Committed Read online

  Committed

  By Velvet Vaughn

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 Velvet Vaughn

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Visit Velvet's website at: www.velvetvaughn.com and her Facebook Fanpage HERE.

  Dedication

  This book is all about the lengths one woman goes to in order to save her friend. I have been so blessed to have some truly amazing friends over the years. I would get committed for any one of you! So I dedicate this book to my very first friend – my sister Kristy, and to: Susan, Beth, Wendy, Patty, Tina, Audrey, Jenny, Marcy, Susie, Ellen, Gretchen, Tina, Lynn, Tiffany, Jenni, Trish, Sheila, Joohee, Emily, Sarah, Karen, Sherrie, Millie, Diane, Diana, Rhonda, Dee, and Jayne.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  "Do I look psychotic yet?"

  Rachel Bancroft scrubbed a plush towel over her dripping locks and examined herself carefully in the mirror. Her sister’s angelic face appeared beside her reflection. "Rach, is that you?"

  "Nope," she answered cheerfully. "My name is Kellie now."

  Satisfied with the results of the store-bought dye kit and her seventeen-year-old sibling’s efforts as beautician, Rachel dropped to the edge of the tub and allowed Ariana to work on her eyebrows. Once they were finished, she almost didn’t recognize the face staring back at her. The long black curls were a sharp contrast to her naturally platinum, stick-straight hair. Her fingertips probed the roots. "Great job, Ari." The ebony hue made her sea-green eyes sparkle…but not for long. Unsnapping a thin plastic case beside the sink, she slid a brown contact out with her index finger and settled it in place. She fingered the other contact but her hand stilled when she caught Ari’s gaze in the mirror, her sister’s full bottom lip caught between her teeth.

  "Do you really have to go through with this?” Ari asked.

  Rachel positioned the contact and turned, troubled by the unease clearly etched in the younger girl’s expression. She hugged her reassuringly. "You know I do, Ari. Please don’t worry. I can take care of myself."

  Ari’s soft emerald eyes pleaded. "I know. You're smart and resourceful, but there has to be some other way."

  Rachel sighed, wishing she could convince her sister that this was something she had to do herself. She’d spent every day of her twenty-eight years on earth behaving as the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect hostess. She was privileged, having grown up wealthy with parents who loved and doted on her. Unlike her other friends who were raised by a slew of nannies and boarding schools, her parents had been active in her life, never missing a school play or recital or awards night.

  Because she felt loved and cared for, she never felt the need to rebel. She even lived at home, while all of her other friends lived on their own. Granted, home was a multi-million dollar mansion on Long Island and she had a wing to herself, but when she suggested her own apartment in the city, they immediately shot her down, insisting it was too dangerous.

  Though she was coddled, she wasn't a push-over. She'd taken martial arts classes since she was young and could defend herself. She chaired committees and volunteered her time to several charitable causes, and was known to take a hard stance when necessary. But she lived off her trust fund in lieu of a job, not arguing when they steered her away from her dream of a career as an artist. Her father and both grandfathers had worked hard to amass their fortunes. Her parents didn't want her or her sister to have to work. Her only deviation from their wishes had been her friendship with Molly Miller.

  Draping the thick towel across the sink, she pulled on the ill-fitting, mismatched clothes salvaged from a trip to Goodwill and slid on the decrepit sneakers that complimented the look. A battered suitcase sat open on her bed, filled with more scruffy clothes, a few toiletries and framed pictures of people she didn’t know. It also contained a credit-card thin cell phone so she could keep in contact with her sister…the only person who knew of her plans.

  She looked nothing like the pampered, agreeable daughter of two of New York City’s most prominent, influential citizens.

  Her plan was working.

  The drastic change in appearance was for a very good reason. Molly disappeared without a trace over two months ago and nobody seemed to care. No one but Rachel.

  Years of substance abuse and relationship failures caught up with Molly and she suffered a nervous breakdown. Admittance to the Bexley Institute, a world-renowned psychiatric counseling and recovery center an hour outside of the city, should have been the best thing for her troubled friend.

  Despite incessant warnings from her parents, Rachel secretly kept in touch with Molly through the years, finally losing count of the times she rescued her friend from violent boyfriends or scrapes with the law, or posted bail. She footed the bill twice for rehab when Molly’s drug and alcohol addictions threatened to consume her. Molly was constantly finding trouble and then crying for Rachel to rescue her. The give and take in the friendship became completely one sided: Rachel gave, Molly took. Rachel finally snapped. The bond forged in childhood just wasn’t strong enough to withstand Molly’s cycle of self-destruction.

  After her last scrape, Rachel warned Molly that if she didn’t get her act together, not to call back. Rachel didn’t even know she had been admitted to Bexley until a terrified late night phone call. Molly was pregnant and didn’t know how it happened. The doctor insisted she arrived in that condition but Molly swore otherwise. Rachel wanted to believe her friend but history made it difficult.

  Reiterating her stance that she would not be her safety net any longer, Rachel started to disconnect but Molly's desperate plea stopped her. She suspected something was wrong at the Institute but before she could relay any details, the line went dead.

  Despite Rachel’s claim to back away, she just couldn’t abandon her friend. They had been close once and she knew deep down, Molly was worth saving. She redialed the number from caller-ID, but instead of Molly, a man answered, his voice both angry and winded. He tersely instructed her to call back in the morning during business hours before disconnecting.

  After a fitful sleep, she rose early the next morning to call and was told that yes, Molly had been a patient but an extremely troubled one and had fled during the night. She accepted the answer for a few days. After all, it wasn’t the first time Molly ran when the going got tough. She e
xpected to find her friend crying on her doorstep at any time, day or night.

  Only she never showed up.

  Guilt consumed her for her callous treatment when Molly obviously needed help. She tried asking more questions at Bexley but her attempts were continuously rebuffed. Everyone she spoke with repeated the same story: Molly left of her own free will and no, she did not leave a forwarding address.

  She simply vanished.

  Rachel knew that didn’t happen. Yes, Molly was troubled, but she wouldn't just disappear from the face of the earth. Rachel felt like it was her fault. If she had stood by her friend, she might not be missing.

  Something else kept niggling at her. She couldn't get the voice of the man who answered the phone the night she called out of her head. He sounded like he had been in a fight. Why would he have been breathless? Had he fought Molly? Hurt her?

  She’d tried to involve the authorities but they refused to take her claims seriously. Molly was, always had been, and always would be a troublemaker. Dr. Oscar Bexley was a prominent psychiatrist, Dr. Frederick Bexley a noted physician, both generous philanthropists, well-respected icons in their field. The facility they established catered to the rich and the downtrodden equally and boasted a phenomenal success rate.

  With no other options left, Rachel Kellie Mead Bancroft, daughter of Preston E. Bancroft the Fourth and Cecile Edith Mead Bancroft, "Cece" to her friends, was about to do something no one would ever believe.

  She was going to get herself committed.

  #

  Ben Smith folded one well-muscled leg over the other and studied the man seated behind a massive glass and chrome desk. Arthur Michaels peeled off wire-rimmed spectacles and settled them carefully on the surface before steepling his fingers and lifting his gaze to Ben. Every move was practiced, deliberate.

  "I had a chat with a friend of yours, Mr. Smith." He paused for effect. "Al Harrik."

  Ben’s blue eyes rounded with feigned shock before he carefully schooled his features. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don’t know anyone named Harrik," he lied.

  "Oh, I think you do," Michaels persisted. "Maybe this will refresh your memory. The chat took place at the Federal Correctional Institute in Ray Brook, New York."

  Ben stifled the amused smile tugging at his lips. So, Michaels managed to track down that lead, did he? He must have dug pretty deep and utilized impressive contacts to connect Smith with master criminal Al Harrik.

  Michaels reclined in his chair, the picture of casual, his hands clasped over his rounded stomach. "As Director of the Bexley Institute, it is my responsibility to oversee the day-to-day operations of the facility and to select employees very carefully," he boasted. "Dr. Frederick Bexley, Dr. Oscar Bexley and the entire board of directors entrust me with the important task of filling each position with the most capable, dedicated, talented person available. I take that responsibility very seriously.

  "I dredge deeply into each employee’s background, Mr. Smith," he continued. "For example, I know you have one sister named Tonya. She’s a single mother, correct? Living in Brooklyn, holding down two jobs to support your young niece and nephew, Abby and Jonah."

  Ben met Michaels’ smug stare head-on. The man was not engaging in polite conversation. He was issuing a warning.

  Michaels’ voice sharpened, along with his gaze. "I hire competent professionals, Mr. Smith, but I also hire ones I deem trustworthy and loyal. Those employees have the opportunity to advance quickly and are handsomely rewarded for their efforts. Do you comprehend?"

  Oh, Ben understood all right. If he passed this interview, he would be one of the chosen ones. He also recognized the man’s subtle mixture of bribery and blackmail. He mentioned Ben’s sister solely for the purpose of letting him know that if he didn’t do as directed, follow orders, carry out Michael's dirty work, Tonya and her children would be collateral damage.

  Everything Al Harrik told Michaels about Ben Smith was the God honest truth. He was smart, ruthless, heartless except when it came to his sister, and he considered no task off limits. He managed to avoid arrest for crimes as small as burglary and extortion and as massive as murder in the first degree. Whatever needed to be done, Benny Smith did the job, and did it well.

  What Michaels didn’t know was that the rugged-looking man sitting in front of him was not the real Benny Smith, but Ben Colton, newly-retired FBI agent, current security specialist. Ben Smith was tucked safely away in federal custody. That they actually shared the same first name was an ironic twist of fate.

  Ben tuned Michaels out as the man continued to blather on self-importantly. An anonymous tip phoned into the crime hotline alerted the FBI to the Bexley Institute located about an hour outside of New York City. The tipster cited the names of three women who had simply disappeared. A preliminary investigation turned up nothing suspicious. The Institute, one of the leading mental health facilities in the country, was world-renowned for catering to the needs of the rich and famous with discretion and results. Celebrities checked in for things as small as exhaustion when they needed a break, or for treatment of addictions and compulsions. Bexley offered a first class drug and alcohol counseling program.

  But the meat and bones of the Institute focused on the service they provided to the mentally ill and the homeless. Bexley turned no one away simply because they couldn’t afford treatment. They offered therapy and housing to those patients until they could productively reemerge into society. The Bexley Institute had been praised from presidents to popes for their service to the mental health industry.

  The original investigator shelved the case when his initial inquiry turned up clean. Purely by coincidence, Ben happened to walk by the agent’s desk, accidentally knock a report to the floor and recognize a familiar name among the pages: Donelle Bendershott. It wasn’t a common name. In fact, the only other person he had ever heard of with the same last name had been Sheriff Donald Bendershott. Sheriff Bendershott died five years ago from a single gunshot wound to the head - courtesy of Ben.

  He didn’t feel bad about ending Bendershott’s life. The sheriff crossed the line from protector to abuser of the law. An undercover sting operation headed by Ben and his partner Jake Kincaid exposed several counts of serious criminal wrongdoing. But someone tipped Bendershott off to the investigation. During an escape attempt, he blew away two of his own deputies before training his gun on Jake. If Ben hadn’t taken him out, his partner would be dead.

  He did feel remorse for Bendershott’s teenage daughter, Donelle. Only fourteen at the time, she took the death of her father particularly hard, having lost her mother ten years earlier. She made it perfectly clear she blamed Ben. She refused to believe her beloved, doting father would ever do anything so horribly wrong.

  With no other family member willing to take her in, Donelle had been placed in a foster home. Ben kept tabs on her for a while, anonymously sending extra money to the family for her care. But she soon fell in with the wrong crowd and ran away.

  After spotting her name on the report, Ben checked around and discovered she had been living on the streets for over a year before she entered the Institute and disappeared. He wanted to investigate…needed to for his own peace of mind.

  When word of Michaels’ interest in Smith, an ex-NYPD cop with a notorious reputation for accepting bribes, traveled around the underground grapevine, not only was Ben suspicious, he saw the perfect opportunity to search the facility from the inside.

  His plan ran into a major roadblock when his superiors refused to sanction the FBI’s involvement, claiming they couldn’t just barge in because of one anonymous tip, especially after the preliminary investigator found no unlawful activity.

  Since his boss wouldn’t authorize an inquiry, Ben decided to launch one on his own. The timing was right to walk away from the agency. He was only thirty-four, but the years in the Bureau took a toll. He loved the excitement and variety in his job, but the bureaucracy and politics seriously tied his hands. The restrictions were
hard on a born risk-taker.

  Plus, he was tired of the hustle and bustle of working in New York City. His older brother Luke recently established a security firm in their hometown of Bloomington, Indiana, and from the moment they opened the doors, business had boomed. He'd been trying to talk Ben into working with him, and Ben had been planning on joining Luke eventually. This provided the perfect opportunity. He would be able to search for answers without the constraints placed upon him by the Bureau.

  When he explained the case to his brother, Luke agreed it sounded suspicious and agreed to fund the investigation. Ben trusted Luke’s instincts as much as he trusted Jake’s or his own.

  Like Ben, his old partner Jake didn’t believe in coincidences. Three girls disappearing from the same place without a trace hinted at a conspiracy. Having been part of the undercover sting and eventual downfall of Bendershott, Jake also felt responsible towards Donelle. Still an active agent, his hands were tied, but he vowed to help Ben any way he could.

  Michaels stared at him expectantly, having obviously asked a question…something about loyalty. Ben responded the way the real Benny Smith would. "I’m as loyal as they come…with the right incentive."

  Michaels’ mouth crooked smugly as he reached into a drawer, withdrew a plain white envelope, and slid it across the smooth surface with neatly-manicured fingertips. "I’ve been authorized to offer this to you, Mr. Smith. We’ll call it a signing bonus."

  Ben lifted the envelope and flipped through the stack of bills. He counted roughly ten thousand dollars. One hell of a signing bonus.

  "Do a good job and there’s more where that came from."

  A shiver of unease snaked down Ben’s spine. Something was definitely going down at the Bexley Institute…something dangerous.

  He pushed the thought aside and tucked the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket. Thrusting his hand forward, he said, "Looks like you’ve got yourself a security guard."