At last, Barren drew out a breath, and leaned back in his seat. "So . . ." Another sigh. "Let me get this straight. She went to the asylum, thinking Miss McKee would be there. But she was found somewhere else, and now Miss Peyser herself is missing."

There was genuine sincerity, and perhaps an undertone of distress, in his voice. Despite my fearful expectations, I detected no sign of hate. I gave him an obedient nod, as this turn of the event pushed me into bewilderment again.

"Okay," he said. He brought his mug to his lips. His eyes narrowed, staring into space. But, something about his expression changed, then, around those eyes. He now looked at Mary, who sat rather behind me, slightly out of his line of vision. "Hey," he said to her. His voice had no edges, even though the gloomy creases remained deep between his brows.

Mary looked up. The timidity in her eyes grew more apparent, as she became aware of the attention.

The posture of Barren seemed to soften. "Don't blame yourself," he said. "It's not your fault. No one's fault."

His remark only sent another wave of confusion to me. It felt so out of the blue to me. I didn't see why on earth Mary should be held accountable in any way.

But then, her face and neck grew red at once. Her face became contorted, lip quivering, brows drawn together, as tears welled up in her eyes. The first teardrop plopped down her cheek, in silence. The rest followed down, like great waterfalls that knew no end. Her fists shook in her lap. The sight continued to perplex me still.

But when a suppressed sob tore from her throat, I recognized the look of guilt at last. I understood, then, the root of her more-than-usual reservation. She'd hesitated to hold my hand earlier in the house. It had never happened before. With other things swarming my mind, I had attributed all of it to the Thredson incident. Not a part of me had doubted otherwise.

I reached out for her. At first, her hands did not welcome me in, balled into firm fists. Still, they loosened up eventually. She took hold of my fingers, the way a baby does. She held me as though I was her anchor. The skin around her eyes glistened with the lingering tears. After several moments, her eyes found mine.

I squeezed her hand. "Nobody could've seen it coming. I never think this is your fault, and neither does Wendy. Don't ever blame yourself."

She screwed her eyes shut, and one more sob escaped her. The high-pitched sound attracted attention from the people around us, curious and intrusive. Some even dared to roll their eyes on her.

I looked back at Barren, with my hand in Mary's. I found him lighting a cigarette with a nonchalant air. It gave me mixed emotions. This balding guy, a personification of indifference, had seen what I couldn't. Perhaps, he was a misunderstood human, too, like us. Although it crossed my mind to give him words of gratitude, something told me he'd deem it useless, or even incomprehensible. I decided to bite my tongue for now. It would be a premature thing to do anyway. I didn't want to jinx it.

Barren took a long drag on his cigarette, his forehead uncreasing for a split second. "That's all for now. Go home," he said.

But the fog of apprehension lingered in my chest. "Can I ask you something?" I said.

"Shoot."

"We saw Detective Castelo in the parking lot. He said something about getting a prosecutor and a judge."

"That's right."

"What does that mean, though? He seemed to be in a great hurry. I couldn't ask for an explanation. It is about this case, right?"

Barren seemed confused at first. His intense gaze bored a hole in my skin. Then, he shifted in his seat, smoothing back his thin hair. "Right, it is. Well, it's part of the procedure. We basically list all the reasons why the warrant is necessary. And we get the paper proofread by a prosecutor, and after that, bring that to a judge, who signs it and gives us a go sign."

"But, Detective Castelo said they are too busy."

Barren gave a nod. "He's right. It's not a process as easy as it sounds. Most of the time, we have to run around and make a bunch of phone calls because those people are almost never available. It's no fun to read those documents, they say."

I felt a great deal of uneasiness about this. "How long does it usually take, then?"

"To have a warrant authorized? Usually two to three hours. Sometimes a day. Sometimes a month."

"A month?" I almost jumped up out of my chair.

"Take it easy," he said. "Castelo is doing everything he can to help you. He might be young, but that boy is one of the finest cops you'll ever meet in your life." He stood up, then, and stuck his hand in a pocket of his baggy suit pants. "Now, go home. We will give you a call when we finished searching the place."

"But—"

"Let us take care of Miss Peyser and that mental asylum. Meanwhile, you gotta look after her." With his mug, he gestured to Mary. "What she needs right now is sleep and a sense of security. We don't provide either of the two here. Go home. I need a quick nap."

Without any interest in my response whatsoever, he walked away. A good move on his part, because I would've protested more. I understood his point. And under any other circumstances, I would've listened to my objectivity, and listened to him. But now, this only filled me with absolute bitterness, as I stood up.

Mary did the same. She avoided eye contact, her guilt still evident and profound.

I yielded at last. "Let's go. I'll buy you something to eat on the way home."

I walked out of the station, with my tail between my legs. The good weather, the mild temperature of the afternoon, only weighed down my spirit even more. I barely felt the warmth of Mary's hand in mine.

A little away from us, a police car came pulling into the parking lot. A uniformed officer got out of it, and walked to the entrance door. Sunlight bounced off the black steel of a gun in his holster.

A gun. I wished I had one of them.

###

I bought Mary some noodles at the Chinese restaurant. But the to-go box remained on the kitchen island, untouched, soaking up the coldness of the island surface. We both sat there, in this silence. It felt stifling, almost like drowning. With each breath, the invisible water of misery invaded my lungs, and killed me at the slowest rate possible. I looked down, my head buried in my hands. A single tear fell from my eye, and made a small puddle that twinkled in an incoming beam of sunlight.

What a torturous thing it is, to have to wait, when your loved one is in the hand of your old torturer. From the other side of the high wall, the laughter of your torturer reaches your ears. But the place is unreachable and untouchable. Around your wrists and ankles are invisible shackles.

