The Dark Hour

by Erin Lanter

  “A skin check,” the female attendant said coolly without any inclination toward small talk.

  “Skin check?” Tessa asked, the cool gown grasped in her clammy hands.

  “We’ll check for any wounds, abrasions, tattoos, or skin abnormalities. If we find any we’ll take a picture and put it in your chart. That way we know what kind of condition you were in when you got here.”

  They’d be taking pictures of her? Tessa looked to her left to see a camera and ruler sitting on a table. She looked at the ceiling and took a deep, steadying breath. I can handle this, she reassured herself.

  “I’m ready,” Tessa said when she’d tied the last pair of strings together behind her back. The draft reminded her that she could kiss all efforts at modesty goodbye.

  The woman moved the privacy screen and picked up the ruler. She knocked on the inside of the door, indicating for the man to come back in. He picked up the camera, and inch by inch they examined Tessa’s body for anything unusual.

  After what seemed like an hour, she was allowed to get dressed and instructed to go back to the waiting room to complete the admitting process. Detective Jefferson was right where she’d left him, his thumbs moving quickly on the screen of his phone.

  “Thank you for waiting with me,” Tessa said. Though his demeanor toward her had grown cold, this would be scarier if she was alone.

  A nod was the detective’s only response.

  “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

  He shrugged one shoulder and looked at her only long enough to say, “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  Before her lips could form the words she hoped would illicit a more comforting response, the man behind the desk across the room called her name.

  Before she got up, she lowered her trembling voice and looked toward Detective Jefferson, who still wouldn’t make eye contact, and said, “What you think isn’t true. I didn’t shoot Camille,” then walked to the attendant who’d called her.

  Willing herself to stay calm, she reminded herself this wasn’t the place to unravel. Not if she wanted to be sure she got out of here when the seventy-two hours was up.

  She divulged the deepest, darkest secrets of her mental history to someone not nearly as comforting as Dr. Raymond. The guy asking the questions was huge. Everybody who worked there was big. The men could have been bouncers, the women at least the size of an average man.

  After filling out the last line of the admitting form, two people who had been standing in the doorway were waved over. They stepped forward and motioned for her to go with them. Smiling warmly, the woman said, “This way.”

  Tessa looked back at Detective Jefferson just long enough to notice that he didn’t give so much as a glance in her direction.

  With a quick reminder to herself that she could handle whatever happened these next three days, she disappeared through the door and into what she was certain would be one of the darkest hours of her life.

  73

  After dropping his keys on the small table in the entryway of his house, Drew walked slowly to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. The plates from dinner remained on the kitchen counter, bearing witness to his hurried exit.

  He removed the cap from the bottle and took a long gulp. The day had been a long one. He almost couldn’t believe it was just this afternoon that Tessa had come to his office to tell him Camille had been shot. When she told him the police suspected her, he’d almost laughed, but the distress on her face told him it hadn’t been a joke. It seemed like days had passed since then.

  Unsure what else to do, Drew grabbed the keys to Tessa’s car and drove to her house. Nobody would be there, but he hoped it would give him some answers. As he parked at the curb in front of her rented bungalow, he saw that the yellow police tape was still stretched across the front door, a testament to the night before. The door was closed and the windows were dark. The crime scene investigators had probably come and gone, collecting whatever evidence they needed to figure out who shot Camille, or it seemed increasingly likely, whatever evidence they could find that pointed to Tessa.

  He stayed in the car, images from the past week bombarding his mind. The two of them laughing over enchiladas, Tessa falling asleep during the movie and her near meltdown when she found him in the shower the next morning.

  A sad smile began to form on his lips.

  They were good together. Even when they were fighting, something still worked.

  What if they convict her for this? What kind of life will she have? What kind of life will I have? Drew wondered.

  Turning the key in the ignition, he pulled away from the curb and started back toward his house.

  It was half past midnight, too late to really do anything to help Tessa. First thing in the morning, he vowed, I’ll start looking into what really happened.

  74

  The fire had reduced to glowing embers by the time Harold Raymond got home from the police station. Still untouched, the lasagna had become an unappetizing, congealed mess.

  He shook his head at the way the day had turned out. As with any other day, it began with promise. He tried to approach each day as though it had endless wonderful possibilities. Ever the optimist, he could usually extract even the slightest glimmer of light from a day that otherwise seemed hopeless.

  Not today, though.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with a single good thing. Sure, he’d had the foresight to compile a psychological defense for Tessa, but even now he wondered if his interference had been in her best interest.

  His goal had been to present solid psychological evidence that Tessa James, while at times appearing cold and distant, was not psychologically capable of taking the life of another human being. But Judge Gavin Cooper, before whom he’d appeared in court numerous times as an expert witness, didn’t want to hear it. He just said Tessa hadn’t been in treatment long enough for him to have a firm judgment on what she was or wasn’t capable of.

  That was when he tried plan B.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time, and Judge Cooper was more than willing to hear him out when he suggested she be placed under inpatient psychiatric care due to a rapid increase in stress. Now he wasn’t so sure it was a good idea.

