Committed

By Velvet Vaughn

Something sinister is lurking behind the opulent golden doors of the Bexley Institute. Patients are checking in but they aren't checking out. They just disappear...

Socialite Rachel Bancroft's pampered life could never prepare her for the nightmare she is about to face. When her childhood friend vanishes, she poses as a patient at the Bexley Institute - a renowned psychiatric counseling and recovery center. Rachel makes a crucial mistake trusting the wrong person. Now those responsible for her friend's disappearance want her dead.

Former FBI Agent Ben Colton stumbles onto a potentially evil plot involving the Institute. When his investigation uncovers a ghastly crime, he must save the woman he loves before she becomes the next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Velvet Vaughn
• Release date: Mar 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986165214

Velvet Vaughn

Velvet Vaughn was born in Indiana and spent fifteen years in communications, public relations, marketing and executive management in amateur sports. Articles she has written have been published in several magazines and reprinted in most major newspapers across the country. She served as editor, writer and designer for five sport magazines including one that was distributed to over 140 countries around the world, and one that was displayed in the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. To learn more about Velvet or sign up for her newsletter, visit her at http://www.velvetvaughn.com or http://www.facebook.com/authorvelvetvaughn.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 Velvet Vaughn

ISBN: 978-0-9861652-1-4

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Visit Velvet's website at www.velvetvaughn.com and her Facebook Fanpage at www.facebook.com/authorvelvetvaughn.

Dedication

This book is all about the lengths one woman goes to in order to save her friend. I have been so blessed to have some truly amazing friends over the years. I would get committed for any one of you! So I dedicate this book to my very first friend – my sister Kristy, and to Susan, Beth, Wendy, Patty, Tina, Audrey, Jenny, Marcy, Susie, Ellen, Gretchen, Tina, Lynn, Tiffany, Jenni, Trish, Sheila, Joohee, Emily, Sarah, Karen, Sherrie, Millie, Diane, Diana, Rhonda, Dee, and Jayne.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

About the Author

Chapter One

Do I look psychotic yet?

Rachel Bancroft scrubbed a plush towel over her dripping locks and scrutinized herself in the mirror. Her sister’s angelic face appeared beside her reflection. Rach, is that you?

Nope, she answered cheerfully. My name is Kellie now.

Satisfied with the store-bought dye kit results and her seventeen-year-old sibling’s efforts as a beautician, Rachel dropped to the edge of the tub and allowed Ariana to work on her eyebrows. Once they were finished, Rachel almost didn’t recognize the face staring back at her. The long black curls were a sharp contrast to her naturally platinum, stick-straight hair. Her fingertips probed the roots. Great job, Ari. The ebony hue made her sea-green eyes sparkle—but not for long. Unsnapping a thin plastic case beside the sink, she slid a brown contact out with her index finger and settled it in place. She fingered the other one, but her hand stilled when she caught Ari’s gaze in the mirror, her sister’s full bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Do you have to go through with this? Ari asked.

Rachel positioned the contact and turned, troubled by the unease etched in the younger girl’s expression. She hugged her reassuringly. You know I do, Ari. Please don’t worry. I can take care of myself.

Ari’s soft emerald eyes were pleading. I know. You’re smart and resourceful, but there has to be another way.

Rachel sighed, wishing she could convince her sister that this was something she had to do herself. She’d spent every day of her twenty-eight years on earth behaving like the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect hostess. She was privileged, having grown up wealthy with parents who loved and doted on her. Unlike her other friends raised by a slew of nannies and boarding schools, her parents had been active in her life, never missing a school play, recital, or awards night.

Because Rachel was loved and cared for, she never felt the need to rebel. She even lived at home while all of her other friends ventured out on their own. Granted, home was a multi-million dollar mansion on Long Island, and she had a wing to herself. But when she suggested her own apartment in the city, her parents immediately shot her down, insisting it was too dangerous.

Though she was coddled, she wasn’t a pushover. She’d taken martial arts classes since she was young and could defend herself respectably. She chaired committees, volunteered her time to several charitable causes, and took a hard stance when necessary. But she lived off her trust fund in lieu of a job, not arguing when her parents steered her away from her dream of a career as an artist. Her father and both grandfathers had worked hard to amass their fortunes. Rachel and Ari’s parents didn’t want them to have to work. Rachel’s only deviation from their wishes had been her friendship with Molly Miller.

