Northlake Intake

White walls. The kind of white that isn't just a color, but a physical weight designed to crush the periphery of your vision until you only see the path they want you to walk.

I was schlepped through the intake double doors by two men who smelled of starch and clinical indifference. My head was a hot mess of cotton wool and static. The sedative Aris had jammed into my deltoid was lowkey winning the war for my consciousness.

"Patient is Merritt Coe," a voice said.

It was a woman. Brisk. Wearing navy scrubs that crinkled with every movement. She didn't look at my face; she looked at the clipboard Graham handed her.

"Voluntary admit?" she asked.

"Involuntary," Graham’s voice was a mood—specifically, a tragic, long-suffering husband vibe that was giving main character energy in a true crime podcast. "She’s been spiraling for weeks. Cotard’s. She thinks she’s already passed."

I tried to say *no*. I tried to tell them about Gavin, about the basement, about the trust fund payout Lorna was salivating over. But my tongue was a lead weight in a dry mouth. Verbal paralysis had finally claimed me. My fatal flaw, manifesting right on cue.

"We'll take it from here, Mr. Coe," the nurse said.

"Wait," I managed to rasp. It sounded like dry leaves skittering over pavement.

Graham leaned in. He smelled of that expensive sandalwood cologne, a scent that used to mean safety but now just smelled like a meticulously managed crisis. He touched my hair.

"It's for your own good, darling. I'll be here every visiting hour. I promise."

He turned and walked away. The *click-clack* of his loafers on the linoleum sounded like a countdown ending.

"Alright, Merritt," the nurse said. "Let's get you processed. Strip down. Everything off."

She led me into a small, windowless room. The air was freezing. My Toyota Camry was miles away, bricked and useless. My life was being liquidated by a man who had already bought my grave.

I shuffled out of my clothes. The jeans. The hoodie. The sneakers with the key hidden in the sole.

The nurse bagged them in thick plastic. *Snap. Zip.*

"My locket," I whispered, reaching for the silver chain.

"No jewelry. Safety risk," she said, reaching out.

I felt the silver slide off my neck. The locket that held the recording of his voice—the one thing that proved I wasn't deluded. It was gone. Bagged. Labeled.

Then she saw the bandage on my hand.

"What's this?"

"I... I cut it."

She peeled back the tape. Her eyes narrowed at the jagged line.

"Self-harm history?" she asked, scribbling on the intake form.

"No. It was an accident. I was trying to—"

"Save it for the doctor," she interrupted.

She handed me a set of paper-thin scrubs. They were a dull, institutional gray. No pockets. No drawstring. Nothing I could use to hurt myself, or to hide anything.

"I need my medicine," I said. "The blue ones."

"Dr. Aris already updated your chart," she replied, her face a mask of professional boredom. "He said you might obsess over the pills. We'll be managing your titration from here on out."

She moved to my bra, which was lying on the bench. She picked it up, checking the underwire.

Suddenly, her fingers stopped. She felt the hard, rectangular lump I'd shoved into the lace.

The SD card.

The raw footage. The rehearsals. The proof that Graham was a thief and a fraud.

"What is this?" she asked.

She pulled it out. The tiny black plastic chip looked like a dead insect in her palm.

"It's mine," I said, my voice rising. "I need that. It’s evidence."

"Electronic devices are strictly prohibited," she said. She didn't even look at it. She just dropped it into the bag with my sneakers.

"Please," I begged, stepping toward her. "You don't understand. My husband is—"

"Your husband is a very concerned man who spent three hours on the phone with our director ensuring you got the best care," she snapped. "Now, stay back. Or I’ll have to call the orderlies to assist."

I stopped. The room felt like a Faraday cage, but for my soul.

I was naked in a room full of fluorescent lights, and the only proof of my sanity was currently being zipped into a plastic bag that would be locked in a basement locker. This was giving Snap-documentary-level disaster energy.

"Step on the scale," she commanded.

I ambled over, my bare feet sticking to the cold floor. I was one bad day away from becoming a statistic.

"One hundred and eight pounds," she muttered. "Weight loss consistent with the diagnosis. Delusional refusal of food."

"I was being poisoned," I whispered.

She just sighed. "They all say that, Merritt. Every single one of them thinks someone is after their money or their life. It's the sickness talking."

She opened the door.

"Follow me."

We walked down a hallway that felt impossibly long. I felt transparent. Graham had said I was fading, and standing here, in gray paper clothes with no identity and no voice, I realized he had succeeded.

The social death was complete.