  He’d been allowed to speak with her briefly before they took her, and the panic on her face when they told her the judge agreed to let her be held at a psychiatric facility sent a wave of regret over him. He’d known what she was thinking.

  Just like Mama.

  As he scraped the cold lasagna into the trash can, he became troubled as he remembered something he’d noticed while speaking to the judge. Detective Jefferson had also been present, making his case about why Tessa should remain in custody at the detention center. Out of the corner of his eye, Dr. Raymond had seen Detective Jefferson sternly and almost imperceptibly shake his head when he’d asked for Tessa to go free until they were able to get a court date.

  Judge Cooper was paying more attention to the detective’s reaction than to what I was saying, Harold remembered. But when I moved on to my request that she be moved to the state psychiatric hospital instead of jail, it seemed that Detective Jefferson almost had a look of pleasure. At the detective’s cue, Judge Cooper had readily agreed to that alternative.

  As Harold flipped off the kitchen light and walked through the living room and down the hall to his bedroom, he made a mental note to pay more attention to Detective Jefferson and the judge. It didn’t sit right with him. He couldn’t help but wonder why a judge would base his legal decisions on the wishes of a police detective.

  75

  It was well past midnight when Tessa reached the unit she’d be calling home for the next three days. It was mostly dark; the only light in the unit was the centrally located nurse’s station. Four hallways branched off from there like spokes in a wheel. Each of the four halls were dark, lit dimly with security lights and the eerie glow of the exit sign at the far end of each one.

  This unit looked sim
ilar to the one Tessa’s mom had been on, even though it was a different hospital. She’d only visited once though, having been asked not to return. After she’d left, Tessa’s mom had gotten so agitated that she’d been impossible to handle for days.

  Poor Mama, Tessa thought. You must have been so scared. I know I am.

  “The women’s bedrooms are down this hall, the men’s down this one. The common area and dining room are down this hall, and the medication room is back there,” Jessie, the female nurse who’d picked her up from the admitting office said, pointing in each direction as she spoke. “The women’s bathroom is right here next to the nurse’s station,” she said, pointing around the corner. “There are sheets and a blanket already on the bed, and we have toiletry items and a community clothing room if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” Tessa said, following the nurse down the women’s hallway. They stopped at the second bedroom on the left.

  “Here you are,” Jessie said. “You can take the bed under the window. Your roommate is Martha. She’s a really quiet old lady and sleeps like a log. You likely won’t hear from her until breakfast.”

  Good, Tessa thought as she crossed the sparse room to a bed that bore a striking resemblance to an army cot. The sheets were tucked tightly around the thin mattress. It creaked as she sat down. “Jessie?” Tessa said, just as the nurse was turning to leave.

  “Yeah?”

  “What does this band mean?” she asked, holding her arm out.

  “When each patient is admitted, they get a red band, meaning you’re under close observation by hospital staff and have to stay on the unit at all times,” the young nurse explained. “After being assessed by your psychiatrist, he’ll decide whether or not to upgrade you to a yellow band. That means you can go off the unit, with supervision, to the dining room or one of the recovery classes we offer. If you do well with that, you could be upgraded to a green band, which means you can be trusted to go off the unit by yourself, without supervision. Try to think of them as traffic lights: stop, proceed with caution, and go. Let’s just hope you’re not here long enough to earn the green one.” Jessie smiled and left the room.

  Tessa kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed, tucking her hands behind her head. She rolled to her side, hoping the next few days wouldn’t be as horrible as she imagined.

  The strain of the day had taken its toll on her, and Tessa eventually drifted off to sleep – only to be jolted awake by yelling. It sounded distant, but it was definitely coming from somewhere down the hall. Mingled with the angry voices was the sound of driving rain pounding against the security-screened window above her bed. The heavy metal door securing the unit opened and slammed shut, followed by the sound of a dozen feet pounding on the hard tile floor. A primal scream rose above the noise, sounding like that of a cornered animal.

  Muffled orders came from one of the men, followed by the sound of a squeaky bed. Over and over the sound echoed off the walls and floor, like someone was bucking in the bed.

  Tessa’s stomach rolled. She didn’t know much about psychiatric hospitals, but there was no doubt one of the patients had become violent and was placed in restraints. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she turned toward the wall and curled up into a ball, a vain attempt to shield herself from whatever was happening just a few halls over.

  A jagged bolt of lightning flashed in the sky outside the window, briefly illuminating the room’s meager furnishings. Her roommate was barely a bump under the threadbare blanket.

  The commotion hadn’t disturbed her.

  Tessa jumped as thunder cracked so loudly she felt the vibrations deep in her chest. Another tear slipped down her cheek and soaked into the pillow.

  Seventy-two hours. She was stuck here with no hope of getting out for three days. In three days, she’d either be going home or going to jail.

  She squeezed her eyes closed and pulled the blanket up, securing it under her chin. After what seemed like hours, she finally drifted off to the cadence of Martha’s snoring.