Draping the thick towel across the sink, she pulled on the ill-fitting, mismatched clothes salvaged from a trip to Goodwill and slid on the decrepit sneakers that complemented the look. A battered suitcase sat open on her bed, filled with more shabby clothes, a few toiletries, and framed pictures of people she didn’t know. It also contained a credit-card thin cell phone, so she could keep in contact with her sister—the only person who knew of her plans.

She looked nothing like the pampered, agreeable daughter of two of New York City’s most prominent, influential citizens.

Her plan was working.

The drastic change in appearance was for a very good reason. Molly disappeared without a trace over two months ago, and nobody seemed to care—except Rachel.

Years of substance abuse and relationship failures caught up with Molly, and she suffered a nervous breakdown. Admittance to the Bexley Institute, a world-renowned psychiatric counseling and recovery center an hour outside of the city, should have been the best thing for her troubled friend.

Despite incessant warnings from her parents, Rachel secretly kept in touch with Molly through the years, finally losing count of the times she rescued her friend from violent boyfriends or scrapes with the law or posted bail. She footed the bill twice for rehab when Molly’s drug and alcohol addictions threatened to consume her. Molly was constantly finding trouble and then crying for Rachel to rescue her. The give and take in the friendship became utterly one-sided. Rachel gave, Molly took. Rachel finally snapped. The bond forged in childhood wasn’t strong enough to withstand Molly’s cycle of self-destruction.

After her last scrape, Rachel warned Molly not to call back if she didn’t get her act together. Rachel didn’t even know Molly had been admitted to Bexley until a terrifying late-night phone call. Molly was pregnant and didn’t know how it happened. The doctor insisted she arrived in that condition, but Molly swore otherwise. Rachel wanted to believe her friend but history made it difficult.

Reiterating her stance that she would no longer be her safety net, Rachel started to disconnect, but Molly’s desperate plea stopped her. She suspected something was wrong at the Institute, but before she could relay any details, the line went dead.

Despite Rachel’s claim to back away, she couldn’t abandon her friend. They had been close once, and Rachel knew deep down, Molly was worth saving. She redialed the number from caller-ID, but instead of Molly, a man answered, his voice both angry and winded. He tersely instructed her to call back in the morning during business hours before disconnecting.

After a fitful sleep, she rose early the following day to call and was informed that, yes, Molly had been a patient but an extremely problematic one and had fled during the night. She accepted the answer for a few days. After all, it wasn’t the first time Molly ran when the going got tough. She expected to find her friend crying on her doorstep at any time, day or night.

Only she never showed up.

Guilt consumed her for her callous treatment when Molly obviously needed help. Rachel tried asking more questions at Bexley, but her attempts were continuously rebuffed. Everyone she spoke with repeated the same story—Molly left of her own free will, and no, she did not leave a forwarding address.

She simply vanished.

Rachel knew that didn’t happen. Yes, Molly was troubled, but she wouldn’t disappear from the face of the earth. Rachel felt like it was her fault. If she had stood by her friend, she might not be missing.

Something else kept niggling at her. She couldn’t get the voice of the man who answered the phone the night she called out of her head. He sounded like he had been in a fight. Why would he have been breathless? Had he fought Molly? Hurt her?

She’d tried to involve the authorities, but they refused to take her claims seriously. Molly was, always had been, and always would be a troublemaker. Dr. Oscar Bexley was a prominent psychiatrist, Dr. Frederick Bexley a noted physician, both generous philanthropists and well-respected icons in their field. Their facility catered equally to the rich and the downtrodden and boasted a phenomenal success rate.

With no other options left, Rachel Kellie Mead Bancroft, daughter of Preston E. Bancroft the Fourth and Cecile Edith Mead Bancroft, Cece to her friends, was about to do something no one would ever believe.

She was going to get herself committed.

#

Ben Smith folded one well-muscled leg over the other and studied the man seated behind a massive glass and chrome desk. Arthur Michaels peeled off wire-rimmed spectacles and settled them carefully on the surface before steepling his fingers and lifting his gaze to Ben. Every move was practiced, deliberate.

I had a chat with a friend of yours, Mr. Smith. He paused for effect. Al Harrik.

Ben’s blue eyes rounded with feigned shock before carefully schooling his features. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. I don’t know anyone named Harrik, he lied.

Oh, I think you do, Michaels persisted. Maybe this will refresh your memory. The chat took place at the Federal Correctional Institute in Ray Brook, New York.

Ben stifled the amused smile tugging at his lips. So Michaels tracked down that lead, did he? He must have dug pretty deep and utilized impressive contacts to connect Smith with master criminal Al Harrik.