We passed a common room where a man was staring at a blank television screen. He looked like he’d been there for a decade.

"This is Unit 4," the nurse said. "High security. Low stimulus."

She stopped at a door labeled *402*.

She swiped a keycard. *Beep.*

The door swung open to reveal a room that was essentially a white box. A bed bolted to the floor. A toilet with no lid. A small, high window that was frosted so I couldn't see the sky.

"Get in," she said.

I walked inside. The silence was absolute. Acoustic foam wouldn't even be needed here; the walls were thick enough to swallow a scream.

"Wait," I said, turning back. "The room next door. 403. You said Elena was there."

The nurse paused. She looked at the door card for 403.

"There's no one in 403, Merritt," she said. "That room has been empty for months. Maintenance is fixing a leak."

My blood turned to ice.

"But I saw her," I said. "Through the window. She talked to me."

The nurse looked at me with a pity that felt like a slap.

"Merritt, that room is locked from the outside and the power is cut. There’s no one in there."

She stepped back and pulled the door shut.

*Thud.*

The heavy steel settled into the frame.

I ran to the small observation port. I looked out.

The hallway was empty. The nurse was walking away, her crinkling scrubs the only sound in the world.

I looked at the door card for 403.

It was blank. A white plastic slot with nothing in it.

I slumped against the door. The sedative was making me dizzy again. Was I deluded? Had the poison finally rotted my brain?

Gavin. Toby. The locket.

They felt like a dream. A vivid, desperate dream I’d invented in the woods.

I looked around the white box.

There was a small vent near the ceiling.

I stood on the bed, reaching up, hoping to hear the hum of the HVAC system Gavin had talked about.

Instead, I heard a voice.

Faint. Scratchy. Coming from the wall.

"Merritt?"

I pressed my ear to the cold plaster.

"Elena?" I breathed.

"He's here," the voice whispered. "The Director is here. He’s in the building."

"Who?" I asked. "Graham?"

"No," the voice rasped. "The one who pays Aris. The one who started all of this."

I frowned. "What do you mean? Graham started this."

"Graham is just an actor, Merritt," she whispered. "He was hired to play the husband. Just like I was hired to play the wife."

I felt the room start to spin. The floor seemed to tilt beneath the bed.

"A-actors?"

"Look at the back of the door," she said. "At the very bottom. Behind the hinge."

I jumped down. I knelt on the floor, my fingers trembling as I felt along the metal frame of the heavy door.

I felt something sharp. A piece of tape.

I peeled it back.

Hidden in the gap between the frame and the wall was a small, laminated card.

An ID badge.

I held it up to the harsh light.

The photo was Graham. He was younger, his hair shorter, a professional smile on his face.

But the name on the badge wasn't Graham Coe.

It was Gavin Coe.

And the employer wasn't Insight Crisis Solutions.

It was *Northlake Behavioral Health: Staff Supervisor*.

The door handle rattled.

The lock began to turn.

I looked at the ID, then at the door, my heart a fist pounding against my ribs, and finally understood that the person I had been running to for help was the one who had built the cage.

The door swung open, and the man I thought was my husband stood there, wearing a white lab coat, a stethoscope draped around his neck like a noose.

"Time for your evaluation, Merritt," he said, and his voice wasn't the voice of a husband, but the cold, clinical tone of a man who had never loved me at all.

Behind him, in the hallway, I saw Aris. And Aris was bowing.

"The board is waiting, Dr. Coe," Aris said.

The man in the lab coat smiled at me, his eyes dead as stones.

"Let's see if you can pass Act 3."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black remote.

He pressed a button.

A sound began to play from the speakers hidden in the ceiling.

It was the recording from my locket.

But it wasn't Graham's voice.

It was mine.

*"I killed them,"* my own voice screamed through the speakers. *"I killed Sarah and I'll kill you too!"*

"Tell me, Merritt," he whispered, leaning closer until I could smell the sandalwood. "Do you still think you’re the hero of this story?"

I opened my mouth to scream, but the only thing that came out was a jagged, high-pitched laugh that didn't sound like me at all.

He turned the volume up until the white walls began to vibrate, and then he stepped out and locked the door, leaving me alone with the sound of my own confession.

I looked at the blank television screen on the wall as it flickered to life.

A live feed.

Lorna's living room.

Toby was there. And Sarah.

And they were holding the red duffel bag.

Sarah looked at the camera and winked.

"Target secured," she said.

Then she pulled a long, curved blade from the bag and turned toward Toby.