The Warden by Madeleine Roux Page A

nervous wave. Jocelyn didn’t dare return it.
    Oh God. Was she in trouble? Following him out of the cafeteria, Jocelyn ran through everything she had done the daybefore. It was possible she had given someone the wrong medication or the wrong dose, or she might have forgotten to mark down her rounds correctly. But that was so unlikely! She paid excellent attention to detail, even when tired, even when under immense pressure. . . .
    â€œYou can relax, Nurse Ash. Nothing is amiss.”
    â€œIt’s just that usually you don’t summon me that way, sir. . . .”
    Warden Crawford chuckled, nodding and munching on his mint. “Today is unusual. Today is special.”
    Special? Jocelyn didn’t like the way he lingered over that word. They arrived at his office, but they stopped there only briefly. She stood near the door, watching him collect a stack of files from his desk and a leather bag that she knew to carry his medical instruments. Unlike his office, his instruments were kept in perfect order, a fact she observed on the rare occasion he even brought them on his rounds.
    They made the descent to the basement, a trip that Jocelyn still found unsettling. It didn’t matter how many times she traversed those steps, she never got over the feeling of the wet cold creeping into her bones.
    â€œAnd how is Nurse Fullerton?” he asked, breezy.
    â€œOh. Fine, I think. Working hard like the rest of us,” Jocelyn answered.
    â€œYou don’t sound confident.”
    â€œI can’t see inside her head,” she replied.
    â€œMore’s the pity,” Warden Crawford said with a short laugh. “She seemed quite disturbed after treating Mr. Heimline yesterday. I had to calm her down for an hour afterward.”
    Jocelyn slowed—Madge hadn’t told her a single thing aboutthis. It wasn’t like Madge to keep something dramatic from her. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
    â€œHm.” He shrugged, leading her down the last of the stairs and toward the yawning archway. “She must have made a full recovery then. Forget I said anything.”
    She wasn’t likely to forget, but Jocelyn tried not to dwell on Madge’s problems, recognizing that they were on their way yet again to Lucy’s room. Normally, Crawford would stop well short of the girl’s door, aware that even the briefest glimpse of him could send her into a spiraling panic.
    But this time he marched up to the door without a hitch in his step, motioning to two of the orderlies to join him. He stopped and turned to look at Jocelyn, watching her down the thin, arched bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you wait for us in Theater Seven, Nurse Ash.”
    â€œBut Lucy is always so calm when I’m—”
    â€œYou will wait in Theater Seven.”
    Jocelyn snapped her mouth shut, taking a tiny step away in the face of his command. She had the gall to hesitate, but Crawford stared at her until she began to leave, his eyes never straying from her as she continued down the hall. She didn’t look away either, glancing over her shoulder to watch as the orderlies opened the rusted, scraping door to Lucy’s room.
    The door to the operating theater had to be opened, cutting off her view of the corridor. The last sound she heard before stepping inside was a single, piercing shriek.
    This was a nightmare. She was paralyzed, in her skin but out of her mind, watching as if her soul had departed and now hoveredjust above the ground. Why couldn’t she move? It was fear, she knew—fear and sharp, crushing failure.
    Lucy, God help her, was strapped to the operating table, her cries long since snuffed out by a hateful gag.
    Jocelyn’s fingernails cut into her palms and her mouth behind her white paper mask had grown clammy. The girl’s black, glassy eyes stared up into the light hanging over the table, reflecting the perfect yellow circles. She had gone still. That