Page 38 of No Asylum Here

The doctor laughed, the sound cold and belittling. “If you haven’t noticed by now, Tuesday…”

He stepped close to me again, and in an attempt to keep space between us, I backed up until I was cornered against the filing cabinet. “This isn’t your average hospital. And your job is doing whatever the fuck I tell you.”

There was an awkward pause, then he nodded to the papers, the bunched muscles in his neck relaxing. “If you keep that in mind, you may do whatever you wish to Patient Forty-Two.”

I didn’t like that he kept calling a human being by their number, instead of their name. His wording didn’t sit right with me either.

“Do whatever you wish.”

Uncomfortable silence fell over the room as I gathered Barbara Reed’s scattered patient files. Tucking them to my chest, I hurried toward the door to make my exit.

Rook sidestepped out of the way, just enough so it forced my body to skim his as I squeezed past.

He snatched my wrist, smiling pleasantly at me. “Oh, and Dr. Beckett. One more thing. If I ever catch you going through my things again without my permission, I’ll lock you down in the basement with Fredrick for a week.”

Saint Bart’s pharmacist gave me the willies. Beyond that, being sentenced to work in the pharmacy didn’t seem all that bad.

As if he could track where my thoughts had wandered, Rook chuckled, his smile flashing his teeth. “It’s worth noting that Fredrick is unique here, as he is technically both a part of my staff as well as an inmate. He’s a serial rapist. Couldn’t stand trial due to insanity, so he’s here for life. I wouldn’t get too close to him if I were you.”

Chapter Seventeen

Tuesday

I left Rook’s office with a chill in my bones that had nothing to do with Saint Bart’s drafty corridors.

There was something deeply wrong with this entire place, and one didn’t have to spend long here to realize that Dr. Malcolm Rook was Saint Bartholomew’s rotten heart.

Keeping Barbara Reed’s file close to my chest, I reached into my coat pocket for my cell phone. I wasn’t sure what I expected. A miracle? Even just one damn bar. I was so far out in the boons neither miracles nor cell service seemed to bother making the trip.

Psychosis—or whatever was happening to me—gripped my mind and doused me in darkness. When I came back to awareness, I was standing at the front reception desk. The lobby was empty, no sign of the employee who’d snubbed me when I first arrived.

A rotary phone, yellowed by time, sat on the counter in front of me. Nine to get out was scratched into the plastic.

Who was I supposed to call? Even if I got an Uber to come out here, could I leave all these poor people alone in Rook’s charge?

Specifically, I didn’t want to leave Patient Seventeen.

He was a crucial piece of the puzzle I was trying to solve. If I left now, all the unanswered questions he’d left me with would haunt me forever. He would haunt me forever.

A shiver rushed down my spine as I picked up the phone and stabbed the worn-out nine key. Holding the receiver to my ear, I waited for the dial tone. Instead, there was a crackle, and then the vague sense someone was listening prickled my nape.

“Hello?”

No answer. Only an unsettling sound broke through the bad connection. Then, breathing.

“Who is this?” I didn’t expect an answer; whoever was on the other line seemed to think they were starring in a schlocky B-rated movie. “This is a hospital line. If this is a prank⁠—”

“The Operator,” a grave-deep timbre answered me, his delayed response making me fall quiet. There weren’t any telephone operators anymore. There hadn’t been for decades.

“Um, I— I need to contact the Department of Health for a wellness check.”

My mind whirled as another sound, fragmented by the static, rumbled in my ear. Dread crawled up my throat when it hit me.

This “operator” was laughing at me.

The laugh barely sounded human. It was like some demonic hyena was on the other end of the line, laughing at a joke I hadn’t told.

I slammed the phone down, gaping at it in bewilderment as I tried to calm my rioting pulse.