Kick (Songs of Perdition #1)(9)

“I’m going inside,” I said. “Call me when we’re all out of here.”

There was agreement, but no discussion about whether or not I would serve time, even though my situation must have been public knowledge. People like us didn’t serve time. Even the suggestion meant that my lawyer wasn’t connected well enough.

I wasn’t hungry, so I drifted into the common room, where the TV screen showed nature in all its high-definition glory. It was compelling in its way. I sat on the grey leather couch and watched, staring at daisies fluttering in the breeze. I felt too weak for a walk. Frances had given me a cocktail of pills for the headache, some of which I recognized, and they dulled the pain and the brain.

I’d stabbed Deacon. What would make me do such a thing? What could he have done? Beat me? I laughed to myself, because beat me was what he did on any given day. I rubbed my eyes as if I wanted to erase the lids and see what I’d done.

My body tipped a quarter of a degree when someone sat next to me. I glanced toward my right. He had short-cropped hair and pink lips, and he smiled and blinked slowly. I could f*ck him. No reason not to, besides the no touching rule and Deacon, who wasn’t dead. I’d betrayed him enough already.

“Bellis perennis,” he said, tilting his head toward the nature show. “Common daisy, often confused with their more tightly petaled family members, Arctotis. You’re Fiona Drazen, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Jack Kent. Carlton Prep. I was a year below you. You were a celebrity even then. What are you in for?”

I didn’t have a chance to answer before a nurse came close, and Jack pointed at the TV.

“Arctotis stoechadifolia, nearly extinct in its native South Africa, and now a weed pest in Southern California,” he said.

“Attempted murder,” I said when the nurse passed, “but I don’t remember it.”

“Car?”

“Knife.”

“Wow. Trust you to do it big.”

I wished I remembered this guy half as much as he remembered me.

“No, wait. I remember you,” I said. “Nerd.”

“Not totally unf*ckable, I think. But yeah.”

“What are you in for?”

“Being an embarrassment, unofficially. But officially, bipolar disorder.”

“Picked up in a manic phase?” I asked.

“Totes manic. I came up with a new way to process ricinus communis in a hundred forty-seven steps. No one in their right mind could get past the seventy-fifth.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I could. And the high? Woke out of it with my underwear full of jizz.”

I nodded. I knew how he felt.

“You voluntary?” he asked.

I shook my head. The flowers changed from yellow to pink.

“Fifty-one-fiftied?”

“Yeah. I supposedly tried to stab a cop. Resisted arrest. Turned the knife on myself. Yada yada. I’m screwed.”

“Who’s your psych?” he asked.

“Chapman.”

Jack puffed out his cheeks and released slowly, an expression of overwhelming sympathy.

“What?”

“Hardass.”

“Really? Seems nice enough.”

He shifted on the couch until he faced me, one leg bent on the cushions, the other with toes tensed against the floor. “It’s his job to be nice. Listen. Do you want out or in?”

“Out, of course. What person in their right mind would want to stay here?”

“The question kind of answers itself. But if you want out, you have to do it in the seventy-two-hour window, six therapy sessions, or shit gets indefinite. Like, they keep you in thirty-day increments and revisit, and it gets less and less likely you’ll get out unless your parents start making a stink. In my case, they won’t, so I can stay as long as I want.”

He didn’t look at me for the last sentence, as if he couldn’t bear the shame. I didn’t blame him. I’d be ashamed too, if I had any.

“I’ll convince him I’m sane.”

Which meant I’d face charges. If I convinced him I was nuts, I’d be stuck in Westonwood with their no touching rule and scheduled meals. If I faced charges, would I get to see Deacon? Or would I just be out and arrested and as separate from him as I was in the hospital? Only he knew what happened. Only he could say what I’d done and hadn’t done.

Staying in, staring at a flat screen of flowers with bars on the windows between Deacon and me, wasn’t going to cut it. I had to take my chances with the real world, which meant no more tantrums. No more attacks on the doctor or anyone else. For the next two days, I would be a model citizen.

six.

“How was your morning?” Doctor Chapman—no, Elliot—asked. He had a tiny scratch on his left eyelid. Otherwise, he looked no worse for the wear.

“Fine,” I said. “Sorry about attacking you. I’m not usually like that.”

“You’re repressing a slew of emotions and memories. Stuff can only stay in lockdown so long.”

“Speaking of lockdown…” I curled my lip to the side. Elliot’s hands were folded in front of him, and his attention was fully on me. I didn’t know if anyone outside of Deacon had ever paid me such razor-sharp attention. “Is it even legal to have solitary confinement in a hospital?”