The clinical stench of the ward—a mixture of rubbing alcohol and slow decay—seemed to thicken as Deibert stepped forward. He didn't hesitate for a heartbeat, his calloused hand lunging into the mess of matted, dyed hair that belonged to Carly Sprung. With a sharp, violent yank, he dragged her across the linoleum, the friction of her clothes against the floor sounding like a death rattle.
"Help! Someone! Mom! Dad!" Carly’s voice was a jagged shriek. Her designer makeup, once carefully applied to project an image of effortless wealth, was now a grotesque smear of black mascara and salt, making her look less like a socialite and more like a panicked animal. She clawed at Deibert’s hand, but the man’s grip was absolute; several clumps of her expensive extensions were ripped clean from her sca
