The Girl in the Castle

CHAPTER 1

It starts with a girl, half naked and screaming.

Even though it’s midtown Manhattan, in January, the girl is wearing only a thin white T-shirt over a black lace bra. She slaps at the air like she’s fighting an enemy only she can see.

A gangly teen, halfway through his first-ever shift at the Gap, watches her nervously through the window. Every other New Yorker just clutches their phone or their Starbucks cup and pretends not to see her.

Maybe they really don’t.

She lets out a tortured cry that strangles in her throat, and then she crumples to her knees. “How do we get out of the castle?” she wails. “They’re going to kill us all!”

A police car speeds up to the curb and two officers step out. “Are you hurt?” the first asks. DUNTHORPE, his name tag reads.

The girl’s answer is more wordless screaming.

“We need you to calm down, miss,” his partner, Haines, says.

“Are you hurt?” Dunthorpe asks again. He thinks he’s seen this girl around the neighborhood. Maybe she’s one of the shoplifters or the dopeheads— or maybe she’s just some scared, crazy kid. Either way, he can’t just let her stand here and scream bloody murder.

When Dunthorpe moves toward her, she drops to her hands and knees and starts crawling away. Haines tries to grab her, but the minute he touches her back, she spins around at the same time her right foot flies out, smashing into his chest. Haines loses his balance and falls backward, cursing. The girl stands up and tries to run, but she stumbles over her backpack and goes down on all fours again.

“Help me!” she screams. “Don’t let them take me! Call off the guards! They’ll kill me!”

As Dunthorpe moves toward her with one hand on his Taser, she launches herself forward and hits him in the face with a closed fist. He reels backward, roaring in surprise, as Haines springs into action and gets her into a headlock.

Dunthorpe rubs his cheekbone and says, “Call the ambulance.”

“But the little bitch hit you.”

Dunthorpe’s cheek smarts. “That’ll be our secret.”

“You sure you don’t want to book her?” Haines’s arm tightens around the girl’s neck and her knees buckle. Quick as a snake, Haines gets behind her, grabs her hands, and cuffs them behind her back.

“I’m sure,” Dunthorpe says.

The girl keeps quiet until the ambulance comes, and then she starts screaming again. “Don’t let them take me!” she yells to the passersby as the two cops and an EMT wrestle her onto the gurney. “I have to save Mary. Oh, my sweet Mary!”

Strapped down, the girl wails over the sound of the ambulance siren.

“You can’t take me! I need to save Mary! No, no, you can’t take me!”

But of course, they can take her wherever they want to.

Half an hour later, the ambulance pulls up to the hospital, where a small but powerfully built nurse stands with her hands on her hips, waiting.

Arriving at the exact same time— but on foot, and voluntarily—is a handsome young man of nineteen or so. “Excuse me,” he says, peering at the nurse’s badge, “are you Amy Navarre? My name’s Jordan Hassan, and I think I’m supposed to shadow you—”

“You’ll have to wait,” Nurse Amy says curtly as the ambulance doors open.

Jordan Hassan shuts his mouth quick. He takes a step to the side as the EMTs slide a metal gurney out of the back. Strapped onto it is a girl, probably right about his age, with a dirty, tear- streaked face. She’s wearing a T-shirt and pair of boots but little else.

The nurse, who he’s pretty sure is supposed to be his supervisor for his class- credit internship this semester, walks toward the girl. “You can take the straps away,” she says to the EMT.

“I wouldn’t—” he begins.

The nurse looks at the girl. “It’s okay,” she says.

Jordan’s not sure if she’s reassuring the EMT or the girl. In any case, the EMT removes the restraints, and the nurse gently helps the girl off the stretcher. Jordan watches as the girl shuffles toward the entrance.

As the doors slide open automatically, she feints left and bolts right.

She’s coming straight for him.

Acting on reflex, Jordan catches her around the waist. She strains against his arms, surprisingly strong. Then she twists her head around and pleads, “Please—please—let me go! My sister needs me!”

“Keep hold of her!” Nurse Amy shouts.

Jordan has no idea what to do or who to listen to.

“I’m begging you,” the girl says, even as Amy advances, radioing security. Even as one of the girl’s sharp elbows jams into his solar plexus. Jordan gasps as air shoots out of his lungs.

“Just let me go,” the girl says, quieter now. “Please. I need your help.”

Jordan’s grip loosens— he can’t hold her much longer, and he doesn’t want to, either. But then two uniformed men come running outside, and they grab the girl’s arms and drag her into the hospital, and all the while she’s fighting.

Nurse Amy and Jordan follow them into a small room off the lobby. The guards get the girl into a geri chair and strap her down, and Jordan watches as Nurse Amy prepares a syringe.

“Your first day, huh?” she says to Jordan, her face looking suddenly worn. “Well, welcome to Belman Psych. We call this a B-52. It’s five milligrams of Haldol and two milligrams of Ativan, and we don’t use it unless it’s necessary for the safety of patient and staff.” She injects it intramuscularly, then follows it up with an injection of diphenhydramine. “Don’t worry. It’ll quiet her down.”

But it’s not like in the movies, when the patient just slumps forward, drooling and unconscious. The girl’s still yelling and pulling against her restraints. It looks like she’s being tortured.

“Give it a few minutes,” Amy says to Jordan.

Then she touches the patient’s hair, carefully brushing it away from her gnashing teeth. “You’re home, sweet Hannah. You’re home.”