Chapter 8 - Pine Ridge

The gravel in the parking lot of the Pine Ridge Recovery Center crunched under the tires of the sedan like dry bone. According to the ledgers I’d pulled from Richard’s foundation office, this was where the checks went—monthly wire transfers disguised as architectural consulting fees, routed through a shell company in Delaware.

The main building was a single-story brick structure with tinted windows and manicured hedges. A brass plaque by the double glass doors read Pine Ridge Recovery Center: Behavioral Health & Wellness.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked without looking up.

"I’m here to see Elena Vance," I said.

The typing stopped. "Visiting hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays, two to four. Today is Wednesday."

"It's an urgent family matter," I said. "Her brother is Sheriff Vance. He sent me to check on her paperwork."

"We don't coordinate family visits or paperwork without prior authorization from the attending physician, Dr. Hayes, and an appointment booked forty-eight hours in advance."

I walked along the paved perimeter of the building. The staff parking lot was situated at the rear. Two nurses in blue scrubs walked out, pushing open the heavy metal door. It didn't latch fully behind them.

I crossed the asphalt and caught the edge of the door before it clicked shut. Inside was a narrow utility corridor. I followed the corridor as it curved toward the residential wing.

Then I heard her voice. I stopped outside Room 112. Standing by the window, her hands pressed against the cold glass, was a woman in a gray cotton tunic. Her hair, once a bright, familiar gold like Lily's, was streaked with silver and cropped short.

"Elena," I breathed.

She turned her head slowly at the sound. For a fraction of a second, our eyes locked through the wired glass. Her lips parted, recognition flickering across her gaunt face.

Before she could speak, heavy footsteps echoed behind me. "Hey! You can't be back here!"

A broad-shouldered man in a gray security uniform was jogging down the corridor. "This is a restricted wing. Turn around right now or I'm calling the county deputies."

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"I'm leaving," I said, backing toward the service doors. The guard escorted me all the way across the back lot, watching as I climbed into my sedan.