The Clinic: A Novel

Prologue

The clinic was usually loud at night. Addicts, detoxing, shouting. But this part was quiet, the disinfectant smell less pervasive.

No one had said rehab would be easy. But Haley hadn’t counted on it being this hard. Her agent had painted it as a vacation. A break from the drugs before returning to the recording studio and celebrity parties. They hadn’t mentioned how Haley would have to perform an Oscar-worthy set of panic attacks and tearful breakdowns to avoid therapy getting personal. Because Haley couldn’t go there. She really couldn’t. At twenty-seven she had enough bad memories to last a lifetime.

That was why she was padding barefoot along the squeaky, bleached floor of this dark corridor at night, headed for the medical store. And here it was. Haley’s painted toes came to a halt outside.

Rehab went on and on about not trusting addicts and keeping everything locked away. But a security system is only as effective as the people who run it, and with her trademark charm, Haley had needed barely a minute to win over the guard. Sometimes she was so good she impressed herself.

The door was plain. Unmarked. Electronic key code. Stupid. All that plate glass and double locks for the daily pharmacy, and then they keep ten times the drugs behind this flimsy panel of wood. Haley had kicked holes in bigger doors during fights with her manager.

She breathed out. Zipped her pink velour onesie a little higher over her chin—designer label, naturally, bought especially for rehab. The cute loungewear clung to her pixie frame, with a useful hood for pulling down low over her eyes.

Tapping the override code, she almost paused. Haley had been clean for over three weeks. She’d sworn to herself she would stick to a few lines at parties from now on. No crazy weeklong binges. She’d get acting work too. That was why she’d gotten the singing contract anyway. We can autotune your voice, kid. It’s the looks and sweet country-girl charm we need.

Maybe it would be nice to get through the full month without anything. Just to prove she could.

But the lock was whirring as Haley remembered how addicts in group therapy had been ragging on her. There was this guy. OK, two guys, in actual fact, who never let up. Admittedly she had played them during her first days there, when she had been going out of her mind with detox and boredom. What else was going to keep her occupied?

So these guys couldn’t get over that she’d ditched them, basically. Trying to get to the bottom of why she was here, who she was. But there was some stuff she would never tell anyone. Stuff she really, really didn’t appreciate being reminded of.

Which was why when the door swung open, Haley at first only had eyes for the rows upon rows of white cardboard boxes arranged neatly on shelves.

Relief hit her in a golden wave.

She’d come for a little something to help her sleep through the bad thoughts. Get through the last few nights of rehab. Now that she was here, she figured she might as well take a couple extra servings from the all-you-can-eat buffet of annihilators. How much fun it would be to float through those therapy sessions without caring. It was such a nice idea that she could feel herself physically wriggling into it, like a cozy blanket. After all that raw pain, she’d be armored up in a fluffy padded suit of couldn’t-care-less. A smile tugged itself onto her face. So many names she recognized on the boxes. Haley hardly knew where to start.

It was only when she reached for the first package that she saw… In the corner of the room. Her hands flew to her mouth.

Oh my God… Bile rose in her throat.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.

Haley knew no drug could help her now.

This would be the room she would die in.

CHAPTER ONE

MEG

The high-roller pits in Luckie’s Casino have fancier bathrooms than any LA five-star hotel. And at 3:00 a.m., no one is in here but me, leaning over the crisp square lines of the porcelain sink.

The girl looking back at me in the gold-tiled mirror needs some work. She’s altogether too neat and groomed with her blond chignon, professional makeup, and designer shoes.

Sliding a package of white powder from my bra, I tap the tiniest dab neatly under my nose and another little touch to my black cocktail dress. Taking in the effect, I take an eyedropper from my purse and drip the contents fast into both blue eyes.

Shit! I recoil reflexively, grabbing my face, hunched over. I uncurl, wincing. My pupils have dilated to double the size. One of my colored contact lenses has slipped, revealing a half-moon of deep-green iris. I nudge the lens back and take a breath before tidying my smudged mascara enough to show I’ve tried. A little spritz of water to make my forehead look sweaty, and a few strands pulled from the neat wig covering my own dark, wavy hair. The girl in the mirror is drug fueled. Wired. She’s perfect.

