A/N: Thanks so much all you guest reviewers for the encouragement on my last chapter. I wish would let me respond directly to those like the account reviews, but suffice it to say that each one of them made my day.

This chapter doesn't feature Jareth directly but some details aren't adding up about Dark Turnabout and it's beginning to leave Sarah's sanity in question.

Btw, I noticed that I screwed up the past couple of chapters by mixing up Irene and Linda in reference a few times. Eventually, I will give the whole manuscript a proper second edit to tidy up mistakes like that. For now, I'm going to shirk the blame on THC and eat more cinnamon raisin bagels with pecan honey cream cheese.

When the taxi dropped me off, I stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the porch. The rain pelted relentlessly, drenched me but I felt too stupefied to care.

I wasn't ready to put on a face for my parents or to sift through whatever story Jary sold them on my absence. There was no right thing to say or right way to behave that I could figure. The risk seemed high that I would let something slip or unwittingly contradict Jary's ambiguous cover. Even his claim to have assuaged Irene and Robert's worries could very well be a lie or delusion.

The image of the blood on Jary's lip, the eerily reverent way he had said he loved me while planted on the bedroom floor were top of the pile in the unsettled archive in my brain, but they might as well have been the tip of the iceberg of the implications making me tense. Being a recovering amnesiac left me no real claim to an accurate origin of a pattern of behavior or lifestyle, but as far as I could stretch my recall, it seemed that Jary King acted as a sort of catalyst for the string of eccentric phrases and idioms that had begun to stick to my ribs. This "Labyrinth" he referred to - was it an alias for some other virtual reality project that he had become obsessed with or did he really believe he was from some other dimension of reality?

Regardless, his claims of time modification and my being older than him was insane. I wanted to find an underlying context that made sense and made my time with him, my roller coaster of emotions that settled and overlapped for him less disturbing, but there was no floating buoy of reason that I could see to cling to.

I had stepped out of an asylum into another man's mad intent and the only way forward was to cut ties and stand on my own two feet. The only problem was I had two left feet where a sense of direction in my life was concerned. I still needed a driver's license and some form of employment lined up where I could store money away for an apartment. From there I could look into college and figuring out just what I wanted to make of myself.

A crack of thunder like a shotgun shook me out of my cold, wet musings and gave me the push I needed to enter my own house. The scent of something hot and sweet from the kitchen mingled with the mustiness of my soaked clothing and I humored the concept of stripping to my nethers and binging on baked goods until replete and lethargic. A self-indulgent, sad urge that I was glad to be restrained by a shared home space.

"Sarah? Sweetheart is that you?" It was Irene's voice but the gentle, sing-song tone was a stranger's.

Sweetheart? I thought. Had she slipped too much brandy into her mid-afternoon tea that she tried to play off as a relaxing health tonic? Had Richard promised a bump to her monthly medspa and botox allowance if she put on a more tolerating face toward me during my stay?

"It depends," I droned. I didn't quicken to finish the gag. It was a thoughtless blurt to fill the waiting silence and my mouth had gone dry.

A girlish laugh rippled from the kitchen and made me hesitate to drag myself up the stairs. "Well miss 'It Depends', why don't you come and get yourself a slice of black forest cake and some nutmeg milk. Richard said it's your favorite."

My stomach nettled, but not with an appetite for cake or the delicious confectionary scent drifting into the hall. I was struck the same sense of undefinable wrongness I had encountered with Jary King in our first interview together. Whoever was slicing up a cake in the kitchen might have Irene's face and voice, but there was some parasite squiggling underneath her powdered skin. I had never known her to put on this kind of stunt for anyone, much less by Richard's urging.

I cautiously stepped into the kitchen to find her seated at the breakfast bar counter with a slice and cup placed in the empty swivel chair next to her. She was smiling, wide-eyed like she had been watching for me through the walls before I had even reached the door frame.

"Come sit down, pretty girl, and tell me about your first day."

First day? It made my passing theory of Irene's occasional day drinking a bit more feasible.

I leaned against the other side of the counter and stared into her eyes like Richard examined broken computer code on faulty monitors. Her eyes didn't look right. Up close, the black forest cake smelled more like fermented peaches instead of bitter cherries and cream. It reminded me too much of the wine that had thrown me into a hangover to lure my appetite.

"I was gone all night, Irene. Didn't you know?"

Her smile didn't twitch or falter. "Don't be silly. You've only been gone since nine this morning. Is Mr. King a slave driver of a boss? I remember the hours at my first job as a perfume counter girl felt slower."

She had to be inebriated or digging into the last of the Restoril pills the institute left me with, but I found myself reaching into my pocket for my phone. I had to rule out every possibility to be sure.

I clicked the side refresh button and giant white letters revealed the time and date. Monday, October 19, 4:45 pm.

