A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)(2)

And I’m a big old mess for poor Daddy.

My “incident” happened one week before he ran for re-election last time. I have no idea if it helped him or hurt him. All I know is that he won the election back then. For four years, I’ve been sheltered from the news. Every movement, every web search, every phone call and text I make is monitored by staff here.

I need to ask Daddy whether my scandal gave him more points in the election. Did he get the sympathy vote?

I glance nervously at Stacia, as if she can read my thoughts. If I were to say that aloud I would be accused of being negative. Of dwelling on pessimistic “ideations.”

I would have time added to my stay here.

One thing you learn fast when you’re in a mental hospital: lie. Lie a lot. No one wants you to tell the truth.

Least of all you. Telling yourself the truth takes a kind of raw courage. Few people have it. You have to be willing to look deep into your own soul and see all your flaws. All your darkness.

All your own evil.

I give her a sad sort of smile. That’s normal, right? For a daughter to be happy to leave but a little bit sad her dad can’t come. “I understand,” I say. “He’s a busy man, and I wouldn’t want to interrupt his work. He loves me, and he’ll see me when I get back.”

She nods, smiling. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It never does with any of the staff here on the Island. I can see her checking off something on a list in her head. I said the right words. I kept her from stopping me. I really will go home today.

I pretended well.

See? I can fake being a human being.

Just long enough to get home.





Chapter 2





“Your father has sent a security team to escort you,” Stacia explains, her eyes watching me. I am a lab rat to her. Nothing more. I am a creature you watch and document. If my behavior changes and I act outside the lines of what is expected, that will be put in my chart. I am always watched. Always observed.

All of my actions are reported.

To my father.

Stacia’s eyes widen slightly. It activates alarm bells in me. She is waiting for an answer. I’ve hesitated a little too long. I’ve made a mistake. I smooth my palms against the tops of my thighs and pretend to yawn. I make up a non-verbal excuse for waiting to answer.

Her eyes go back to normal as I give a small smile and say, “That’s my dad. Always caring about me.” My lips curl in as I try to look like I’m so grateful.

One of her eyebrows goes up slightly. The movement lifts the corner of her mouth. She is pleased.

I have given an appropriate answer.

“Your belongings have already been packed and are in transit to your home. All you need to do is grab your handbag and any items you didn’t pack, Lindsay.” Stacia’s smile almost reaches her eyes. Almost.

In a different world, in a different time and place, she and I would be in the same peer group. I would guess she’s only a few years older than me. Her hair is long and dark, pulled back in a sleek braid. Dark brown eyes, with eyeliner applied expertly, and long eyelashes finish the sophisticated look. She could be a Kardashian—before all the plastic surgery they’ve had done.

I wonder what she does outside of work. Is she a partier? A quiet woman who reads and watches movies for fun? Or, maybe, she likes to hike and mountain bike.

As her eyes go cold again, I suddenly don’t care.

Why did I ever care?

Stacia is the gatekeeper for me. If I can’t fool her into thinking I’m fine and ready for the outside world, I’m stuck.

And being stuck has become unbearable.

“All I have is my purse,” I say with a smile. I work hard to make it reach my eyes. If the staff thinks I’m faking this, I am screwed. I look outside and see the helicopter through a window. A tiny sliver of one of the blades juts out. The wind outside is a little wilder than usual. When you live on an island for four years, you learn to pay attention to the wind.

“Then you’re ready.”

My heart nearly floats out of my chest and gets carried off on the breeze. Does this mean I really get to leave? Have I truly made them all think I’m whole and healed?

I can’t think about the fact that I’m not.

I’m really, really not.

But as long as they think I am, that’s what counts. Four years after being raped by three men and let down horribly by a fourth, I should be healed. I should be better. I should be ready to pick up the pieces of my old life and move on.

Stacia certainly thinks so. She clicks the pen over and over, her hand hovering above the clipboard in her hand. I know what those papers are. I keep my hands straight by my side. I control my breathing. I keep my face neutral.

Then I realize she needs more from me.

Just one more little show of appropriate emotion before I can be released.

I reach down and pinch myself where the tender skin of my hip meets my thigh, and bite down on my inner lip as hard as possible. I shudder, and tears spring to my eyes.

I sniff. She looks at me, surprised, and I give her a shaky smile. The shakiness isn’t fake. I really am shaking.

Because I’m worried she won’t let me go home.

“Of course,” I say, filling my throat with the emotion she expects. “Of course, it’s hard to leave after four years here. Heck, that’s—what? Almost a fifth of my entire life? A sixth?” I take in a deep breath and ignore the raw taste of cut flesh in my mouth. My breath tremors as I exhale. “It’ll be hard to leave this place behind. But I have to. It’s the only way I can grow.”