Showtime, I tell her.

The casino floor looks different through my bloodshot eyes. Golden palm trees are blurry. I scan the crowded pits of high rollers.

As I return to the table, I see it. The slight relaxing of the body language of the two men I’m playing against.

Hey, Francine, says Charlie, the guy I lost two grand to an hour ago. Powdering your nose?

I wipe self-consciously with the edge of a knuckle. Charlie is an oily little man with a loan shark for a boss. He’s probably been shuffling poker cards since he was old enough to shake a can for dimes on skid row. Same as me. Give or take.

Gotta stay sharp for y’all, I tell him with my best country-girl twang. Win it all back.

The dealer gives us the nod. Ready?

Sure. I beam. Let’s play.

He slides out cards. Three each. I pull mine up, feeling the eyes on me, waiting for the tell. I flatten the cards back a little too quickly before breaking a wide smile.

I’m in, I say.

Charlie eyes me. You know, he says slowly, you remind me of someone. He thinks some more. That girl. He clicks his fingers. What’s her name? That country singer. Haley. Haley Banks. The party girl.

Yeah?

Took you long enough, asshole. I’ve been channeling my messed-up sister all night.

My whole life I’ve been compared unfavorably to Haley. She was the blond, blue-eyed princess; I was dark. She got lithe little curves; I grew up wiry. There are similarities though. Arched brows and an elf-like slant to our eyes and cheekbones. A certain disregard for the rules and an ability with accents.

I’ll take that as a compliment. I frown at the table. I’m in.

I’m gonna do you a favor, Charlie says. How ’bout I give you a chance to win everything back? Double or quits.

Sounds good. I twitch an eyelid.

How about you? Charlie turns to the other player, who I’ve quietly dubbed the Viking, on account of his large stature, blond hair, and strong, silent method of play.

The Viking eyes Charlie. I’ll sit this one out. You guys are too crazy for me. He leans his long body back against the chair.

Looks like it’s only you and me who still got balls, toots. Charlie winks at me, and gestures without thanks for the dealer to issue more cards. I pull a wide smile.

My luck is about to change, fella. You just wait and see.

Charlie peels back his cards, face completely neutral. Some people will tell you that reading tells is an art. But it isn’t an art; it’s a science. Faces tell you nothing. You’ve got to blank them out entirely. Hands tell you a lot. Feet too if you can get a look. The way legs are crossed. Breathing.

Cross-reference that with patterns of past behavior, assess what cards are down, and run a probability matrix. You need all this, even if you’re trying to lose.

I collect my cards and make an exaggerated glance at my chips. An amateur giveaway that I like what I see and my brain is telling me to bet high.

You know what, I tell him. I’m all in.

It’s impossible to tell what Charlie’s thinking. He caught that chip glance. Question is this. Does he buy my act? He riffles chips thoughtfully.

Come on, Charlie. I know it’s you who’s been setting up loan sharks in here. Say something incriminating.

Eight hours of continuous play are hitting me now. I wonder if that chip glance was too obvious.

Know what? he says. I’ll raise.

I lower my eyes. Um. I think… Can I bet this? I hold up my wrist. It’s a Rolex.

The dealer shakes his head firmly.

Charlie leans toward me, then hesitates.

Come on, Charlie, I beg silently. Offer me a loan.

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep my face sweetly clueless.

Charlie lowers his voice. You want me to help you out? I can get you a number of a guy who can wire you two thousand right away. Ten if you need.

Yes!

Really? I reply in an uncertain whisper. My heart is soaring. Finally. You’d give me the chance to stay in the game?

He leans back, his eyes sliding to the dealer. Then he pushes a card across with digits scrawled on it.

Make a trip to the bathroom. Use your phone, he says. The money will be in your account by the time you get back to the table.

I stand. Smile.

You know what? I tell the dealer. I need another bathroom break. I’ll be back in one little minute.

As I walk away and give the signal, two security guards peel from the sides of the room, moving to take Charlie in. Loan sharks aren’t welcome at Luckie’s.

