She flipped through more pages.

…Patient Matthews (No. 97-4335) was the last person to see her alive and he reported that she seemed “all spooky.”

So Aaron Matthews’s son, Peter, had been hospitalized here. And after the hospital was closed his father brought him back. Why, she couldn’t guess. Maybe he felt at home here. Maybe his father broke him out of the hospital for the criminally insane to have him nearby.

She flipped through another report and learned that someone else had committed suicide.

…The body of Patient Garber (No, 78-7547) was found behind the main building. The police and coroner had determined that he had swallowed a garden hose and turned the water on full force. The pressure from the water ruptured his stomach and several feet of intestine. He died from internal hemorrhaging and shock. Although several patients were nearby when this happened (Matthews, No. 97-4335, and Ketter, No. 9h3212), they could offer no further information. The death was ruled suicide by the medical examiner.

Megan read through several other files. They were all similar-reports of patients killing themselves. One victim was found in the library. He’d apparently spent hours tearing apart books and magazines, looking for a sheet of paper sturdy enough to slice through the artery in his neck. He finally succeeded.

She shivered at the thought.

Someone else had leapt out of a tree and broken his neck. He didn’t die but was paralyzed for life. When asked about why he’d done it he said, “He’d been talking to ‘some patients’ and he realized how pointless life was, how he was never going to get better Death would bring some peace.”

Yet another report stated, “Patient Matthews was the last person to see victim alive.” The administrator wondered if he’d been involved and the boy had been interviewed and evaluated but no charges were brought.

Reading more, she found that not long after the last suicide a reporter from the Washington Times heard of the deaths and filed an investigative report. The state board of examiners looked into the matter and closed the hospital.

But Megan understood that the deaths weren’t suicides at all. How could they have missed it? Peter Matthews had killed the other patients and somehow covered up the evidence to make the deaths look like suicide.

She flipped through the rest of the files and clippings.

Nothing she found told her anything helpful. She shoved them under the bed. What can I do? There has to- Then she heard the footsteps.

Faint at first.

Oh, no… Peter was coming back up the hall.

Well, he’d missed her before.

Closer, closer. Very soft now, as if he was trying not to make any noise. But she heard his breathing and remembered the picture of the eerie-looking boy-his twisted mouth, the tip of his pale tongue in the corner of his lips. She remembered the stained sheets and wondered if he was walking around, looking for her, masturbating…

Megan shivered violently. Started to cry. She eased up to the door, put her head against it, listened.

No sounds from the other side.

Had he-?

A fierce pounding on the door. The recoil knocked her to her knees.

Another crash.

A whispered voice. “Megan And in that faint word she heard lust and desperation and hunger. “Megan.

He knows I’m here… He knows who I am!

Peter was rattling the lock. A few loud slams of a brick or baseball bat on the padlock.

No, please… Why’d Matthews leave her alone with him? As much as she hated the doctor, Megan prayed he’d return.

“Megannnnnnn?” It now sounded as if the boy was laughing.

A sudden crash, into the door itself. Then another. And another. Suddenly a rusty metal rod-like the spears in his horrible comic books-cracked the wood and poked through a few inches. Just as Peter pulled the metal back out Megan leapt into the bathroom, plastered herself against the wall. She heard his breath on the door and she knew he was looking through the hole he’d made. Looking for her.

“Megan…

But from that angle he couldn’t see that there was a bathroom; the door was to the side.

For an eternity she listened to his lecherous breathing. Finally he walked off.

She started back into the room. But stopped.

Had he really gone? she wondered.

She decided she’d wait until dark. Peter might be outside and he’d see her. And if she plugged up the hole he’d know for certain she was there.

She sat on the toilet, lowered her head to her hands and cried.

Come on, girl. Get up.

I can’t. No, I can’t. I’m scared.

Of course you’re scared, Crazy Megan chides. But what’s that got to do with anything? Lookit that. Lookit the bathroom window.

Megan looked at the bathroom window.

No, it’s nuts to think about it.

You know what you’ve got to do.

I can’t do it, Megan thought. I just can’t.

Yeah? What choice’ve you got?

Megan stood and walked to the window, reached through the bars and touched the filthy glass.

I can’t.

Yes, you can!

Megan crawled back into the room, praying that Peter wasn’t outside the door and looking through the peephole he’d made. She reached under the bed, sure she’d come up with a handful of rat. But no, she found only the manila file folder she’d been looking for. She returned to the bathroom and eased up to the window, pressed the folder against the glass. She drew back her fist and slugged the pane. The punch was hard but the glass held. She hit it again and this time a long crack spread from the top to the bottom of the window Finally, another slug and the glass shattered. She pulled her fist back just as the sharp shards fell to the windowsill.

She picked a triangular piece of glass about eight inches long, narrow as a knife. Taking her cue from patient Victoria Skelling’s sad end, Megan, using her teeth, ripped a strip off one of the mattress pads on the wall. She wound this around the base of the splinter to make a handle.

Good, C.M. says with approval. Proud of her other self

No, better than good Megan reflected: great. Fuck you, Dr. Matthews. I feel great! It reminded her of how she’d felt when she’d written those letters to her parents in Dr. Hanson’s office. It was scary, it hurt, but it was completely honest.

Great.

Crazy Megan wonders, So what’s next?

“Fuck the kid up with the knife,” Megan responded out loud. “Then get his keys and book on out of here.”

Atta girl, C.M. offers. But what about the dogs?

They’ve got claws, I’ve got claws. Megan dramatically held up the glass.

Crazy Megan is impressed as hell.

“There’s a van.”

“A van?” Bett asked.

“Following us,” Tate continued, as they drove past the Ski Chalet in Chantilly.

Bett started to turn.

“No, don’t,” he said.

She turned back. Looked at her hands, fingers tipped in faint purple polish. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. A white van.”

Tate made a slow circle through the shopping center then exited on Route 50 and sped east. He pulled into the Greenbriar strip mall, stopped at the Starbucks and climbed out. He bought two teas topped with foamed milk and returned to the car.

They sipped them for a moment and when a red Ford Explorer cut between his Lexus and the van he hit the gas and took off past a bookstore, streaking onto Majestic Lane and just catching the tail end of the light that put him back on Route 50, heading west this time.

When he settled into the right lane he noticed the white van was still with him.

“How’d he do that?” Tate wondered aloud.

“He’s still there?”