Chapter 9 - St. Jude’s Gate
The wrought-iron gates of St. Jude’s Recovery Center swung open with a deep, echoing groan that sounded like a mechanical sigh of despair. The black sedan crunched over the gravel driveway, its headlights cutting through the dense, swirling Vermont fog to illuminate a sprawling, austere stone building surrounded by towering, skeletal pine trees.
Valeria stepped out of the car, the freezing northern air hitting her bare legs instantly through the slit of her maroon dress. She pulled the black trench coat tighter around herself, her designer heels sinking uselessly into the wet mud beside the path.
A middle-aged woman in a practical navy fleece jacket stood on the front steps, holding a clipboard against her chest. Her hair was pulled back into a stern bun, and her expression was as gray as the predawn sky.
“Miss Vance?” the woman asked, her voice carrying the flat, no-nonsense cadence of someone who had seen every type of broken human being walk through those doors.
“Yes,” Valeria muttered, clutching her single cardboard box against her ribs.
“I’m Director Hayes. Your father briefed me on your background. Drop the attitude at the threshold, or you won't last forty-eight hours here,” Director Hayes said, turning on her heel and marching through the heavy oak doors without waiting to see if Valeria followed.
Valeria hesitated, looking back at the black sedan, but the driver had already shifted into reverse, spinning the tires in the gravel before speeding back down the dark winding road toward the highway. She was stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow and silence.
She dragged herself up the stone steps and pushed through the heavy doors, stepping into a brightly lit, sterile hallway that smelled sharply of industrial disinfectant and burnt coffee.
Director Hayes stopped at a wooden reception desk, handing Valeria a set of heavy brass keys and a gray cotton uniform tunic.
“Your quarters are in the east wing—room 104. Shift starts at 5:00 AM sharp in the laundry unit. No phones, no jewelry, no exceptions,” Hayes instructed, tapping the clipboard with a pen. “And remember: here, you aren't a Vance. You’re just pair of hands that owe the state four thousand hours of community restitution.”
Valeria looked down at the rough gray cotton uniform in her hands, her stomach churning with a wave of absolute nausea. Before she could open her mouth to protest, a door down the hallway clicked open, and a young man with disheveled brown hair and vacant, wandering eyes stepped out into the corridor, stopping dead in his tracks as he looked directly at her.
May you like
Valeria froze, the breath catching in her throat as the young man tilted his head, studying her face with an unsettling, profound familiarity.
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