Shame. He was a good player. And I had a winning hand.

I exit the casino floor as a TV blares early-morning news. An anchor announces urgently to the camera, World-famous singer Haley Banks checked in to the world’s most expensive rehab last month…

I roll my eyes as I pass. Not bothering to listen to the rest.

Typical. I catch bad guys. But my big sister, Haley, is the one who makes headlines.

CHAPTER TWO

CARA

Through the lobby window of the Clinic, I watch for the police car. My manicured hand drops to discreetly rub where my designer heel catches.

Outside, the Pacific Northwest morning is the same as yesterday and the day before. Our oceanfront resort lives under an unremitting wash of salt mist. Not freezing, but fresh, dappling everything in a green fuzz of moss and punky shoots of emerald grass. Even the firs look larger and darker here, with low branches trailing lichen garlands and tree bark wrinkled so deep you could fit a fist in the folds.

It’s still hard to believe that only a few months ago I was in sunny LA, managing an extremely basic hotel, with no idea that the mysterious cream-colored envelope on my desk was about to change my life. I had opened it to discover a handwritten invitation to a job interview.

The position I was invited to try for was simply stated as manager, and the facility was described as a luxury addiction rehabilitation clinic.

Printed plane tickets were included. To an airport I later discovered was midway between Seattle and San Francisco.

There were no other details besides a name. Dr. Alexander Lutz. I’d never heard of him.

It has only crossed my mind recently that another person might have declined Mr. Lutz’s understatedly glamorous invitation. Personally, I didn’t have a whole heap of options. I wonder if I would have chosen differently if I’d have known what would happen to Haley Banks.

On the lobby window, there’s a small streak on the outside of the glass. With the lemony morning sun casting its low light, the smear looks like an outline of a girl’s face. Curved chin. Closed eyes.

A blaze of shock memories flicker like wildfire. The dormitory where Haley was found two days ago. Patients clustered around the bed in a white noise of terror and grief. I seem to recall someone was shaking the body. A last-ditch attempt at CPR maybe.

I tap the smeared glass with a glossy fingernail, then lift the bulky radio from a clip on my waist.

Housekeeping? Could we attend to lobby window three, please?

A distorted Yes, ma’am has me stow the radio. I check my scheduler and return to my desk—a huge polished-wood structure like an upturned boat in the large lobby.

A panel of lights shows the occupation status of various areas in the facility: Spa. Therapy rooms. Treatment suite.

I pick up the phone receiver and begin pressing buttons in rapid succession, working through tasks. Fresh hot towels for the spa. Aromatherapy oils in the treatment suite. We have a sound-healing session this afternoon, and I ensure the correct cleaning schedule for the acoustic cave has been followed.

Plenty of work to be getting on with. I return my attention to the panel. One occupied light flared for the first time ever this week. My eyes match it to the corresponding location.

Morgue.

Dark images crowd in. A gurney. Bloodstained surgical gloves. Yesterday, when I came to let the pathologist out, he hadn’t yet covered the body. The naked corpse, with its brutal autopsy cuts, had the singer’s expensively colored blond hair and the notorious Heartbreaker tattoo on her slender, tanned hipbone. But the slack face was empty of that signature blend of charisma and mischief. The girl who’d lit up stages around the world was a nobody. It occurred to me at the time that you don’t truly understand what lifeless means until you see the remains of a person like Haley Banks.

I check my slim gold wristwatch. Straighten my notepad. Spritz the client-facing side of my desk with lavender-scented spray. Adjust my computer screen. I can’t help but feel nervous about what the police might ask.

My mind conjures an imaginary squad car navigating the route I took on my first arrival.

Having risen early, I’d driven the pretty coastal road, taking in all the little towns with their clapboard houses, ice-cream and fishing stores, old-fashioned boardwalks, and poetically named landmarks. Squirrel Cove. Redwood Bay. Thunder Point. Abruptly, the towns ran out.

I made a sharp turn back inland, shedding the sea view for winding fir-lined roads and then a peat dirt track through boggy forest.

