(Amelia POV)
The van stopped. I had lost track of time. The darkness outside the small window had given way to harsh floodlights mounted on concrete walls. I heard the gates opening. Metal grinding against metal.
"We're here," the officer said. He unlocked my handcuffs. My wrists were raw. I rubbed them without thinking.
"Where is this place?" I asked.
"Westbrook Psychiatric Facility."
The name meant nothing to me. I had never heard of it. But as the doors opened and cold air rushed in, I understood. This was not a hospital. Not really. This was a place where people went to disappear.
Two nurses waited outside the van. A man and a woman. Both wore white uniforms. Both had faces that showed nothing.
"Amelia Campbell?" the woman asked.
"Yes."
"Follow us."
I stepped out of the van. My wedding dress dragged on the wet pavement. I had not worn shoes under my gown—just white silk stockings that were now torn and dirty. The floodlights buzzed overhead. Somewhere, a dog barked.
"Where is my lawyer?" I asked.
"You can make a phone call tomorrow," the man said.
"I want to call David Armstrong."
The two nurses exchanged a glance. Something passed between them. Something I did not understand.
"You'll have time for that later," the woman said. "First, we need to process you."
They led me through a series of steel doors. Each one clicked shut behind me. The sound was final. Like a lock on a coffin.
---
The intake room was small and white. A desk. Two chairs. A camera in the corner with a blinking red light. The walls were bare. The floor was linoleum. It smelled like bleach and something else. Something sour.
"Sit," the woman said.
I sat.
"Remove your jewelry."
I touched the necklace around my throat. The one David had given me. The silver chain with the small diamond pendant.
"Please," I said. "This was a gift. From my fiancé."
"You can have it back when you leave. Remove it."
My fingers trembled as I unclasped the necklace. I set it on the desk. The diamond caught the light.
"Now the dress."
"What?"
"You need to change into facility clothing. Remove the dress."
I stood. My legs felt weak. I turned my back to the nurse and unzipped my gown. The white lace fell to the floor. I stood in my slip, shivering.
The woman handed me a pile of gray fabric. Pants. A shirt. Socks. All of it rough, cheap, smelling of industrial detergent.
"Get dressed."
I dressed. The clothes were too big. The pants dragged on the floor. The shirt hung off my shoulder.
"Sit back down."
I sat.
The man stepped forward with a clipboard.
"Do you know why you're here, Miss Campbell?"
"I was accused of something I didn't do."
"You were accused of murder."
"I'm innocent."
He wrote something on the clipboard. "That's what they all say."
"I want to speak to a lawyer."
"You'll get your phone call tomorrow. For now, we need to ask you some questions. Have you ever been diagnosed with a mental illness?"
"No."
"Have you ever been prescribed psychiatric medication?"
"No."
"Have you ever attempted to harm yourself or others?"
"No."
"Have you ever heard voices that others cannot hear?"
I looked at him. "Are you serious?"
His face did not change. "Answer the question."
"No. I have never heard voices. I am not crazy. I am a doctor. I was a resident at Los Angeles General before all of this. I delivered babies. I stitched wounds. I saved lives."
The man wrote something else. "We'll have a psychiatrist evaluate you in the morning."
"I don't need a psychiatrist. I need a lawyer."
"You'll get your phone call tomorrow."
He said it again. Tomorrow. As if tomorrow was a promise. As if tomorrow would change anything.
---
They took me to a room.
A bed. A sink. A toilet. A small window with bars. The walls were the same white as the intake room. The floor was the same cold linoleum.
"Breakfast is at seven," the woman said. "Lights out at nine. Don't cause trouble."
She left. The door closed. The lock clicked.
I stood in the middle of the room.
I was alone.
I looked at the window. The bars were thick, bolted into concrete. Outside, I could see a sliver of sky. Dark. No stars.
I sat on the bed. The mattress was thin. The pillow was flat. The blanket smelled like bleach.
I closed my eyes.
I thought of David. Standing at the altar. His grey eyes. His soft smile. The way he had said those words: "She has mental health issues."
He had lied. He had looked at me and lied. Why?
I pressed my hands to my stomach. I thought about the last time I had my period. Six weeks ago. Maybe seven.
No, I told myself. It's just stress. Just the wedding. Just everything.
But I knew.
I was a doctor. I had delivered enough babies to recognize the signs. The nausea in the mornings. The tenderness in my breasts. The way certain smells made my stomach turn.
I was pregnant.
I was pregnant, and I was locked in a psychiatric hospital, accused of murder, wearing a stranger's clothes.
"Oh God," I whispered.
The walls did not answer. The window did not answer.
I lay down on the thin mattress and curled into a ball. My wedding dress hung on a hook by the door. White lace. A reminder of everything I had lost.
I did not sleep.
I stared at the ceiling and thought about David. About the first time we met. About the car crash. About the way he had looked at me in the emergency room and said, "You have beautiful hands."
I thought about the fire. Rebecca's face. The smoke. The heat. The blow to my head.
And I understood, with a clarity that felt like drowning, that Vivian had planned all of this.
---
A key turned in the lock.
I sat up quickly. My heart pounded. I expected a nurse. Linda, maybe. Or the gray-haired woman from intake.
The door opened.
A figure stood in the doorway. Backlit by the hallway lights. Honey‑blonde hair. Pale pink dress. A smile that did not reach her eyes.
Vivian.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The lock clicked again.
"Hello, Amelia," she said. "Welcome to your new home."
My blood ran cold.
"How did you get in here?" I whispered.
Vivian smiled. "I have friends everywhere. You'd be surprised what money can buy."
She walked toward the bed. Her heels clicked on the linoleum.
I pulled my knees to my chest. The gray shirt bunched around my wrists.
"What do you want, Vivian?"
"I wanted to see you. To make sure you were comfortable."
"I'm in a psychiatric hospital, wearing a dead woman's clothes, accused of a murder I didn't commit. How comfortable do I look?"
Vivian tilted her head. Her honey‑blonde hair slid over her shoulder.
"You did commit it, though. I saw you."
"You're lying."
"Am I?"
She sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. I leaned away.
"I was there," Vivian said softly. "I saw you push Rebecca into the flames. I saw the hatred in your eyes."
"That's not what happened."
"No one will believe you."
She reached out and touched my cheek. Her fingers were cold. I flinched.
"You're going to stay here for a long time, Amelia. Maybe forever. David will move on. He'll marry someone else. Someone who deserves him."
"He loves me."
Vivian laughed. The sound was sharp, brittle.
"Does he? He sent you here. He called you crazy. He didn't even try to defend you."
My throat tightened. I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream. But Vivian was right. David had stood at the altar and watched them take me away. He had said those words. She has mental health issues.
"Why are you doing this?" I whispered.
Vivian stood. She smoothed her dress.
"Because you took something that didn't belong to you."
"I never took anything."
"You took him."
The words hung in the air.
I stared at her. "David?"
Vivian's smile faded. For the first time, I saw something real in her eyes. Something raw. Something hungry.
"I have loved David since we were children," she said. "I have waited for him. I have been there for him. Through every breakup. Every disappointment. Every loss. And then you appeared. Some nobody from nowhere. And he forgot I existed."
"That's not my fault."
"It is. You could have said no. You could have walked away. But you didn't. You stayed. You took him. And now you will pay."
She walked to the door. She knocked twice. The lock clicked from the outside.
She looked back over her shoulder.
"Enjoy your stay, Amelia. I hear the food is terrible."
The door opened. Vivian stepped through. The door closed.
I sat alone in the dark.
My hands were shaking. My stomach churned.
I pressed my palms against my belly.
I will protect you, I thought. No matter what.
But I did not know how.
---
End of Chapter 3