THE HASH-MARKED GIRL

By Meghan O. Koesters

It's been five years since Detective John Parker discovered Tally--a scarred girl in the closet of an abandoned facility. Five years since Tally and seven other girls were illegally drug tested on by Dr. Raven. And now after all these years, Dr. Raven is back and advertising her new pharmaceutical company, Oberon Pharmaceuticals. Together with Adam, the boy no one can see, Tally must find a way to expose Dr. Raven for who she really is before anyone else can get hurt. But will she have enough evidence to bring Dr. Raven to justice, or will the past come back to haunt her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891574809

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THE HASH-MARKED GIRL

Meghan O. Koesters

Copyright © 2024 Meghan O. Koesters

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or places is purely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-89157-466-3 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-480-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

I would like to dedicate this book to my parents, who encouraged me to write and publish this book and also to the Horizon Youth Theatre, who inspired me to write a young adult novel.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

About the Author

I would like to dedicate this book to my parents, who encouraged me to write and publish this book and also to the Horizon Youth Theatre, who inspired me to write a young adult novel.

Prologue

Five years ago

Clear!

The DEA unit swarmed into the basement facility, followed closely by Detective John Parker—the local lead in this case—and Special Agent Mark Colson. The team swept through the narrow hallway, entering the various rooms, looking for anyone who might still be residing there.

All right, let's run through what we know, Colson began.

Parker began to rattle off the facts, Eyewitnesses reported several teenagers—between the ages of sixteen and seventeen—being escorted in, sometimes by a tall woman with dark hair, other times by a tall man—athletic build, sandy-brown hair. According to them, only the adults were ever leaving. Ordinarily, this wouldn't be the cause of any alarm, but there were reports of screaming and cries in the middle of the night.

Add to that are the investigative reports we have that several orphanage and foster agencies throughout the city had a surplus in adoptions all around the same time, specifically those between the ages of sixteen and seventeen.

Parker ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. About that. What do orphanages have to do with a drug bust?

Almost half of the adoptions in the country are children under five. That percentage goes down the older the child gets. The older ones, sixteen and older? Less than five percent. But now all'a sudden they're being adopted left and right and then never heard from again. Question is, Why? Might have been unrelated had it not been for finding that body.

Damn shame that. Never seen anything like it.

Newly eighteen, according to the records we uncovered. Not your typical overdose either. It was clear from the tox screen that she had been subject to several different drugs all at once, causing the overdose. Some of the drugs we found in her system haven't even hit the streets yet, legally or illegally. No, this wasn't a teenager experimenting. This was a child being experimented on.

Detective. Agent Colson…you're going to want to see this. The DEA agent led Parker and Colson to a small, white room.

Inside were tables, pristinely cleaned surrounded by three whitewashed walls. The fourth wall revealed a long one-way window wall and a door leading into the next room. It looked similar to interrogation rooms down at the precinct, but this one didn't contain a desk and chairs for interrogation inside. No, the room joined with this one contained eight tiny beds, all in various states of disarray as if they had been recently slept in. They were set side by side, with only a small cupboard at the foot of each bed. The room was cramped, hardly any room to walk around or move on. At the head of each bed were wire-style headboards, a couple damaged and missing pieces.

There's another room just across the hall, the agent said, writing notes down in a small notebook. Same look, eight small beds and a room for observation.

Get forensics in here. See what you can gather from the room. Make sure they check under the beds as well, Colson said, slipping on a pair of gloves himself.

He opened the door to the adjoining room; a strong scent of bleach and cleaning product hit him square in the face, underlaid by the unmistakable stench of death. Upon closer inspection, he could see faint stains upon the floor, but it was clear someone had cleaned up. He swore knowing full well that any evidence they might have picked up would be compromised. Even the beds were still slightly damp from where they had been doused.

Damn, Parker swore. Someone had to have tipped them off.

Colson nodded in agreement; his expression grim. He turned to walk out when he noticed the wall near the far bed. Somehow it didn't look as smooth as the other ones. Upon closer examination, he saw small hash marks made just above the bed. Though they had clearly attempted to scrub the wall, they had not fixed the hash marks that were carved into it.

Sets of five lines, repeated over and over, passed whatever time the victims had spent in this room.

Alex Erikson, local head of forensics, came up behind Colson as he studied the lines. They were here for a while, it seems, he commented, laying his suitcase on the floor and unpacking its contents.