It was a long, long drive to nowhere.

Several times I was sure I must have the wrong route. I seemed to be driving away from the coast. But eventually, the road turned back to asphalt, and the world ran out. I was on the rocky edge of a cliff face, with wild ocean crashing beyond.

Perched on the summit was a very large, very grand old house. Victorian, with turrets and fish-scale sidings; magnificent, flawlessly finished, with no indication the squalling ocean weather affected it at all. A high metal fence sealed it from the road, with a discreet brass sign saying, The Clinic.

Through the car window, I had watched for a long moment, taking it all in. The quiet majesty and gleaming grandeur of the exterior. This was the kind of property I had always dreamed of managing. A picture of perfect luxury, completely removed from the dirt and disorder of the outside world. From the glossy slate tiles of the roof to the high polish of the entry sign, every last inch was impeccable.

I decided right then and there to overlook the strangeness of the invitation.

Whoever this Mr. Lutz was, he knew how to run things right.

An engine sound jolts me out of my thoughts. I glance toward the window. The police are here.

I stand. Smooth my skirt. Adjust where my waistband digs in. As my heels click over the shining lobby, I try not to imagine what the police might ask. Or rather, who they might ask about.

Haley Banks was our most famous patient.

Platinum hair, impish blue eyes, and tanned little legs in a denim skirt and cowboy boots. Smiles like butter wouldn’t melt. Right from the second I checked her in, I knew she was trouble.

CHAPTER THREE

MEG

I push through a set of doors marked Staff only and cross into the backstage world of the casino. It’s a warren of ultrasecure corridors with card-accessed areas. The Los Angeles golden-orange dawn is rising in its slow heat. Tiredness is hitting me, along with the throb of my old shoulder injury. I reach for my medication and realize eight hours at the tables has almost worn me out. Two tablets left. I swallow them both without water.

Ahead is a cupboard labeled, Electricity. Danger. Do Not Open. I stop by it, flash my ID at the hidden sensor, and push it to pass through into the next level. Two more coded doors take me to the inner circle of casino security. A huge room banked by walls of camera screens showing the gaming tables. Green baize, red diamonds and hearts, and black clubs and spades as far as the eye can see.

Meg! Harry comes to greet me, loping over with his usual half grin. We work together on casino sting operations, which given our hours means he’s basically my best friend. This despite his terrible fashion sense. He dresses like a New York cop on vacation who forgot to swap his boots. The no-nonsense clothes downplay the tall, broad-shouldered frame, thick crop of bouncy curling black hair and deep-brown eyes. Harry is what I call stealth cute—good-looking but he doesn’t know it.

You did it. He grins, drawing me into a tight hug, then stepping back and clearing his throat. We got him!

So it was a Saint-Clair man?

Yep. One of Saint-Clair’s loan sharks. That’s the last of ’em. Revenge is sweet, right?

I nod. Another wave of tiredness hits, and my mind moves to the now-empty pack of medication. As I pull off the blond wig and let my unruly black hair spill free, I notice a stocky, balding man loitering behind Harry, staring.

Oh. Harry stands aside. This is our new camera guy, Randy.

Randy moves forward, pointing incredulously. I recognize you from the casino floor. The girl from Ohio, hoping to win big in LA. You were a redhead. I remember him too. He headed security on slots.

I extend a hand. That was last week. Today I was coked-up Francine from Texas. But my real name is Meg. Welcome to the secret service.

Yeah. I can see him still trying to process my total change in accent and demeanor.

It’s an act I put on for the casino floor, I explain. Helps flush out certain types. It’s not only hustlers and loan sharks we go after. Some of our stings are for casino staff. We don’t want regular staff to know too much about us.

He shakes my hand limply. Sure was a good act. So…you’re ex-NYPD like Harry?

Nope.

Meggy always winds up sounding like the last person she talks to, fills in Harry. It’s a thing she does. He looks at me. Right now she sounds like me. In actual fact, she’s Hollywood royalty.

I fix him with a warning glance and he winks, unapologetic.

Can’t believe I had no idea what went on up here, says Randy, oblivious to my steely-eyed glare at Harry.

