Whisper (Whisper #1)(9)

“You’re looking upbeat today, Jane,” Manning observes.

His beady black eyes are watching me.

“Anything you’d like to share?”

He already knows my answer to that. It’s the same one I’ve given every day for over two and a half years. Nothing but the sound of silence.

No one can say Manning hasn’t tried his hardest. But some things are best left unsaid. All things, in my case. So while we’ve spent two hours together each morning since I first arrived at Lengard, it can hardly be considered therapy.

I’m unsure why Manning endures my presence; why Lengard insists that I continue with our sessions when I’m only wasting the doctor’s time, when I’m only adding to his premature baldness. I have nothing better to be doing. But Manning? Surely there is someone else who would benefit from his attention.

The one thing I do know is that right from the very beginning, Lengard has always been concerned with my mental health. So, I still sit here, day in, day out, the comfort of silence surrounding us.

Some days Manning asks me questions: What’s my favorite color? Do I like the taste of nutri-shakes? Are the guards treating me with respect? How do I feel my time at Lengard is improving my outlook on life?

The last one nearly caused me to scoff aloud when he first asked it. But I managed to hold my tongue, just as I always have.

Today we follow the usual pattern. Manning begins with his questions and waits patiently to see if I’ll respond. When I don’t, he leans back in his chair and stares.

I found it unnerving at first. Then I realized that was what he hoped for: that I would be provoked into breaking my silence if only to ease my discomfort.

I know the game now, however. He’s a master, and so am I.

When our time is over, he doesn’t seem disappointed by our lack of progress — he never does, not outwardly. Like any good therapist, he hides his feelings behind a pleasant expression and a tranquil facade.

“We’ll pick this up again tomorrow, Jane,” Manning says as the guards arrive to escort me away. He utters the same farewell every day, as if we’ve covered ground and he can’t wait to continue in our next session.

Part of me wonders if he’s delusional. Another part of me knows he’s just stubborn. But so am I. And I know he’ll never break through my walls, because they’re rock solid.

As I head back through the corridors, my mind drifts to what happened last night when Ward delivered me to my cell. I’m not supposed to see him again until later this afternoon, so I don’t know what to think when I arrive for my physical training session and find him there, talking with Enzo.

“Mornin’, JD,” Enzo greets me after the guards release my handcuffs and leave the gym-like room.

Something I appreciate about Enzo is that he doesn’t call me “Subject Six-Eight-Four” or even “Jane Doe.” Like Ward, he’s given me a nickname, even if it is only the initials from my ID. My traitorous thoughts whisper that it’s not as good as “Chip,” though.

“You know the drill,” Enzo says. “Clothes are in your locker. You’ve got three minutes to get your ass back out here. Go!”

I don’t need his instructions, but he gives them every morning regardless. As usual, I nod once and head for the change room, sliding my eyes straight past Ward. I have no idea why he’s here. I just hope he’ll be gone when I return.

One of the reasons I enjoy my time in physical training is that it’s the only part of the day I don’t have to wear my uniform. Even Lengard recognizes the impracticality of exercising in a pillowcase. For three hours each day I get to enjoy the comfort of gray shorts and a white tank top that cling to my skin, allowing me to move freely. I still don’t get to wear shoes — and I have no idea why that is — but I’ve learned to make do without footwear.

Other than Enzo, who has watched me grow from a scrawny adolescent into a strong young woman, no one else has seen me in my tight-fitting training clothes. With Ward waiting in the next room, I wonder what others see when they look at me. I wonder what he sees.

I haven’t looked upon my own reflection since before I first arrived at Lengard. There are no mirrors in the facility; at least, none that I’ve seen. So all I can do is take a deep breath, school my features into nonchalance and head back into the training rooms.

“Cutting it close today, JD.” Enzo stands with his bulging arms crossed over his chest, his dark skin gleaming under the halogen lights. Jerking his head toward Ward, he adds, “You know Landon, of course.”

It’s unnatural to hear Ward called by his first name. It makes him sound more … relatable.

“You’re looking much better today, Chip.”

It takes a supreme effort of will not to read into Ward’s comment. I’m sure he’s just referring to the fact that I’m not about to drop to the ground anymore, but I’m aware of how fitted my workout clothes are. I can’t even meet his gaze.

“Chip?” Enzo repeats.

Ward shrugs. “Potato chips, Enz. She loves them.”

His lie doesn’t make sense, but Enzo doesn’t seem to notice.

“I didn’t realize you were allocated additional carbs.” Enzo frowns at me. “I would’ve factored the extra calories into your training schedule.”

Ward claps him on the shoulder. “Too late now, Enz. And besides, it doesn’t look like she has anything to worry about.”