An uncontrollable shudder swept through me. I went back to gripping the counter for support so I wouldn't crumple to the cold tile floor.

The way Jary had framed it was that I had spent the night at his house. The Dark Turnabout VR experience itself felt like hours. It couldn't still be Monday or just getting close to five. It couldn't be that I would be out of registry with time. That would mean I was beyond developmentally unwell.

Crazy. Insane. Out of step with reality.

No, no, no. The answer had to be simpler and softer than that. I wouldn't accept that now.

My mind recovered Jary's assessing eyes behind the cavalier farce. The measuring tension in his face whenever I had asked an unexpected question or scrutinized his claims. He had lied and tricked me at every turn. Why not lie about an overnight stay? It's all about the information he holds close to his chest. It wasn't too much of a stretch to assume that his VR program suggested a slower progression of time as effectively as it suggested a paradigm of a real environment and atmosphere. Not unlike how THC or mushrooms were hypothetically supposed to alter the way a user perceived time.

He must still be trying to keep me in the dark, I thought, and not to impress me with the illusion of control over the situation or to intrigue me with suspense as I had assumed. He must have wanted to lead me to this state where I could buckle as low as finding my senses, my rational perception unreliable.

Like Dr. Meyers, he wanted me scared and alienated because it was all a game. He was sicker than I could imagine.

The theory of his willful torment blossomed and flourished its crude, ugly shape and intent like sour cancer in my mouth. I backed away from Irene and the over-frosted cake that waited. I wasn't hungry and I had no patience or time to respond to her cries to come back and tell her about my day. It hadn't been a day, but an eternity trial. Maybe a final test from the institute to evaluate my critical thinking and sense of reality. Like 'Sarah, dear, you've only left the four walls of the institute, but your convictions haven't signed the dotted line yet.'

I rushed up the stairs with new energy. I would call the institute. That's what I'd do and call them on their thread in the tangled web of Jary King, Dr. Meyers, and Dark Turnabout. Maybe then I could have the final word and shake my head at my useless insecurities.

Just when my bedroom door came within reach, Richard stepped out of his room, the same pasted-on smile of Irene's on his face.

"There's miss career woman herself!"

I paused searching for signs of life in his eyes like I had with step-monster. Glossy, wide, empty as the calories in the cake downstairs. Did Jary have his hand in that too?

I shook my head. Of course not. He was a manipulator and resourceful, but a simple man with simple limits. Irene and Richard had simply gotten into their alcohol stash under the counter they thought I didn't know about. The stress of having their eccentric, disappointing daughter home might go down better with malt liquor and grenadine cocktails.

"Uh-huh." I tried stepping around him but his body held like a statue, making me resound my shoulder and part of my chest awkwardly into his. I jerked back and spoke slower, firmer so his buzzed dad brain might understand my intent better. "Miss career woman is tired now. Needs some r&r and social isolation."

He stared through me, his smile looking like something closer to rigor mortis than natural satisfaction. "Your boss told me you're already a star at the Dark Turnabout office. He says you're quick and charming, but just a touch cloudy headed. You need to work on your memory."

I blinked. All the heated blood in my face cooled and fell below. It was like Richard was reciting a script he didn't understand. Those were Jary's words. Jary's urging or warning.

Did Jary have the ability to hypnotize people? Was he secretly working for the institute, not just on grant donated behalf of the institute as he claimed? It fit into the conspiratorial final test idea I was half clinging to for meaning. I was a guinea pig for some new therapy or drug. Perhaps Dark Turnabout was a graphic program created for the purpose of giving mentally ill clients a safe outlet for their fantasies or a more immersive, and controlled exposure therapy.

"Good talk," I patted Richard on the chest and resolutely pushed him out of my way. It was easy to move him like pebble instead of a boulder knowing that he was being used as the institute's tool. I would do what I could for him and Irene later. I had my own ass to cover now.

I locked the door behind me and collapsed back on my bed, phone in hand. The institute's front desk held me in elevator music stasis for six minutes before the evening girl, Edna, picked up.

"Thank you for calling the Amherst Institute For Total Wellness and Mental Freedom, this is Edna speaking."

I could hear her spit slurping around one of those old lady, hard butterscotches with the transparent foil wrapping she relied on to get over chain-smoking. "Hey Edna, this is Sarah Williams."

"Oh Sarah! Whatcha doin' calling back to the coo-coo's nest? I thought you signed out of this joint for good."

Edna had been putting her ear to the wrong grapevine if she thought I signed myself out. "No, no, they put me on a grant program for modern job skills working under Jary King."

"Huh," She sloshed her candy louder. It was hard to tell if she was simply bored and itching to touch up her artificial french tips or if she didn't know what I was talking about. "No kidding."

"Yeah, well, anyway I need to speak to the new director if they're available. I know Dr. Meyers...retired... I think." If retired meant blackmailed into submission.