We got the same resources as an undercover police operation, I agree. Except most of us have records. I flash him a smile. Apart from Harry. He got unlucky. Someone on the force realized his family had mob connections.

It was news to me too, growls Harry, who never likes to be reminded of his unfair dismissal. Least this joint serves better coffee.

I cross the floor to a series of whiteboards showing which operative is on which detail.

My name isn’t there.

My eyes track back and forth. I thought I was on Pit 5 tomorrow? I turn to Harry. He shrugs.

Boss is in his office. Ask him.

Must be a mistake, I decide, heading from the room. But I have a bad feeling about this.

My shoulder is killing me. Distractedly, I pull out my phone, checking if my dealer has dropped my oxycodone already.

There’s a message.

Oxy will be there in 20 min. You can pay me later.

I fire a quick text back.

Think I’m stupid enough to owe a drug dealer? I’ll leave you cash.

I’m about to close my screen when I notice a slew of earlier messages.

They arrived almost two days ago, in the middle of the night. Must have missed them as I was starting my epic twenty-hour shift.

The screen shows a run of text messages all from the same person.

Haley: Call me.

Haley: Call me NOW.

Haley: I have to speak with you NOW.

Haley: Call me.

I roll my eyes. My big sis likely did a forgiveness therapy session and wants to reach out. Either that or she’s mixed my number up with her dealer.

Since she sent the texts almost a day ago and has now gone silent, I guess she found someone to supply her drama.

I consider replying. Don’t know what to write.

Probably not a good idea to rile her up again.

Pushing the phone back in my pocket, I head to my boss’s office.

CHAPTER FOUR

CARA

The police have parked at an untidy angle on the deep-green lawn. I trot out to greet them, pausing to straighten a fan of magazines in the lobby as I pass.

I’m fast at navigating the complicated access system for the exterior gate. But opening the gigantic wooden door is usually a two-man job. I manage it the best I can and head into the courtyard. Walking past the tall fence are a man and a woman in uniform. Both wear trooper hats, and the woman has an ill-advised shoulder-length cut to her thick, curly brown hair that sends it projecting almost horizontally from the wide brim.

The man has piercing eyes, the biggest graying mustache I’ve seen outside a Wyatt Earp movie, and a way of standing with his thumbs in his belt loops, feet pointing outward. I can picture him on his downtime in a flannel shirt and trapper’s cap with a can of beer in one hand, fishing rod in the other.

Good day to you, ma’am. He tips his hat. You’re Cara? The manager here?

Manager, housekeeper, butler, accountant. I smile at him. Plenty to do.

Can’t get the staff somewhere so remote? he suggests.

We keep hire numbers small to protect the privacy of our guests. You’re Police Chief Hanson? I supply.

Correct. His giant mustache jumps in agreement. And this is Officer Meyers. He talks slowly, moves slowly, like a mountain growing moss.

Meyers is short, squat, and beaming, with a bulky flak vest and enormous sunny smile of untidily applied pink lipstick. If the ever-present mist could be chased away by sheer ebullience and a hasty slick of Maybelline, she would be the woman to do it.

My mom always told me, there’s no excuse for a plain woman. Taught me to contour my long nose, fill in my narrow brows, shade the blue eyes that are my best feature. Meyers is like a lesson in how not to use makeup. Or fix hair. I touch my own honey-blond highlights, wondering at the fright wig beneath her hat.

It’s only as she closes in that I realize the flak jacket around her chest is a sling.

With a baby inside.

What the…?

I unintentionally take a step back.

Don’t worry about him, Meyers says, smiling and registering my surprise. He’s sleeping. My oldest got his thumb caught in a raccoon snare, and it was all hands on deck.

Explains the bad haircut and the milk stain on her shoulder.

Nothing for it but to bring the little guy for a ride-along, supplies Hanson, in a noncommittal tone that makes me wonder if he’s entirely on board.

Hanson moves to help me open the door, and I realize I must look pretty silly to these outdoorsy, baby-wearing folk, in my high-shouldered dress, pin-sharp makeup, and Marilyn Monroe styled waves. Teetering in designer shoes as I yank the handle with French-manicured nails.

