Heartless by Sara Shepard Page A

narrowed. He was probably about to say that Hanna needed to show Isabel some respect, she was going to be her stepmom soon, blah, blah, blah. But Isabel laid an orangey, cronelike hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Tom. I understand.” Which made Hanna’s scowl even deeper.
    She shot out of the car and began to haul her suitcases out of the trunk. A full wardrobe had come along—just because she was being committed didn’t mean she was going to walk around in a hospital gown and Crocs. Mike climbed out too and loaded the suitcases onto a large, unwieldy cart and pushed them into the facility. The lobby was a wide, marble-floored expanse that smelled like the clementine soap she kept on her dressing table. There were large, modern oil paintings on the walls, a bubbling fountain in the center, and a wide stone desk at the back. The receptionists wore white lab coats, just like skin care specialists at Kiehl’s, and youngish, attractive people sat on wheat-colored sofas, laughing and talking.
    “This doesn’t look like Alcatraz,” Mike said, scratching his head.
    Hanna’s eyes darted back and forth. Okay, the lobby was nice, but it had to be a front. These people were probably actors rented out for the day, like the Shakespearean troupe Spencer’s parents had hired to perform A Midsummer Night’s Dream for her thirteenth birthday party. Hanna was sure the real patients were hidden in the back of the building, probably in wire-mesh dog kennels.
    A blond woman wearing a wireless headset and a sage sheath dress rushed over. “Hanna Marin?” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Denise, your concierge. We’re looking forward to having you stay with us.”
    “Uh, good for you,” Hanna deadpanned. There was no way she was going to kiss this woman’s ass and say she was looking forward to it, too.
    Denise turned to Mike and smiled apologetically. “We can’t have visitors past this point. You’ll have to say your good-byes here, if that’s okay.”
    Hanna gripped Mike’s hand, wishing he were a teddy bear she could drag inside with her. Mike pulled Hanna out of earshot. “Now listen.” His voice dropped an octave. “I snuck a Pepperidge Farm cheese Danish into your red suitcase. Inside it is a file. You can saw through the bars of your room and slip out when the guards aren’t looking. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”
    Hanna laughed nervously. “I don’t really think there are going to be bars on the doors.”
    Mike put a finger to his lips. “You never know.”
    Denise reappeared and placed her arm on Hanna’s shoulder, telling her it was time to go. Mike gave her a long kiss, gestured suggestively at her red suitcase, and then walked backward toward the entrance. One of his shoes was untied; the lace flapped against the marble floor. His Rosewood Day lacrosse bracelet flopped around his wrist. Tears blurred Hanna’s eyes. They’d only been an official couple for three days. This wasn’t fair.
    When he was gone, Denise shot Hanna a crisp, rehearsed smile, swiped a card through a reader at a door at the far end of the lobby, and ushered Hanna into a corridor. “Your room is just through here.”
    A strong scent of mint wafted through the air. Surprisingly, the corridor was as nice as the lobby, with lush, potted plants, black-and-white photographs, and carpeting that didn’t appear to be speckled with blood or tufts of hair torn straight from crazy people’s scalps. Denise stopped at a door marked 31. “Your home away from home.”
    The door opened into a dark room. It had two queen-size beds, two desks, two walk-in closets, and a big picture window that overlooked the front drive.
    Denise looked around. “Your roommate isn’t here right now, but you’ll meet her soon enough.” Then she explained the protocol at the facility—Hanna would be assigned to a therapist, and they would meet anywhere from a few times a week to once a day. Breakfast was at nine, lunch noon, and dinner six. Hanna was