Page 58 of No Asylum Here

Why was she limping?

Keeping an analytical eye glued to my patient, I watched as she selected one of her old favorites: Lesley Gore Sings of Mixed-Up Hearts. My brows arched with surprise when “You Don’t Own Me” came on. Typically, she skipped that one and went to “Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows.” Another clue that something was off.

“Bunny, walk back this way,” I instructed as I took a seat on my sofa and extended a hand toward her.

Seeing her hobble, I frowned. There was no question that she was walking with a strange gait.

She took my hand and stood before me, looking so frail in her hospital gown. Father hadn’t mentioned any procedures or incidents aside from the completely unnecessary lobotomy. Then again, our relationship was more than strained. I doubted he’d bother telling me if there’d been a complication, and the asshole rarely bothered keeping the patient files up to date.

My own father hated me, I was sure of it. And I didn’t feel so much as a shred of hurt. I hated him right back.

“How are you feeling after the surgery?”

“I hurt…” Bunny admitted. She clutched her doll to her chest. “Can I have some pills to make the pain go away?”

That fucking bastard. He hadn’t even given her something for the pain post-op.

He hated that I’d defied him. Now, he seemed to be punishing Bunny to get back at me.

I reached for my prescription pad and a pen. “Head pain is normal after a procedure like this, but you should certainly be on some sort of pain reliever.”

“It’s not my head that hurts, Doctor.”

“Where are you in pain?”

She shifted her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I don't know. It’s deep inside me.”

“How did that happen? Did you stick something up there again that you shouldn't, Barbara? The chess pieces had to get taken away because of what you did with the queen.”

Her head frantically shook in a resounding no, her hair whipping her cheeks. “No, I haven’t. I promise. Can we talk about something else now?”

I bit back my retort, not wanting to let this slide by. While I had a feeling burrowed beneath my gut telling me to probe further, I let it go for now. The poor thing had already endured enough invasive prodding and questioning for a lifetime.

A knock at my office door had me lifting my attention from my journal and taking the interruption as a break to relax in my chair and rub my stiff writing hand. “Come in.”

Beatrice appeared at the door.

My expression soured. I didn’t like the head nurse; she had her nose so far up Rook’s ass it was a wonder it wasn’t covered in shit. “What is it?”

“Your father sent me…”

“Of course he did. What other uses does the head nurse at a hospital have than to serve as a messenger? Especially when a simple phone call would have sufficed.”

If Beatrice had an opinion regarding my statement, she didn’t show it. Her expression remained cold and detached. “The facility director has decided to resume as the primary physician for one of your patients.”

I exhaled with an irritable sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It better not be Hugo Garcia.”

Hugo was committed to Saint Bart’s on account of his sexuality. The American Psychiatric Association classified homosexuality as a mental disorder, giving the courts a legal loophole to have Hugo, and so many other innocents like him, institutionalized.

My father didn’t share the same beliefs as I did and felt Hugo could be changed with therapy, which was more along the lines of torture from what I’d seen and heard before I took Hugo over from my father’s patient list.

“You tell Rook he’s not to touch him or I’ll⁠—”

“This is about Patient Forty-two.”

My eyes narrowed on the woman. “You’re mistaken. That’s Barbara Reed.”

She nodded. “I know.”