Savannah Thorne
Glass House: Chapter One
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A stupid toothbrush. Hospital-issued plastic, sharpened to a wicked point. One of the attacker’s arms looped my shoulder, the other jabbed the shiv against my throat. I craned to catch his face in my peripheral vision. Rai, a patient on Briarheart’s C ward. His usually luminous hair hung lank over his forehead, slick with sweat.
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If I pulled the pin from my alarm, he could stab me. A relentless pop beat pulsed from the dayroom speakers. If I screamed, no one would hear. Not through these walls. Not over the pounding music.
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Rai would have to be disarmed carefully, like an explosive device.
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One thing my job—hell, my life—had taught me: swallow primal fear.
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Panic shuts down the brain, shunts energy to the body. Silence the body’s terror and listen to the brain.
“Rai, everything will be all right.”
His muscles stayed tight. The point pressed into my jugular and sweat crawled down my spine. I scanned for anything I could use. Metal cabinets lined the far wall—locked.
The music cut out. My heartbeat surged in the silence, pounding in my ears.
I recited de-escalation techniques: Use his name. Make a connection. Keep your voice low and dull.
“Rai, tell me how I can help you.”
“I don’t know,” he croaked. A long moment stretched out, unraveling like fabric caught on a rusted nail. “I got her here, just like you said. Now what?”
Who he was speaking to, no one outside his head could know.
Try to get your hands up between you. Impossible—he was behind me. Get him to agree with you on something.
I kept my tone low. “You worked really hard on that toothbrush. I’ll bet it took a long time.”
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A puff of breath hit the back of my neck. “Yeah.”
He made no further move. Just keep him talking.
“You make stuff, right? A craftsman.”
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“I had to. I had to. He told me. But he didn’t tell me what’s next.”
“Who told you, Rai?”
The sharp point moved away. Cavernous silence yawned between us, thick with tension.
He sniffled, ragged, moist.
I turned very slightly, just enough to see his face from my peripheral vision. “Rai?”
Tears wet his cheeks. “I don’t want to. He told me I had to. But I don’t want to.”
“Who told you?”
“The voice.”
“It told you to attack a therapist?”
“Not any therapist. You. The fake blonde.”
The door crashed open. A flash of pale hair and orange pajamas—a patient slammed into Rai’s ribs. Rai fell, yanking my hair as he went. I threw a hand to my scalp as he was dragged into the hallway.
“It’s okay, man!” Rai cried. “Chill!”
My lanyard lay snapped on the floor. I leapt forward, detached the duress alarm from its keychain fastener, and pushed the panic button. Wailing bounced off the stone walls and Rai dropped instantly, curled into a ball on the stained floor.
The other patient threw his hands up. “I didn’t hurt him! He just dropped!”
A door slammed open and Mike and Neal, the day orderlies, dashed toward us. Patients migrated into the hall, some confused, some eager for excitement.
“It’s okay!” I yelled, then silenced the alarm. The orderlies moved to grab both patients, but I pointed to the newcomer. “He saved me.”
While Neal knelt on Rai, plunging a needle of Midazolam into his neck, Mike spun my rescuer into a bear hug.
“Z, what happened? You good?”
“Yeah, man. But Rai threatened the good doctor here.”
“I’m not a doctor. Hannah Weiss.”
“Zander Grayson.” He held out a hand, and I shook it.
Mike retrieved the shiv and handed it to me. “Talk to you later, Z. Gotta take care of our friend here.” They shuffled away with Rai.
The other patients began to disperse. Z’s denim-blue eyes flickered. “You all right?”
Now that the ordeal was over, my body gave one shaking, violent tremor as if relieving itself of pent-up terror. “Thanks to you.” I steadied my breath. “But Zander—how did you know I was being attacked?”
“I was meeting with Director Solv when I heard a scream. But he didn’t even want to let me check it out. You know how Heinz Doofenshmirtz can be.”
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“Sorry—who?”
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“Oh—cartoon reference. Might be a little after your time. Anyway, thank goodness I didn’t listen to him. Such a douche.”
I smothered a chuckle. “You shouldn’t speak of the Director like that.”
He grinned mischievously. “Sorry.”
“I’m amazed you could hear anything at all over that music!” I shook my hands, trying to dissolve the last of the adrenaline. “Well, speaking of the director, I need to file an incident report. Excuse me.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Want me to walk you back?”
At Joliet and Oakdale, prisoners didn’t roam the halls freely, but I wasn’t working in a prison anymore. Not technically. I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
“I won’t attack you. I promise.”
“I know.” I smoothed my hair and attempted a laugh.
“What’s that?” Zander nodded toward my wrist.
I tucked my hands into the pockets of my overcoat. He’d seen the tip of my tattoo: blackbird silhouettes cascading from wrist to elbow. “Nothing.”
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“Not if you wanted it forever.” He pulled back his sleeve, revealing an ace of spades inked in stark black. “Me and my bandmates all got one. Your turn.”
I shrugged. “Just birds.” Meaningless, if you didn’t know what they were flying from. Or that they covered a crisscross of scars.
“You know, you need to be careful. Monsters could be hiding anywhere.”
“Patients aren’t monsters. They’re people who need help.”
He cocked his head with a funny half-smile. “I didn’t mean the patients.”
I blinked in surprise. After an awkward moment, I turned away. “Excuse me.”
The rooms sprawled haphazardly through the building, patched and bricked over from the factory days. Mold streaked the walls like bloodstains. As I went down the hall, I still felt Zander’s eyes on me, like a current running up my spine.
Finally alone in the staff restroom, I sagged against the sink. The porcelain was cold—solid. Real. I splashed cool water onto my cheeks, drew myself up, and met my own eyes in the mirror.
You survived. That’s all that matters.
But—
As the adrenaline drained away, certainty settled in.
I hadn’t screamed.
Not once.
Until I pulled the alarm, I hadn’t made a sound.
So how did he know I was in danger?