Michaels reclined in his chair, the picture of casual, his hands clasped over his rounded stomach. As Director of the Bexley Institute, it is my responsibility to oversee the facility’s day-to-day operations and select employees carefully, he boasted. Dr. Frederick Bexley, Dr. Oscar Bexley, and the entire board of directors entrust me with the critical task of filling each position with the most capable, dedicated, talented person available. I take that responsibility very seriously.

Michaels studied Ben closely. I dredge deeply into each employee’s background, Mr. Smith. For example, I know you have one sister named Tonya. She’s a single mother, correct? Living in Brooklyn, holding down two jobs to support your young niece and nephew, Abby and Jonah.

Ben met Michaels’ smug stare head-on. The man was not engaging in polite conversation. He was issuing a warning.

Michaels’ voice sharpened, along with his gaze. I hire competent professionals, Mr. Smith, but I also hire ones I deem trustworthy and loyal. Those employees have the opportunity to advance quickly and are handsomely rewarded for their efforts. Do you comprehend?

Oh, Ben understood all right. If he passed this interview, he would be one of the chosen ones. He also recognized the man’s subtle mixture of bribery and blackmail. He mentioned Ben’s sister solely for the purpose of letting him know that if he didn’t do as directed, follow orders, carry out Michael’s dirty work, Tonya and her children would be collateral damage.

Everything Al Harrik told Michaels about Ben Smith was the honest truth. He was intelligent, ruthless, heartless except when it came to his sister, and he considered no task off-limits. He avoided arrest for crimes as minor as burglary and extortion and as massive as murder in the first degree. Whatever needed to be done, Benny Smith did the job and did it well.

Michaels didn’t know that the rugged-looking man sitting in front of him was not the real Benny Smith, but Ben Colton, newly-retired FBI agent, current security specialist. Ben Smith was tucked safely away in federal custody. That they shared the same first name was an ironic twist of fate.

Ben tuned Michaels out as the man continued to blather on self-importantly. An anonymous tip phoned into the crime hotline alerted the FBI to the Bexley Institute, located an hour outside New York City. The tipster cited the names of three women who had simply disappeared.

A preliminary investigation turned up nothing suspicious. The Institute, one of the leading mental health facilities in the country, was world-renowned for catering to the needs of the rich and famous with discretion and results. Celebrities checked in for things as small as exhaustion when they needed a break or treatment of addictions and compulsions. Bexley offered a first-class drug and alcohol counseling program.

But the meat and bones of the Institute focused on the service they provided to the mentally ill and the homeless. Bexley turned no one away simply because they couldn’t afford treatment. They offered therapy and housing to those patients until they could productively reemerge into society. The Bexley Institute had been praised by everyone, from presidents to popes, for their service to the mental health industry.

The original investigator shelved the case when his initial inquiry turned up clean. Purely by coincidence, Ben happened to walk by the agent’s desk, accidentally knock a report to the floor and recognize a familiar name among the pages—Donelle Bendershott. It wasn’t common, and the only other person he had heard of with the same last name had been Sheriff Donald Bendershott. The lawman died five years ago from a single gunshot wound to the head - courtesy of Ben.

He didn’t feel bad about ending Bendershott’s life. The sheriff crossed the line from protector to abuser of the law. An undercover sting operation headed by Ben and his partner, Jake Kincaid, exposed several counts of serious criminal wrongdoing. But someone tipped Bendershott off to the investigation. During an escape attempt, he blew away two of his deputies before training his gun on Jake. If Ben hadn’t taken him out, his partner would be dead.

He felt remorse for Bendershott’s teenage daughter, Donelle. Only fourteen at the time, she took her father’s death particularly hard, having lost her mother ten years earlier. She made it perfectly clear she blamed Ben. She refused to believe her beloved, doting father would ever do anything so horribly wrong.

With no other family member willing to take her in, Donelle had been placed in a foster home. Ben kept tabs on her for a while, anonymously sending extra money to the family for her care. But she soon fell in with the wrong crowd and ran away.

After spotting her name on the report, Ben checked around and discovered she lived on the streets for over a year before entering the Institute and disappearing. He wanted to investigate—needed to for his peace of mind.

When word of Michaels’ interest in Smith, an ex-NYPD cop with a notorious reputation for accepting bribes, traveled around the underground grapevine, Ben was suspicious. He saw the perfect opportunity to search the facility from the inside.

