid, transforming it into a melting creamsicle of runoff. She only worked there for one summer because the owner, the mortician, killed himself. Agnes found that somewhat comforting in a strange way and it had given rise to her preoccupation with life and death that she’d shared with Frey earlier. The mortician worked with the dead, after all; maybe he had some inside info that helped with the decision.

Then, the washing.

Agnes was showered. It was undignified, but like so many undignified things, it felt kind of good. The water was cool, not brisk enough to snap her completely out of the drug-addled stupor she was in, but just enough to remind her that she was a human being—flesh, blood, and five senses. She was suddenly alert enough to cry; warm tears were birthed from her eyes, free falling, mixing seamlessly with the water, until they hit the ceramic tile and disappeared down the rusted drain. She wanted to go with them.

Agnes dried off and put on her hospital issued “outfit.” There were only two occasions where one could pull off this all-white ensemble—being committed to a psych ward and one’s wedding day. She then was taken to a tiny, boxy room with no windows and a roommate.

The place was unremarkable, impersonal, resembling a dorm room that belonged to someone who never received care packages from home. The only thing hanging on the wall was a faded picture of what looked to be a religious icon.

Agnes studied it closely, losing track of time and the fact that she wasn’t alone.

“Saint Dymphna,” her roommate said in a weak tone. “The patron saint of nervous disorders and the mentally ill.”

Agnes looked at the girl lying on her bed facing the wall.

“She was murdered