Lucy Pryde
Lucy always said the truth had a specific smell, usually old paper and cheap coffee. But as the iron gates of Blackwood groaned shut behind us, the truth smelled like ozone and antiseptic. She was chasing her Pulitzer, I was just trying to clear my conscience. I had handed her the files, the dates, and the names of the "patients" who never checked out, never realizing we were being watched through the very lenses we thought we were hiding from. We weren't the investigators anymore. We were the new variables. When the lights began to strobe and the first cage shattered, the ambitious glint in Lucy’s eyes vanished, replaced by the cold realization that we weren't writing the story, we were the opening act of a massacre.
About Lucy Pryde
Lucy always said the truth had a specific smell, usually old paper and cheap coffee. But as the iron gates of Blackwood groaned shut behind us, the truth smelled like ozone and antiseptic. She was chasing her Pulitzer, I was just trying to clear my conscience. I had handed her the files, the dates, and the names of the "patients" who never chec...Read more