Chapter 8 - Ward C.
Ethan pulled Claire to the floor as glass sprayed across the cottage.
A second impact struck the wall above Margaret's head.
No one waited to discover whether the attackers were firing bullets or simply trying to terrify them.
David kicked open the rear door.
They ran into the woods while Miriam led them toward an old access road.
Rain soaked Claire's wedding dress until the lace clung heavily around her legs.
She ripped the train with both hands and kept running.
Behind them, men shouted near the cottage.
A delivery truck appeared on the access road.
David stepped into its path and forced the driver to stop.
Ten frantic minutes later, they were hidden in the truck's empty cargo compartment, heading toward the highway.
Miriam refused to go to St. Agnes House.
"If Rebecca sees me, she'll remember everything."
Ethan's reply was cold.
"That's the point."
By midnight, they reached the private institution using a rental car paid for in cash.
St. Agnes House looked more like an old country hotel than a psychiatric hospital.
Margaret used the Hale name to pressure the night administrator into searching archived patient records.
No Rebecca Vale appeared.
Ethan placed the photograph on the desk.
"Try the date she arrived."
The administrator reluctantly searched again.
A patient named Rebecca Vane had been admitted twenty-six years earlier.
She had never been formally discharged.
"Where is she?"
The administrator's face tightened.
"Ward C was closed fifteen years ago."
"That is not an answer."
The woman finally admitted that six long-term patients had been transferred to a private assisted-living property owned by the Vale Foundation.
Margaret nearly laughed from the cruelty of it.
Her father had imprisoned his own daughter using his own charity.
They drove another hour to a gated residence overlooking a dark lake.
Miriam remained in the car.
Claire noticed the nurse's hands shaking as they left.
Inside, a night aide brought them to a quiet room where a woman sat beside a window knitting a red scarf.
Her hair was almost entirely white, though she was only in her late forties.
Ethan stopped in the doorway.
Rebecca looked up.
The knitting needles fell from her hands.
She did not ask his name.
"Ethan."
His face collapsed.
Margaret covered her mouth.
Rebecca stood slowly.
"You have his eyes."
Ethan could barely speak.
"Whose?"
Rebecca touched his cheek.
"Mine."
Then she noticed Margaret.
Every trace of tenderness vanished.
Rebecca backed away.
"You."
Margaret raised both palms.
"Rebecca, I didn't know."
"You took him."
"My father told me his mother was dead."
Rebecca laughed with twenty-six years of pain inside it.
"Charles told everyone whatever kept them obedient."
Claire stepped forward.
"We think he's still alive."
Rebecca's eyes moved to her.
Then to the scar on Claire's neck.
Her face changed.
"Charlotte."
Claire's heart hammered.
"How do you know me?"
Rebecca began trembling.
"Because he showed me your photograph every year."
Margaret whispered, "Who?"
Rebecca looked toward the dark lake beyond the window.
"Charles."
Ethan felt his stomach turn.
Claire watched Ethan study Rebecca's face for similarities he had spent his whole life searching for in mirrors.
He found the shape of his eyes, the small crease beside her mouth, and a nervous habit of rubbing one thumb against the other.
Those tiny resemblances affected him more deeply than any document had.
"He visited you?"
"Every October fourteenth."
Rebecca's voice dropped.
"He always said the same thing."
Claire could barely breathe.
"What did he say?"
May you like
Rebecca stared directly at her.
"He said one day Charlotte would come home, and when she did, Ethan would lead her straight to him."
