Instead the sunroom and outside facilities were cheery and relaxing. But the mental hospital radiated a different feel. The building was housed behind a gate, as if it were a prison. The building was old and weathered, the land dry and parched. Jaxon phoned ahead to ask permission to visit Imogene, and was given an okay, although the nurse in charge warned him that Imogene would probably be unresponsive. Inside, the hospital walls were painted a dull green, the floors were faded gray and everything from the dingy chairs in the waiting room to the cafeteria they passed desperately need a face-lift. The doctor in charge of Imogene’s care, a fiftysomething bohemian-looking lady, met them in her office. “I’m Dr. Pirkle. I understand the reason you’re here, but I’m not sure Imogene will be helpful.” “Just let us talk to her for a minute,” Jaxon said. “It’s important.” The woman’s sharp eyes darted sideways to Avery.
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