Sabrina's Routine

The silver Lexus disappeared behind the dense row of pines, its taillights a pair of angry eyes blinking out in the gloom. Iris pressed her face against the wire mesh of the hospital window, her breath fogging the glass.

Sabrina.

The diligent daughter. The curator of the Vance Art Gallery. The woman who had told Iris, with a straight face, that Elias was finding himself in an ashram in Rishikesh.

She wasn't just a bystander. She was the supply chain.

Iris watched the service road. It was overgrown, unused by anyone except the groundskeepers—and apparently, the pizza delivery guy. It wound behind the main estate, bypassing the burned-out shell of Mercer Hall, leading directly to the Carriage House.

Ten minutes later, the Lexus reappeared.

It moved slowly, navigating the potholes. It stopped at the junction where the service road met the main drive.

Iris squinted. Through the rain-streaked window, she could just make out Sabrina’s profile in the driver’s seat. She wasn't moving. She was just sitting there, her head resting on the steering wheel.

Her shoulders shook.

She was crying.

It was a small detail, a crack in the armor. If Sabrina was a willing participant, a cold-blooded jailer like her father, why the tears? Why the hesitation?

The car sat there for another minute. Then, Sabrina straightened up. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, wiped her face, and put the car in gear. She turned onto the main road, driving toward the highway.

Iris watched until the car was gone.

Sabrina wasn't just delivering food. She was delivering guilt.

Iris went back to the bed. She sat down, her mind replaying the scene. The pizza boxes. The tears. The letters in the leather binder.

*She said she's sorry.*

Elias's journal entry from 2010.

Sabrina knew. She had known for sixteen years. She had grown up with a secret locked in the basement, a cousin erased from existence to pay for her private school, her gallery, her Lexus.

But she hadn't turned the key. Julian had.

Sabrina was trapped, too. Trapped by the money. Trapped by the lie. Trapped by a father who would burn down his own house to save his reputation.

If Iris could reach her... if she could leverage that guilt...

But she was locked in a room with no phone, no money, and a transfer order signed by a lawyer who smelled like sulfur.

The door opened. It wasn't the nurse. It was an orderly, a large man with bored eyes.

"Transport's here," he said. "Get your things."

"I need to use the bathroom first," Iris said, stalling.

"Make it quick."

She went into the small, ensuite bathroom. She looked in the mirror. Her face was still smudged with soot, her eyes wild and bloodshot. She looked exactly like the crazy woman Julian said she was.

She looked at the toilet.

She looked at the vent in the ceiling.

No. Too small. Too cliché.

She looked at the trash can.

Inside, buried under a paper towel, was the paper cup she had spit the pill into. The pill was dissolving, a white sludge at the bottom.

She grabbed a piece of tissue. She scooped up the sludge. She wrapped it carefully and put it in her pocket.

It wasn't a weapon. But it was something.

She came out. "Ready."

The orderly led her down the hall. They passed the nurses' station. Dr. Chen was on the phone, her back turned.

They reached the loading dock. A white van was waiting. *St. Jude’s Behavioral Health.*

The driver got out. He wasn't a medic. He was wearing a dark suit. He looked like security. Private security.

He opened the back door.

"Ms. Vance," he said. "Please step inside."

Iris looked at the van. It was windowless. Soundproofed, probably.

She looked at the orderly. He was checking his phone, indifferent.

She stepped toward the van.

And then she saw the driver's wrist.

A tattoo peeked out from under his cuff. A small, black trident.

She had seen that tattoo before.

On the arm of the man who had installed the new locks on the main house. The man who worked for Julian's private security firm.

This wasn't a medical transport. This was a rendition.

Iris stopped.

"Get in," the driver said, his voice dropping the professional veneer.

"No," Iris said.

She turned to the orderly. "He's not hospital staff. Check his ID."

The orderly looked up. "What?"

"Check his ID!" Iris screamed. "He works for my uncle!"

The driver lunged. He grabbed Iris's arm, twisting it behind her back. Pain shot through her shoulder.

"She's having an episode," the driver told the orderly. "Help me get her in."

The orderly hesitated. He looked at the driver's rough handling. He looked at Iris's terrified face.

"Hey," the orderly said, stepping forward. "Let her go. You can't put hands on a patient."

"Back off," the driver snarled.

He shoved Iris toward the open doors.

She kicked him. She aimed for the knee, putting all her weight into the blow.

He grunted and stumbled. His grip loosened.

Iris wrenched free. She ran.

She ran back into the hospital, through the automatic doors. She didn't stop at the desk. She ran for the elevators.

She hit the button for the parking garage.

The doors slid open. She jumped in.

She hit *B2*.

As the doors closed, she saw the driver burst into the lobby, the orderly shouting behind him.

She was loose. But she was still in the building. And she had nowhere to go.

Except...

Sabrina.

She needed a car. She needed a phone. She needed leverage.

She remembered the Lexus. The tears.

Sabrina wasn't a jailer. She was a fellow prisoner.