Colson merely grunted, mentally tallying up the marks. Assuming the marks represented the days, they had been there for at least three months, maybe more.

Parker joined him, leaning down to study the lower marks. The marks toward the bottom, what do you make of them? Parker commented, looking at the bottom row of marks.

Looks like a different hand. Someone must have taken over tallying the days, Colson observed, leaning in closer. It's shakier, as if whoever did it was having a difficult time carving the marks.

Maybe they were under the effect of whatever was being tested on them, Parker mused, rubbing the back of his neck. Erikson, see if you can figure out what was being used to carve the wall. Some of the beds appear to have pieces broken off of them, maybe we can get fingerprints off the pieces if we are able to find them and at least identify the victims.

Erikson merely nodded and returned to unpacking.

Hours later, a couple of fabric fibers and a single strand of hair were all they had to show for their investigation. All the other rooms in the basement had been impeccably cleaned and looked as though they hadn't even been used. Special Agent Colson had gathered his agents to regroup while Erikson packed up his gear.

It's a dead end, Erikson reported. This isn't a case for the DEA. The only connection to the investigation is that there were people living here, but there is no suggestion that any of the victims here were drugged.

No. There's got to be something we aren't seeing. Something that links all of this together. Detective Parker said, stroking his chin while staring at the markings on the wall.

Why? Because of the kid we found near here? scoffed Erikson. Come on, John. We've gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb. The building was abandoned years ago. The original owner has already been called in for questioning, but according to his wife, he's been out of the country for almost a year now, touring Europe. He's got a rock-solid alibi and doesn't have anything in his background check that suggests he works with pharmaceuticals. This is barely even a crime scene. Erikson stood, patting Parker on the shoulder. We'll find the assholes that did that to her, and we'll figure out what crazy shit was going on down here. But you gotta know when it's time to quit.

Parker let out a deep sigh and nodded, following Erikson out of the room. The agents had moved outside, leaving the hallway empty, their footsteps echoing. They had almost reached the exit when Parker stopped, his head cocked slightly to the left.

John? You coming?

Shh… You hear that?

Erikson stopped and listened for a moment, shaking his head. Parker began walking back into the facility, knocking on the wall.

Erikson sighed and put down his suitcase, crossing his arms. Come on, John, it's late. We can pick this up tomorrow.

Parker shushed him as he knocked on a wall near the entrance to one of the observation rooms. He leaned his head closer to the wall and knocked again. From inside the wall, he heard the sound of scuffling, as though someone or something was moving around.

Erikson walked up behind him, putting his ear to the wall. I hear it now…but could just be rats?

In a place this clean? The chemicals alone would have run them out. Parker walked through the door to the adjoining wall. Using the tip of his steel-toed boot, Parker kicked at the wall hard.

Chunks of drywall fell away, revealing a wooden door behind the wall.

Oh my god…

Get Special Agent Colson in here now! Erikson ran out into the hallway, calling for the agents as Parker began to kick more holes into the drywall.

Parker, what the hell is going on?

Someone's in there. Help me get this wall down.

Together with Erikson and the other agents, they began to tear down the drywall. It was a quick job; the wall wasn't made to last but to cover up what appeared to be a closet door. When enough of the wall was removed, they forced open the door. Along the walls, tally marks were made, thousands of them carved as high as six feet up. In the center of the room was a figure hiding beneath a blanket, nearly hyperventilating from fear.

Hey, hey, it's okay. You're safe now. We're here to help.

Slowly, the sheet began to be pulled off, revealing a young girl.

Sweet Jesus…

Get an EMT in here now!

The girl raised her head and slowly stood. Every part of her skin was covered in hash marks, tallies in groups of five following the same pattern as what was carved on the walls. Some of the marks were still oozing blood, others clotted over. Grasped tight in her hand was a sharp piece of the wire headboard.

Who did this to you? Parker whispered.

I…I ran out of room on the walls.

Chapter 1

Present day

Tally grimaced as she zipped up her hoodie, knowing full well that the heat was going to get to her but knowing that it was a better alternative to the inevitable questions. July in New York was the worst for her, hot as hell and full of chatty tourists trying to catch a glimpse of some starlet or another. They didn't seem to realize that at its base, it was no different than any other big city. Underneath the layer of shiny camouflage was a dirty, dangerous city; one she got to experience far too soon in her life.

