My senior business partner told the board he was boarding an eleven-hour flight to Zurich for an emergency investment summit.
The protection Detective Bennett spoke of never materialized. Two days after his last visit, the hospital staff informed me that my discharge was being processed. A wave of relief washed over me, quickly followed by a cold dread. Where would I go? My compound was damaged, and I couldn’t risk returning there.
Before I could ask, the door to my room opened, and Sheriff Luke Callahan walked in, flanked by two burly deputies. He looked less like a law enforcement officer and more like a disgruntled bouncer, his face set in a grim expression.
“Ms. Cross,” Callahan began, his voice flat, devoid of the friendly pretense he’d once used. “I’m here to inform you that per a court order, you’re being placed on an involuntary 72-hour psychiatric hold.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “What? Why?”
“Your recent allegations against Mr. Brock,” he stated, pulling out a folded document. “Claims of sabotage, attempted murder, elaborate conspiracies… these are consistent with symptoms of acute hypoxic delirium. Induced by the oxygen deprivation you experienced.”
Hypoxic delirium. My blood ran cold. This was their next move. Gaslighting. Declaring me insane to invalidate my testimony and seize my company.
“This is a lie!” I exclaimed, trying to sit up fully. My muscles protested. “I’m perfectly lucid. I have a clean toxicological report from the hospital!”
Callahan ignored me, handing the document to one of his deputies. “She’s to be transferred to the secure wing, Room 408. No visitors, no phone calls. Standard protocol for observation.”
He motioned to the deputies. They approached my bed.
“You can’t do this!” I yelled, fighting the wave of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm me. “This is an abuse of power! Jason paid you, didn’t he? To silence me!”
Callahan’s face darkened, a flicker of anger in his eyes. “That’s enough, Ms. Cross. Your delusions are precisely why this hold is necessary.”
They disconnected my IV, roughly, and tried to guide me out of the room. My mind raced, searching for an escape, a way to alert Bennett. But my phone, confiscated upon my arrival, was still held in the nurse’s station.
They escorted me down a deserted corridor, the hospital bustling with activity around us, yet this section felt eerily isolated. Room 408. A small, sparse room with a single bed and a heavy, bolted door. A window, but it was reinforced with a mesh screen.
After the deputies settled me in, Callahan gave strict instructions to the night nurse on duty, a quiet woman with kind eyes named Sarah. He emphasized that I was not to be left alone, and my “delusions” were to be carefully monitored.
Then, to my surprise, Callahan and his deputies left, leaving me with Sarah. She avoided my gaze, carefully adjusting the blinds.
“I need my phone,” I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper. “I need to call someone.”
Sarah shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Orders are strict.”
She placed a tray with a glass of water and a cracker on my bedside table. Her hand lingered for a moment, sliding something small and metallic underneath the edge of the napkin.
My eyes darted to her. She met my gaze for a fleeting second, a silent message passing between us. Her brother, I remembered Bennett mentioning, had also been a victim of corporate abuse, losing everything before his sudden death. She knew. She understood.
She left the room then, the heavy door clicking shut, but not locking. My heart pounded. The key. A small, ornate service key, the kind used for utility panels or emergency exits.
Left unguarded for twenty minutes. My chance. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the key, my fingers clumsy with adrenaline. The lock turned with a satisfying click.
The corridor outside was dimly lit, silent. I slipped out, my hospital gown rustling, clutching the key. The window in my room had been blocked, but the fire exit at the end of the hall had a small, green-lit sign. Freedom.
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