His plan ran into a significant roadblock when his superiors refused to sanction the FBI’s involvement, claiming they couldn’t barge in because of one anonymous tip, especially after the preliminary investigator found no unlawful activity.

Since his boss wouldn’t authorize an inquiry, Ben decided to launch one independently. The timing was right to walk away from the agency. He was only thirty, but the years in the Bureau took a toll. He loved the excitement and variety in his job, but the bureaucracy and politics seriously tied his hands. The restrictions were onerous on a born risk-taker.

Plus, he was tired of the hustle and bustle of working in New York City. His older brother Luke recently established a security firm in their hometown of Bloomington, Indiana, and from the moment they opened the doors, the business had boomed. He’d been trying to talk Ben into working with him, and Ben planned on joining Luke, eventually. This provided the perfect opportunity. He could search for answers without the constraints placed upon him by the Bureau.

When he explained the case to his brother, Luke agreed it sounded suspicious. Luke and his partner Logan Bradley approved COBRA Securities’ involvement in the investigation. Ben trusted Luke’s instincts as much as he trusted Jake’s or his own.

Like Ben, his old partner Jake didn’t believe in coincidences. Three girls disappearing from the same place without a trace hinted at a conspiracy. Having been part of the undercover sting and eventual downfall of Bendershott, Jake also felt responsible toward Donelle. Still an active agent, his hands were tied, but he vowed to help Ben any way he could.

Michaels stared at him expectantly, having asked a question about loyalty. Ben responded the way the real Benny Smith would. I’m as loyal as they come—with the right incentive.

Michaels’ mouth crooked smugly as he reached into a drawer, withdrew a plain white envelope, and slid it across the smooth surface with neatly manicured fingertips. I’ve been authorized to offer this to you, Mr. Smith. We’ll call it a signing bonus.

Ben lifted the envelope and flipped through the stack of bills. He counted roughly ten thousand dollars. One hell of a signing bonus.

Do a good job, and there’s more where that came from.

A shiver of unease snaked down Ben’s spine. Something was undeniably going down at the Bexley Institute. Something dangerous.

He pushed the thought aside and tucked the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket. Thrusting his hand forward, he said, Looks like you’ve got yourself a security guard.

Michaels ignored his hand. Instead, his narrowed gaze pierced Ben. Before we sign the contract, I need to know if there is any task that you are unwilling to fulfill.

The shiver became a full-blown shudder, and Ben dropped his arm to his side. Plastering on a cocky grin, he drawled, Like I said, with the right incentive, there ain’t nothing I won’t do.

Chapter Two

Ben navigated the sterile white hallway and nodded a greeting to the sturdy-looking nurse behind the counter. His first two days on the job as a security guard for the Bexley Institute had been relatively uneventful, allowing him to scope out the grounds under the guise of familiarizing himself with the layout.

The entry to the impressive three-story structure commenced at an ornate security gate and continued along a tree-lined brick driveway, circling around a soaring fountain that rivaled the Trevi, to a set of slate steps leading to the entrance. A lush carpet of green grass covered the gently sloping grounds, flowers bloomed in a rainbow of colors around the perimeter, and birds chirped from the stately trees peppered around the complex.

The lobby of the Institute looked more like a fine art gallery than a psychiatric hospital. Gold encased glass doors slid open to reveal gray and white marble tile floors, fountains, tropical foliage, art-covered walls, plush leather sofas, and a stunning blonde named Brenda perched behind a massive desk. A bank of elevators with shiny gold doors lined the hallway, waiting to whisk wealthy clients to their top-level, high-security luxury accommodations, complete with five-star room service.

The opulent side of the Institute was the one presented to the media. VIPs who toured Bexley were escorted from the lobby to the posh top floor and out through the extensive botanical gardens in the back.

Solid gray double doors closed off a hallway leading to a back entrance and elevator to the second story, the floor used to treat the neither rich nor famous patients. They were simply the mentally ill men and women who desperately required the care of skilled doctors. The VIPs didn’t glimpse the facility’s underbelly, where real people with genuine mental illness roamed the halls in various stages of dishabille.

Shaped like an ‘X,’ four wings extended out from a central common area and ended at an emergency exit stairwell, one of which included a freight elevator servicing each floor plus the basement. Three of the wings housed twenty rooms each, most if not all occupied by two patients, plus bathroom facilities with toilets and showers. The other wing contained a cafeteria serving buffet-style meals, a pharmacy, and examinations, music, and art rooms. There was also a padded room for when patients became unruly, four isolation rooms, a janitor’s closet, and plush offices for both Oscar and Frederick Bexley, co-founders of the Institute.