Tally caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she pulled on a thin pair of gloves. A lot of the scars had faded into a series of raised white lines, but her face hadn't been so lucky. Beneath her right eye, the scar was pink, bordering red, jagged and raised, taking up almost the entirety of her cheek. The coloring made her eyes seem even greener than they were, bright against her pale face. It was the last series of tallies she had done before… Well, she didn't like to think about that. Her neck, however, remained unscathed, one of the few places on her body that was.

She raised her hood up over her auburn hair and left her room, locking the door behind her as quietly as she could. On soft feet, she made her way down the hallway toward the back staircase. She had almost made it before she heard a familiar, disproving voice.

Tally?

Tally turned toward the voice in question, owned by the manager of the rehabilitation center, Jennifer Hopkins. Her slightly graying, brown hair was pulled tight in a bun, her usual style, and she wore a smart, tan pantsuit. At the moment, her expression was one of a disapproving parent who had caught her child attempting to sneak out, but Tally definitely wasn't a child. Not anymore at least.

Yes, Mrs. Hopkins?

You're headed to work, yes? You know you need to check out at the front desk.

Tally shrugged her shoulders. You know what time I go to work every day. I've given you a copy of my schedule.

Rules apply to everyone, Mrs. Hopkins said sternly. And if you are to continue to live here, you must follow procedure as well.

Like all the other addicts?

Recovering addicts. Just as you are recovering.

I am recovered and I didn't take that shit because I wanted to, Tally said coldly, hands unconsciously closing into fists. If you would just sign the release papers, I might be able to find an apartment that will take me—

Tally, Mrs. Hopkins said with the air of one speaking to a small child. You know I can't do that while you are still having your…episodes.

My episodes. Tally felt her face heat up as she avoided Mrs. Hopkins' knowing eyes.

Episodes was a kind way of referring to the fact that, five years later, Tally still suffered the side effects of whatever poison had been put into her body. Doctors had diagnosed them as hallucinations, seeing and hearing things that weren't there. She used to stare off into space for hours at a time, watching things that no one else could see, but learned quickly not to look at any of the things she saw directly. She found she could get through most days like that, and for the most part, the hallucinations never bothered her. Never look them in the eye. You look them in the eye and you acknowledge that they exist and then they'll realize that you do too. Tally shook her head at the memory. That bit of advice hadn't even been directed toward her; it was for someone else. Someone who had been seeing far worse things than Tally had. Besides, Tally didn't want to remember anything from that time. Remembering wasn't going to bring anyone back, and it wasn't going to get rid of her visions. Nor would it get rid of the things she saw and experienced back then.

Tally?

Tally shook her head once more as if she were brushing off cobwebs in her mind. Sorry, I spaced out… What did you say?

Mrs. Hopkins frowned. I asked if you were still taking your medication.

Yeah. Of course.

Liar.

We talked about this, Mrs. Hopkins said slowly. The drugs they gave you were completely different than what you received in the past—

You mean what I was forced to take in the past.

Regardless. You know they aren't remotely the same, correct?

Yeah, I know. Can I leave? I need to get to work.

Do you need a refill? Remember if you run out—

Mrs. Hopkins.

She gave a large sigh and pressed her lip into a thin line. I'll put in an order for you. Better to have some before you run out.

Shrugging indifferently, Tally turned away from Mrs. Hopkins and continued down the hall. She would have liked to tell her not to bother or to save them for people who need them, but as far as anyone knew, the medication was helping. That it was slowly decreasing the amount of hallucinations they believed she was having. However, they didn't seem to understand that it wasn't multiple episodes; it was one long, unending one.

One that Tally had learned to hide in order not to have to take more drugs.

She had even made a ritual out of dumping the pills down the toilet whenever she received them. She had contemplated simply hiding them but decided that, when living in a center full of addicts, it was better to simply destroy them.

She continued down the stairs before Mrs. Hopkins would suddenly remember that she never did check out. It wasn't that Tally minded taking that extra step; there was just a lot of activity in the main rooms that she didn't want to deal with. The people around the checkout desk always gawked at her, and the staff would try to encourage her to attend the various interventions or classes. The only class Tally had tried to attend had been an art class about two years ago. Everyone had been told to paint what they were feeling, but Tally couldn't come up with anything and instead stared into space, not really paying attention to what she was doing. When she came out of it, she realized she had painted multiple black tally marks amongst a single set of red ones. The incident terrified her enough that she disposed of the painting and never returned to that class.

Blinking at