"Ah that's right. Kinda unexpected wasn't it? Not that I was a fan of the slimeball. He was always accidentally-on-purpose brushing up against me when we passed each other in the hallway."

I grimaced. I had never been on the receiving end of that category of power imbalance but I wouldn't put it past Meyers. He had always had a shifty nature. "That sounds like him. Sorry, Edna."

"No biggie now, hon. I spit in his arabica blend every chance I got. Besides, Dr. River, his replacement is a class act. The line's clear. I'll go ahead and transfer you."

"Thank you." The line cut back to the elevator jazz on a saxophone's high note solo before abruptly clicking to a dull ring.

"Dr. River speaking." A woman's voice. Good on the institute.

"Hello, this is Sarah Williams, a former client, and I had a few questions."

A rapid tapping that must be a computer keyboard could be heard. "Sarah Williams…arrested developmental progress and manic-depression... I've pulled up your profile here. My-my, It seems you left just last Sunday morning. What can I do for you?"

I stiffened. Now that I had someone who could help me on the line, I realized I hadn't thought through what I would ask first or how I would even find the right words to explain my paranoia without sounding like I should be put back in the padded pen. "Um…" I had to start with Jary. It all went south starting with him. The grant wouldn't have happened without his money bags. "Do you know anything about Jary King?"

"Jary King? Not at the top of my head. I've been in the industry for twenty years, but I'm still green when it comes to the personnel and registers at this location. Is he a client?"

A sharp laugh came from my throat unbidden. He should be. "No, he's the grantor behind the job skills program trust Dr. Meyers was trialing with me. He's also the owner of Dark Turnabout Inc."

"Wow, a job skills grant program you say? If that's true, it's the first I've heard of it." More rapid tapping. A drawn-out 'hmm'. "I'm looking at the institute's current grant inventory for the year and nothing with Dark Turnabout or Jary King is coming up. Do you happen to know the amount put toward the program or any other details?"

I never heard Jary or Dr. Meyers throw out a figure, most likely because Dr. Meyers would have been one of the direct beneficiaries of it. It was all a ruse for Jary to get a hold of me. "No, I don't know the grant check amount or anything. All I know is the location of the office where I was set up to work and the nature of Dark Turnabout Inc. Dark Turnabout is a next-gen virtual reality video game. I was supposed to be an assistant to the creator Jary King."

It seemed it was Dr. River's turn to laugh. It was a tired one. "Do you have a specific address for me? You're not giving me much to go on."

I felt my cheeks heat and I was glad she couldn't see me shrink into my shoulders. She probably thought I was pulling her leg or a crank call at that point. "It's the small office building on 452 Bastion St. at the cross-section of east 9th and the Green Dome district."

A pause. Slower tapping and, finally, a drawn-out sigh replaced the more promising curiosity of 'hmm'. This sigh said Dr. River had just about enough. "Did you happen to use a time machine to transport to work today? Because every tab I've brought up says that aside from a few security nonprofit contracts that were attempted and fell through, that building was registered as a derelict site by the city ten years ago."

My mattress beneath me turned into a flimsy raft in the ocean. The world was moving every which way, making me dizzy. That couldn't be right.

"You've made a mistake," I said, my voice numb with less than a mustard seed of conviction.

Her sigh this time was one of pity. The kind of long exhale you take when faced with a sad sack you aren't quite prepared to be witness to or to let down further with a new blow. It made me want to hang up then and there, but I held my cell tight to my ear. I was half hopeful for a new answer before time slowed down any further.

"Sarah, from what I'm seeing on your profile, it doesn't look like you've been given proper time to recover from the electro-convulsive therapy detailed here from Dr. Meyers. I regret to tell you that ECT is known to cause permanent brain damage and is frowned upon by the new school of thought on long term treatment for bipolar and severe depression. I don't think one treatment alone, as was in your case, is enough to devastate your nervous system, but I'm concerned that you might have some lingering inflammatory damage in your memory and senses. I don't know that you should have been allowed to go home so soon."

It was concern wrapped and ribboned with affirmed anxieties I'd long held since the treatment but all that was at the core of it was You can't be trusted to rely on your own perspective. Thinking a derelict building was the site of your new office job doesn't sound "fine". That's all that could stick to the wall thickening around my heart and all I could hear. I knew I wasn't the average woman on the street. I had baggage, mental illnesses, a late launch into adulthood, and family issues, but I also knew what I saw and experienced. I hadn't been enrolled in the institute for psychotropic dependency or schizophrenia or severe psychosis. To my limited knowledge of that slice of time prior to being sent away, I had just been a lost little girl who refused to grow up and behave. A slight burden to overworked parents fresh off of separate divorces that was blown up into something beyond their reach so that I could be someone else's problem to fix and straighten up.