An ample open space in the middle of the four wings provided an area where patients could watch television, play games, or sit and enjoy the view of the sprawling gardens through a wall of windows. Sofas, tables, and chairs were scattered around, and several bookcases held paperbacks, board games, puzzles, and magazines. A nurse’s station took up another wall of the common area, as did the security offices and an infirmary.

Ben paused as the elevator doors swished open, and a male attendant emerged with a new patient in tow.

Hey, Smith, can you watch this one while I get the paperwork together?

Ben nodded at Carl, a hulk of a man who reminded him of a slightly more muscular Bull from the television show Night Court, shaved head and all. Carl slid a keycard into the door marked Restricted Access and disappeared inside. Ben needed to check out that room, but all new hires were placed on a three-month probationary period. He didn’t have clearance to admissions, the pharmacy, Oscar, or Frederick Bexley’s offices.

Having met with the doctors on his first day, he had been surprised to find both courteous and friendly. As the oldest, Oscar fancied himself the man in charge. A psychiatrist, he was pompous and arrogant, but he radiated genuine pride when he spoke of the facility. Frederick, a physician, was more laid back but equally proud of their achievements.

The unexpected character of each man caught Ben off guard. Research told him they had been honored numerous times with various awards for their distinguished service to the mentally ill. He assumed the brothers would be too busy to concern themselves with the facility’s day-to-day operations or the people hired to run it smoothly. He fully expected to be treated like what he was—a security guard. Instead, each man welcomed him as an essential part of their staff.

His gaze shifted from the door to the woman slumped in a wheelchair. She had wild eyes, even crazier hair, and what clothes he could make out under the beat-up suitcase clutched in her arms were dirty and frayed. She rocked slowly back and forth and muttered under her breath.

She looked like every stereotypical mental patient he’d ever seen on television or in the movies.

When the woman finally noticed his presence, dark brows lifted, and she gasped. A mixture of reactions swirled through the dark depths of her muddy brown eyes. Surprise, interest, wariness, confusion. Most astonishing of all was an unmistakable spark of intelligence. Intrigued, Ben stood straighter, unable to tear his gaze away. Their connection felt like a palpable touch.

He studied her closer. Something about her piqued his interest. Certainly, she wasn’t beautiful, with frizzy tendrils of coal-black hair springing out at every angle from her pale, heart-shaped face. But her features were striking. High cheekbones, flawless skin buried beneath a thin layer of dirt, a delicate Grecian nose, and full, sensual lips. He found himself staring at her mouth.

The door to the admissions office slammed with a thud, jarring him from his fascinated trance. The woman flinched.

Ben cursed under his breath, chastising himself for letting this woman distract him. He needed to get a good look in that room, but instead of focusing on his mission, he couldn’t wrench his eyes away from the rosy pink lips of a person with a mental health condition.

Terrific.

Thanks, Smith, Carl said as he snapped a white band around the woman’s wrist and wheeled her away. Over his shoulder, he called out, Hey, could you give me a hand getting this one into bed? She’s a handful. I had a hell of a time getting her into this. Carl indicated the wheelchair.

No problem, Ben drawled as he adjusted the heavy belt around his waist and sauntered down the hallway. His job description called for every means of restraint except for a gun—that he had strapped to his calf.

He easily guessed their destination before Carl even approached room two-twenty. Somehow, he knew the woman would fill the empty bed that just a week ago held Kimmie Bickle, current whereabouts unknown, and before that, Molly Miller and Donelle Bendershott, both MIA as well.

People were checking into Bexley Institute, but they weren’t checking out.

Ben angled around and assisted Carl in herding the woman into bed. She was tall but not as heavy as she looked in the bulky clothes. Her waist and hips were slender, and the flashes he caught of her breasts when they pressed against the rough fabric of her flannel shirt were nicely rounded.

Let go, lady.

Carl tugged on the woman’s suitcase, struggling to pry it out of her unrelenting grip.

Nooo, she wailed, her head whipping from side to side. Her wild eyes darted around the room.

Relax. I’m going to dump it on that table over there, Carl informed her impatiently. The woman’s nervous gaze landed on the white pine dresser, and her grip loosened. Carl jerked the bag out of her hands and slammed it down, muttering something about psychos under his breath.

Okay, lady, time to get you out of these clothes.

The woman’s brows arched skyward, her