"I should never have gone into the church," Mary said. "I should've just let you drive home. Then Miss Wendy wouldn't have had to go searching for me."

I wiped my tears away. "Not your fault. If anyone's responsible, it's the maniac. Not you."

"All I wanted was God's forgiveness. If I'd known—"

"That's the point," I said, and connected our hands. "You are not psychic. None of us is."

"I just needed courage, so I could confess my sins to you, all the things I've done for Dr. Arden."

"What? What things?"

She hung her head down even lower, and took one shaky breath. "The creatures in the woods. You asked me about them. They are— They are Dr. Arden's experiments."

I tried to look into her face. "What are those things? What is he experimenting with?"

"I don't know." She gave a feeble shake of her head. "He once talked about the scientific revolution of the century, but his words only confused me. I never questioned anything. I was only the feeder, his assistant. Every morning and evening, I brought them buckets of raw meat. I don't know where Dr. Arden got all the meat."

"Raw meat," I said to myself. "Of course. It wanted to eat us alive that night. I knew it."

That feeling of mortal fear was instinctual. Now, with the actual testimony of Mary, the terror came back to me, ten-fold. It ran through my limbs. Those dilated eyes of the zombie-like creature seemed to gleam, in the corner of the very living room.

As her words sank in, however, another strip of clarity flashed across my mind.

"Wait, them?" I said. "There's more than one?"

All the morbid anxiety about Wendy vanished in an instant, replaced by the image of the creature. The details of it that haunted during my delirium in solitary. The blistered skin, the reeking air about it, and the tattered shirt. The blue hospital gown.

I felt the temperature of my blood drop. "They are humans." I looked at Mary. "Arden is conducting a human experiment."

Her jaw tightened.

"Are they the inmates that went missing? The Mexican lady?" My whole body began to have a miniscule tremor.

"I don't know," she said again, in a pitiful tone. "All I know is that sometimes, when a patient got sick, Dr. Arden asked them to be brought into his lab."

"An inmate who didn't have family to look for them."

"They rarely came back. Most of them didn't survive. Some were transported to a bigger medical facility."

"Were they?"

A whimper came out, as she shuddered. "One day, one of the creatures came too close to me. I noticed it had the same beard as one particular patient that had died earlier that month. And the same height, the same hair color . . ." She wrapped her arms around her trembling frame. "I couldn't sleep that night. But I only scolded myself for my own lack of faith in Dr. Arden."

"You chose willful blindness," I said.

"It was for the greater good." Her hands rose, pressing the palms to her eyes. "Who am I to doubt his genius?"

Her words gave an aching to the core of my heart. "You still believe in him," I said.

She nodded, after drawing in breaths. "But I'm still a sinner, and Miss Wendy is now in danger because of me." Her expression had a darker color, calmer in despair. She looked at me from behind the twinkling eyelashes. "Are you going to tell the detectives about this?"

I stared at her, at the frightened little girl inside her eyes. "No," I said. "Not for now. He needs to be locked up, but I'm never letting go of you."

I took my cigarette case, and lit one. I breathed the smoke in, as deeply as my lungs allowed. They gave a muffled creaking sound inside my chest. My mind raced. There is something about sorrow and despair that makes one's head clear as day. Something that pierces through thick, dark clouds. I turned to look at Mary. She stayed in her seat, like a statue of penitence and lamentation.

"I saw him," I said, "while we were searching for you. He was looking for you, too."

She raised her head. "Who?"

"Arden. We argued, because I thought he had you."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I wish it was so." Her voice faded out, together with the smile. She drew her brows together. "I think he found me, while I was passed out in the hospital."

"Arden? He came to you?"

"I didn't see him. Only felt his presence. It might have been a dream." She seemed to stare into nothingness. Her hand rose from her lap, and fidgeted with the severed part of her hair.

I hated the sight of it. I despised it, as though it was the maniac himself. Everytime her dainty fingers sought the visible mark of her trauma, it gouged into my heart.

I stubbed my cigarette out . "I'll be back," I said to her, and trotted to my bedroom. There, I found a navy polka dot headscarf in the dresser. With it, I went back to her. "Maybe, if you put your hair up, it wouldn't bother you that much."

Mary blinked at the scarf. Her fingers let go of the hair quickly, and she apologized. "I didn't realize I was doing that."

"Do you want to wear this? I can do it for you."

She gave a nod, without looking up.

I folded the scarf longways, then stood behind her. I wrapped it around her head, just above her hairline. I tucked the shorter strand of her hair under it, and tied it behind her neck at the nape. It was the only way I knew how to do it.

The single headscarf transformed her into someone else. No vestiges of the meek nun remained on the outside. The navy color seemed to accentuate the color of her eyes, giving them more depth. In a modern dress and the scarf, she looked no different from those regular girls. The sight awoken mingled sensations of awe, aversion, and loneliness in me.

Mary's hand rose, and with timidness, stroked the scarf. Her tentative eyes found mine, then. She observed my face, boring a hole in my skin.

"What is wrong?" she said in a whisper.

My eyes brimmed with tears. I gave her a faint shake of my head, as I sank into my chair. Silence resurfaced and surrounded us. We sat in it for some minutes. Despite my constant blurry vision, my other senses remained keen, and I felt Mary's gaze on me. I could hear her asking herself what she had done now, blaming herself for her powerlessness.

"The scarf, it's Wendy's," I said, and crawled back into the silence.

When I returned my gaze to her, I found the scarf in her hands. Her hair looked more disheveled. Her eyes seemed to display no emotions, as she fixed them on the newspaper on the edge of the kitchen island. The picture of Thredson was looking at the ceiling. I moved the paper further from her, out of her sight.