away almost as quickly as using her real name. Some of them had been watching her for so long that she was certain they could recognize her by the slightest gesture
.
The way she brushed her hair back from her face
.
Even the way she tilted her head
.
Her enemies were everywhere. And still they came
.
Ever watchful, never letting down her guard, today she’d spotted a new one
.
This time it was a well-dressed woman—exactly the kind of woman who used to pretend to be her friend back in the days before she’d caught on to the plot. This woman was younger than her, forty, with long dark hair that she had swept into an elaborate French twist at the back of her head. She wore a silk dress in the darkest shade of midnight blue. Lorena immediately recognized its distinctive cut and flair, which could only have come from Monsieur Worth in Paris. Lorena herself had been fitted in his salon when she’d traveled on the
Lusitania
to Europe the year before they sank it
.
The woman was talking to the warden, who still pretended he was a doctor even though Lorena had made it perfectly clear to him that she knew exactly who he really was. Every few minutes the woman’s eyes flicked in her direction. Each time, Lorena wondered if the woman was truly foolish enough to think she didn’t notice
.
Another surreptitious glance
.
Lorena felt the familiar fear quicken inside her. They were watching her, talking about her. Despite the charade they were playing out—that they had eyes only for each other—they weren’t fooling her at all
.
They weren’t just watching her
.
They were plotting against her
.
A plot Lorena wouldn’t—couldn’t—let succeed
.
The woman’s eyes flicked nervously to the patient who had been sitting in the dayroom, unmoving, from the moment she and the doctor slipped in to steal a few minutes alone together. When the doctor had first suggested to the woman that she volunteer to spend a few hours each week at the Asylum, the idea hadn’t appealed to her at all. In fact, though she’d never admitted it to anyone, she’d always been a little afraid of the forbidding building on the top of North Hill. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that her lover was right—as a volunteer, no one would question her reasons for coming up here. Her husband would be none the wiser, and her friends would be completely thrown off the scent
.
Today, as she had nearly every day since the affair had begun a month ago, she’d driven up the hill to offer her services. She had talked to some of the patients, read a story to an odd little boy, played cards with a sad-eyed old man. All the time waiting for her lover to appear. Then, there he was, taking her gently by the arm, escorting her through the corridors until finally, a little while ago, they’d come into this room, which was empty save for the woman in the chair
.
“She doesn’t even know we’re here,” he assured her, slipping his arms around her and pulling her toward him, his lips nuzzling at her throat. Despite the thrill of
excitement that ran through her body, the woman pulled away from him, her eyes flicking toward the patient in the chair
.
“What’s wrong with her?” she asked. “Why doesn’t she move?”
“She’s delusional.” He glanced at the patient. “She thinks if she holds still, her ‘enemies’ can’t see her.” Reaching into the pocket of his white coat, he pulled out a small box. “I have something for you.” He put the box into her hands. “Something to celebrate our being together.”
The woman gazed at the pale blue box, recognizing its origin immediately. Her heart beating a little faster, she undid the white silk ribbon and lifted off the lid. Inside there was a soft velvet pouch; inside the pouch was a tiny locket
.
In the shape of a heart, it was covered with silver filigree, and when she pressed on the tiny catch to open it, the woman found a lock of hair pressed under the glass
.
The way she brushed her hair back from her face
.
Even the way she tilted her head
.
Her enemies were everywhere. And still they came
.
Ever watchful, never letting down her guard, today she’d spotted a new one
.
This time it was a well-dressed woman—exactly the kind of woman who used to pretend to be her friend back in the days before she’d caught on to the plot. This woman was younger than her, forty, with long dark hair that she had swept into an elaborate French twist at the back of her head. She wore a silk dress in the darkest shade of midnight blue. Lorena immediately recognized its distinctive cut and flair, which could only have come from Monsieur Worth in Paris. Lorena herself had been fitted in his salon when she’d traveled on the
Lusitania
to Europe the year before they sank it
.
The woman was talking to the warden, who still pretended he was a doctor even though Lorena had made it perfectly clear to him that she knew exactly who he really was. Every few minutes the woman’s eyes flicked in her direction. Each time, Lorena wondered if the woman was truly foolish enough to think she didn’t notice
.
Another surreptitious glance
.
Lorena felt the familiar fear quicken inside her. They were watching her, talking about her. Despite the charade they were playing out—that they had eyes only for each other—they weren’t fooling her at all
.
They weren’t just watching her
.
They were plotting against her
.
A plot Lorena wouldn’t—couldn’t—let succeed
.
The woman’s eyes flicked nervously to the patient who had been sitting in the dayroom, unmoving, from the moment she and the doctor slipped in to steal a few minutes alone together. When the doctor had first suggested to the woman that she volunteer to spend a few hours each week at the Asylum, the idea hadn’t appealed to her at all. In fact, though she’d never admitted it to anyone, she’d always been a little afraid of the forbidding building on the top of North Hill. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that her lover was right—as a volunteer, no one would question her reasons for coming up here. Her husband would be none the wiser, and her friends would be completely thrown off the scent
.
Today, as she had nearly every day since the affair had begun a month ago, she’d driven up the hill to offer her services. She had talked to some of the patients, read a story to an odd little boy, played cards with a sad-eyed old man. All the time waiting for her lover to appear. Then, there he was, taking her gently by the arm, escorting her through the corridors until finally, a little while ago, they’d come into this room, which was empty save for the woman in the chair
.
“She doesn’t even know we’re here,” he assured her, slipping his arms around her and pulling her toward him, his lips nuzzling at her throat. Despite the thrill of
excitement that ran through her body, the woman pulled away from him, her eyes flicking toward the patient in the chair
.
“What’s wrong with her?” she asked. “Why doesn’t she move?”
“She’s delusional.” He glanced at the patient. “She thinks if she holds still, her ‘enemies’ can’t see her.” Reaching into the pocket of his white coat, he pulled out a small box. “I have something for you.” He put the box into her hands. “Something to celebrate our being together.”
The woman gazed at the pale blue box, recognizing its origin immediately. Her heart beating a little faster, she undid the white silk ribbon and lifted off the lid. Inside there was a soft velvet pouch; inside the pouch was a tiny locket
.
In the shape of a heart, it was covered with silver filigree, and when she pressed on the tiny catch to open it, the woman found a lock of hair pressed under the glass
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