And he never forgot.

“Another night, Alice. We’ll talk about her another night.” It brought him tired relief to say those words.

As he gave Anna’s little box one more wind, a distant scream jolted through his painful haze and drew him bolt upright. It was a hysterical sound. Animal-like and entirely foreign to his ears. It must be the new intake. He’d heard about her, the young delusional who’d been brought in a near-vegetative state, so full of sedatives they had to check her pulse to be certain she shouldn’t go straight to the morgue.

So this was why. This was what she became when she was awake. Rising and moving toward the door, he shoved his fist into his shoulder and rotated his head to stretch his stiff neck. Oh, how he craved bedtime. And dreaded it. Perhaps he should—

Bonggg. Metal on wood. It echoed deep in the asylum and he tore down the corridor toward the main stairs where the yelling had been. From the sounds of it, she was trying to escape through the front doors.

When he reached the second-floor landing and looked down, three or four figures struggled in the distant shadows below, then one broke away and bolted. They apprehended her again and wrenched her arms behind her back, lashing them with something. He hurried down the stairs as she fought, every muscle in play.

How wildly out of place she seemed in this sterile old building, with its stone walls and dull chill. The effect was electrifying, and he couldn’t stop staring as he approached, drawn to the rare display of strength. Although he wasn’t certain who he should help when he reached them. Would the lasso win? Or the creature?

One more flight of steps. It was dark, but their forms were growing clearer. Lightning blazed in the windows, and suddenly there she was—turbulent and wild with great masses of deep red hair flying about her shoulders.

Crash. More thunder, then the lightning illuminating the space. This time she was still, chest heaving and head down. Resigned.

Then she swept aside the great curtain of burnished red hair, lifted her glowing countenance to him, and it was her. Not a new intake, but her. The musician who’d reached Mary Jo, who’d studied him with those snapping bright eyes. Yet she was here. In captivity. A patient? How had he mistaken her for an aid?

Her body had stilled, but her face, those flashing eyes, radiated a turbulent look that was quite spectacular, and he knew her strength was only reined in, crouched and waiting.

She twisted away and a nurse struck her face, the sound ricocheting through the emptiness. She cried out, which earned a slap from the on-duty guard as well.