"You think I could just dream up a refurbished, clean lobby and office?," A repressed thickness in my throat fought with frustration and left my voice shaking. "I interviewed with Jary King there and I'm certain Richa-" I caught myself. "-My dad would have said something if where he was supposed to drop me off looked run down or empty."

"Sarah, please understand that I'm on your side. I just want to make sure you haven't put yourself in danger. Is your father home now?" she asked with gentle urgency.

I thought of Richard's dead eyes and wax smile when he had waited for me out in the hallway. He was home in body alone, just like Irene and I had no answers there either. The world had gone crazy, not me.

"No."

"What about your mother?" Those profiles didn't always specify divorces in the family unless it was crucial to the mental health background. It wasn't Dr. River's fault that long dark hair and wild green eyes came to mind instead of Irene's frozen face and helmet roots. What about my mother? I hadn't heard from her in years, but my desperation sketched her in gentle lines. I wanted someone that wasn't a part of the madness. Maybe her voice would be enough to take me back to peace of mind. Maybe she would laugh and tell me to get away from the WASP suburban hell and see her in California. Maybe I could take a second start there and forget Jary King, Dr. Meyers, Dark Turnabout. It could be it was the season of the Mandela Effect and I was stuck along for the ride until I got out of Amherst altogether.

"I'm going to let you go now. Thank you for looking into the grant program for me."

"Wait, Sarah this is-"

I hung up and rolled off the bed. Linda's headshot haunted the inner right corner of my vanity mirror and I knew it had her number in a faded pen on the back.

The hardest part was hitting the dial icon after entering the digits. There were so many reasons it was a bad idea but a rare impulsive instinct, a feeling that the ground I trusted to stay solid under my feet would soon become a rock slide made me take the leap anyway.

It seemed to ring forever and each time felt like the sound penetrated through the phone and into my room, gyrating it slightly. I knew that much had to be the result of an overworked mental state and didn't let it fetter my paranoias.

There was no click of a pickup, no essence of breath, but there was a presence on the other end.

"Mom?" My fingers went numb and cold against my smooth cell phone case when I heard my voice, my inflection echoed back at me.

"Mom?"

It was a long-distance phone call. Mobile networks and connections weren't 100% foolproof.

"Hello?" I asked a bit louder. "Linda? Is Linda Williams there?"

"Hello?" "Linda? Is Linda Williams there?" Not even a second's delay this time. It was as if the connection had synced only to myself but I knew that couldn't be right.

I lowered the phone to my hip, frowning. "Shit." My muttered curse boomeranged back with an instantaneous and harsh white noise framing that made me clutch at my ears.

"Shit."

I wasn't saying anything through the pain in my eardrums, through the shock of the room seeming to buzz with more intensity and power than a skyscraper-sized fly.

The demonic white noise not only reverberated but began to ping pong from corner to corner, becoming less a thrash than an aura.

My throat tightened and there was a panicked pull in the back of my head. Oxygen was being leached out of the very air.

Holding my left ear in support, however ineffectual it was, I crawled to turn off the dropped phone.

In hand, the damn phone shook like the rest of the room. Shook like a June bug and hummed horribly with some kind of corrupted electronic speech just under the open line hiss.

"Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar"

I rapped my thumb over the hangup icon but it wasn't sensitive to it. The call had frozen on its own lost jumble of mobile energy waves.

"Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah"

I let out a primal scream and flinched. Dial tone blitz wasn't supposed to sound like a man moaning from out of the pit of hell and my scream wasn't supposed to split off and fire back at me from every direction like I had my bedroom rigged for DJ sound mixing.

With a harried, hotheaded beat in my pulse, I dropped the phone again and stomped my boot over it, once, twice, three times before the horrible chorus hollowed into a screeched whistle and then finally, a choked dial tone.

My phone's screen was shattered over blackness, a mockery in the face of my room returned to stale silence.

I needed to rest. That was it. Too much stress, too many miscommunications, a severe lack of planning and preparation on the institute's part had left me antsy and sensitive. I could justify Dr. River's well-meaning concern that far.

All work and no play make Sarah a dull girl and all that. I fumbled through my suitcase for the Restoril, shook it, and heard the clatter of multiple pills testifying that Irene hadn't dipped into my stash before popping a couple dry.

They didn't hesitate on the way down or make the back of my tongue sore and swollen. They were accustomed to their journey.

It didn't take long for the warm cloud to levitate up from my feet to my head. All I needed to do was lay back and let myself be carried away for a while.

My bed was a boat again, but the waters were tranquil and clear. I could deal with the waves later.

A dull knocking sounded at my door and made me fight the weight of my lids for a few seconds.

"Sarah?" Toby sounded frantic. "Sarah?"

I was too tired to answer or get up, but Toby didn't let himself in and meet me halfway. Another question mark to be addressed after the warm happy cloud was finished with me.

I let the darkness close over me and half wished I would never have to return from it.