Page 47 of No Asylum Here

Dr. Mal. Rook, PhD

“Silly place for an office, isn’t it?” Bunny hummed.

I couldn’t disagree more. It was a wonderful place for an office, minus the accessibility problem. ADA compliance aside, I loved how isolated it was. The architecture had Hunchback of Notre Dame vibes. The atmosphere was heavy with something otherworldly; I wouldn’t be all that surprised if the stone gargoyles came to life.

Bunny pushed the brass handle, and the door’s old hardware groaned open.

The room inside was the most beautiful I’d seen so far at Saint Bart’s. Worn leather furniture decorated the center space, filling the air with a warm, masculine scent that had a strange heat swirling low in my belly.

Stunning built-ins lined the walls, every inch of their dusty shelves jammed with books and knick-knacks. It was a stylish study, decorated with antiques and vintage music posters. A stack of records sat beside what I guessed to be the newest thing in the room: a Victrola player from the ‘60s.

Curious, I moved the tonearm onto the dusty vinyl already loaded on the turntable. “Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows” by Lesley Gore started playing. The notes crackled, giving the upbeat tune an eerie cadence.

“Oh!” Bunny bounced excitedly. “I love this song!”

I smiled, leaving the record to play for her, even though it gave me the willies.

To the right of the record player was a small desk, pushed against the wall. Above it was a small circular stained-glass window. I knew the one. I’d seen it from the outside when I first arrived.

Even with the overcast day, there was enough sunlight to paint the desk in shades of green and yellow.

It was as if there was an invisible leash around my throat. It tugged me toward the desk, making the simple task of breathing next to impossible as I lowered myself into the desk’s chair. My attention snagged on a yellowed wall calendar from the ‘70s. Suddenly, I found myself wondering which Rook this office had belonged to. Maybe it hadn’t belonged to the noseless asshole who was currently in charge at all.

Opening the desk’s single drawer, I found myself staring at a journal. Stamped in gold leaf on the cover was the name Dr. Mal Rook III.

The third?

If the man in the glass case was the founder… Did that mean the Dr. Rook I knew had a son?

I flipped it open and read the inscription on the inside cover.

Mal,

Congrats on graduating from Brown. Your grandfather would be proud to know you’re coming to work with me at Saint Bartholomew's to continue his legacy.

Your loving father,

Malcolm Rook

P.S. Don’t disappoint me.

“Mal,” I whispered out loud, remembering where I’d seen that name before. It was one of the few pieces of information in Patient Seventeen’s black file.

The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place, and the realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

I’d known Patient Seventeen—Malcolm Rook III—was a neurologist who’d been a physician at Saint Bartholomew’s. But it still didn’t add up. If Seventeen hadn’t been committed for the murder of his father—who was very much alive—then what crime had been so great for his own flesh and blood to have him committed?

“I’m bored.” Bunny flopped in her chair with a groan. “I want to play a new game.”

I wasn’t listening. The journal of the man who’d invaded my mind had taken me in a chokehold, and just like everything else that had to do with Seventeen, I was powerless to do anything but surrender.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mal

"Well, Dr. Rook, what do you think?" My father's heavy hand clasped my shoulder and squeezed hard. I stared up at the old church my grandfather had bought, turning it into the hospital it is today. I'd been inside a hundred times. Though today was the first time I'd enter as one of its staff physicians.

When Grandad was alive, he said the imposing bell tower, crosses, and macabre statues would be of comfort to our patients. I wasn't religious myself, but I always admired the Gothic vibes the Catholic church favored. And yet, I wouldn't call it comforting. The main tower of Saint Bartholomew's Asylum for the Insane stretched over the shroud of fog that often cloaked its stone facade, a warning to all who passed through its wrought iron gates: