The Caller

Ninety-Three

One month later

A psychiatric facility in California

The corridor was long and wide, brightly lit by a single row of fluorescent lights that ran down the center of the ceiling. The scent that lingered in the air was... complicated. It started with a heavy antiseptic smell, as if the entire place had just been deep-cleaned by someone with a severe phobia of germs, but with every couple of steps, he would get hints of different odors — sometimes vomit, sometimes blood, sometimes something he just couldn’t identify. The smell seemed to emanate from the squeaky-clean floor and bounce against the insanely white walls before hitting his nose. Despite how repugnant it was, the smell didn’t really bother him.

He walked calmly, with neutral steps. He hadn’t been there long, but he already hated the place. The good news for him was — he would be leaving soon.

He turned the corner and pushed through a heavy set of double doors. There it was again, the smell of vomit, as if it’d been hiding behind the door, waiting for him to come through before slapping him in the face. He ignored it, turned another corner and finally stopped before a thick metal door with a small window at eye level. He didn’t look through the window. He didn’t need to. He simply unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Nicholas Holden, who was lying on his bed, flipping through a magazine, looked up.

The man placed the square box he had with him on the floor and the two of them regarded each other in silence for a moment.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Holden asked.

‘I’m the one you called,’ the man replied, closing the door behind him.

‘Wrong cell, buddy. I didn’t call anyone.’

From his pocket, Mr. J retrieved a picture of Cassandra and showed it to Holden.

‘Are you sure about that?’