  Somehow, she’d find a way to survive the darkest hour of her life.

  76

  Frustrated, Drew snapped off the radio and settled back into the driver’s seat of Tessa’s car. The news didn’t have anything new to report about Camille’s shooting or Tessa’s arrest, and nobody had bothered to call him with an update. He still hadn’t called AAA to get the battery replaced in his own car, and, considering what he was up against, he didn’t want to wait around for hours for them to show up at his door.

  He’d barely slept last night, replaying everything that happened yesterday. He nervously tapped the steering wheel with the tips of his fingers and looked at the clock. He’d only been sitting in the parking lot outside Dr. Raymond’s office for ten minutes, but it felt like it had been five times that long.

  Oh, Camille, Drew thought. Why were you at Tessa’s house? What did you hope to gain from going there?

  A wave of guilt followed his relief that Camille had taken the bullet instead of Tessa. Nobody deserves that, he reminded himself, then shuddered at the possibility that whoever shot Camille had done it by mistake. If the intended target was Tessa, what would stop him from trying again?

  A movement in Drew’s peripheral caught his attention. A middle-aged woman he assumed was the receptionist darted from her car to the front door and quickly unlocked it, disappearing through a door to her right.

  Again, Drew glanced at the clock: 8:03. She was three minutes late, and Dr. Raymond had yet to show up.

  Deciding to take a chance with the receptionist, he dashed across the parking lot hoping to have a chance to speak with Dr. Raymond as soon as he got to work. The bell on the glass door jingled as he jerked it open.

  Startled, the receptionist eyed him suspiciously and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I need to speak with Dr. Raymond right away,” he demanded.

  Worry flitted across the woman’s face.

  “It’s about one of his patients,” he added, realizing that this wasn’t the place to behave like a raving lunatic. “If he isn’t here yet, do you have a number where I can reach him?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist said, taking a step back. “I can’t give out his personal number. If you would like to have a seat and wait for him, you may. You must understand, however, that his clients come first, and you are not to interfere with their treatment.”

  Realizing it was useless to press, Drew turned to sit in the upholstered chair closest to the door. She reminds me of Dorothy, he thought.

  Drew picked up a magazine and mindlessly flipped through it, then tossed it aside. Nothing on the planet could distract him. He bounced his leg up and down, eyes darting around the room. He briefly met the receptionist’s gaze, only to realize that she wasn’t just suspicious of his behavior – there was fear in her eyes.

  Should I tell her why I’m here? he wondered. Surely she has a right to know why I’m acting like the poster child for untreated adult ADHD.

  Just as he opened his mouth, the bells on the door jingled again as Dr. Raymond entered, already apologizing for his tardiness. The receptionist shot her eyes toward Drew and mouthed something to Dr. Raymond. He gave her a comforting nod and said, “It’s okay.”

  Drew stood as the psychologist approached him.

  “I understand you need to speak to me,” the older man said, a knowing expression on his face.

  “Yes. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Of course. Come with me.”

  Drew followed Dr. Raymond into his office and took the seat offered to him. He imagined Tessa sitting here, telling Dr. Raymond things she’d never told anyone else.

  “What can I do for you?” Dr. Raymond asked, depositing his briefcase on his desk, then circling around to sit in the chair opposite Drew.

  Fighting back a stab of jealously about Tessa opening up to a total stranger, Drew said, “It’s about Tessa.”

  Dr. Raymond nodded. “I assumed as much, yes.�
��

  “Well, there’s something that’s been bothering me.” Drew paused then said, “Two things, actually.”

  “Go on,” Dr. Raymond encouraged.

  “What is going to happen to her at that place? She absolutely does not belong in a psych hospital. Also, what on earth was Camille doing at Tessa’s house? I just can’t believe Tessa would ask her to come over.”

  Dr. Raymond narrowed his eyes. “And you think I have the answer to that?”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I did some research on you. Apparently, you’re very good at reading people. Knowing when they’re lying… stuff like that. So good, in fact, that the state often calls you as an expert witness during murder trials. There are quite a few articles that mention you.”

  Dr. Raymond crossed his legs at the ankles and scratched his jaw line. “That’s true, but I don’t see what that has to do with Tessa’s predicament. What exactly do you want from me?”

  Drew paused, weighing his words. He might only have one shot at getting Dr. Raymond to help him, and he didn’t want to blow it. “I want your professional opinion about what might be going on here,” Drew said, then added, “Of course I would pay you your typical hourly rate.”

  The psychologist continued to rub his chin. “I see. And where do you propose I begin?”

  Drew thrust his jaw forward and met Dr. Raymond’s questioning eyes with his own steely determination. “First, we go to the hospital and find out why Camille is lying about Tessa asking her to meet.” Drew took a deep breath. “Then, find out if Tessa was actually the intended target.”

  77

  Tessa woke Monday morning with a splitting headache as light illuminated the wire-covered window above her bed. She figured it was well after six thirty, given how bright it was outside.

  “Good morning, Ms. James,” a young woman with red hair and purple scrubs said as she knocked softly on the door.