It’s not Claydon. But it is a psych ward. Mentally incompetent to stand trial. Officially. This isn’t just any psych ward, though. It’s for the criminals they can’t imprison.
I’m being held at Her Majesty’s pleasure—which means I could be here for years. Decades. Until I die. Or they could release me tomorrow (unlikely).
I deserve this.
Haji was right. I opened a door, and I couldn’t close it.
From what I gather, Kaitie closed it for me. Like she said she would. Like I begged her not to. That DCI Floyd Homes guy—he kept asking me what Kaitie and I talked about when she came to the hospital. He kept shouting that I’d made her do it, convinced her to do it, convinced her she had to burn—
But he had it so wrong. I begged her not to go. I begged her to let me try to find another way. But she could see that I had nothing else to try. She could see that she was the only one who could.
And she knew that we both knew it was the only way.
They dragged me into a room by myself and didn’t remove my cuffs. I think I’m dead inside.