Thanks. We lever back the gate, me standing awkwardly to one side. I hope the drive over wasn’t too long.

Hanson considers this. Glad we’re here, I’ll say that much, he decides. Meyers and I, we had something of a set-to in the car, finding the route. Fought like an old married couple.

I’m never quite sure how to deal with admissions of this nature. My eyes dart back and forth at them uncertainly. Moments like this, I wonder how it feels just saying whatever’s on your mind.

GPS says you don’t exist, fills in Meyers, with a sideways glance that suggests the animosity on her part is not entirely dispelled.

I nod. Dr. Lutz requested the address be removed from mapping systems.

A jolt of uncertainty hits me as I question whether this is legal, but Hanson makes no further comment. Maybe because Meyers is cutting him an I-told-you-so glance.

I walk them through the next tall gate and finally through the interior oak doors.

Sierra Johnson is a patient here. Did the newspapers get that right?

We don’t disclose the names of our patients, I say tightly.

My daughter owns every last one of her band’s albums, says Meyers. Won’t stop singing that one… What’s that one?

I give her a politely noncommittal smile.

Quite the security system, adds Hanson, taking in the wider setup. What do we have? Double entry. Fingerprint access. Cameras. And did I spy an electric fence outside?

Yes, I say. Dr. Lutz is careful to use the very best. On account of our famous guests.

There’s an awkward pause.

Because the failure of Dr. Lutz’s comprehensive security is why the police are here.

For all the processes and checks, something has gone badly wrong. The famous singer Haley Banks—the one who always struck me as a drama queen—got the override code somehow.

She was a lot smarter than she seemed, because she found the medication room without being seen. It’s incredibly sad, not to mention disruptive for the other patients. Privately, I have real concerns about their ongoing recovery.

CHAPTER FIVE

MEG

The door to Sol’s office is a very basic security model that I know for a fact will be modified, since the boss is paranoid with good reason.

I push it open without knocking. Inside is a mix of plush chair and plain desk, latest computer and stained coffee cup with World’s Best Dad emblazoned across it. The office is never quite neat, as though a world of chaos is only inches from spilling out.

Sol gives a tired smile when he sees me. He’s showing his age now.

Hey, Meg. His tone says it all. He raises his hands before I can speak. Yeah. I moved you. You’ll have to survive on comps that aren’t lobster.

"Don’t give me that bullshit, Sol. What’s going on? You got Corinne’s name on there. Corinne. She can work a small-town hustler act, but she’s never going to make it on the big tables."

Sol meets my eye. She knows when to fold.

What? I’m completely thrown for a second—until I remember. I throw my hands up in frustration.

"That game? C’mon! I handed you Saint-Clair’s last loan shark. The guy before was an asshole."

And you should know enough not to let that rile you. You were tilting like fucking crazy.

Tilt. It’s a poker term meaning you’re out of control of your emotions. The insult must show in my face, because Sol’s hard expression loosens.

Meg. Losses happen. Even to our best players. He inclines his head to show I’m included in the definition. But that guy was practically dancing on the table, begging you to call. And you served him up thousands of dollars on a silver platter. We have to pay that out, Meg.

I know, I know.

"Do you? He looks fierce. Even before the Saint-Clair case, when have you ever folded a hand, Meg?"

A flash of anger. I fold all the time!

He waves an annoyed hand. I don’t mean in the shallows. I mean when it matters.

I swallow.

You still living in that hotel? he asks.

It’s a serviced apartment.

Anyplace got a breakfast buffet, that’s a hotel. We pay you enough to get your own place, right?

Sure, you pay me plenty.

OK. ’Cause you know that’s important to me. I like to take care of my best staff.

I’m good. Really.

He shrugs, perplexed as ever by anyone’s choice to live alone, when his family have inhabited the same block in LA since two generations before he was born.

I just wonder if you’re OK all alone there, Meg.

I’m caught off guard. I… Yeah. Sure. I got new pills.

Your bar spend is double any other undercover.

I try for a winning smile. "That’s