Page 84 of No Asylum Here

The day of Bunny’s funeral was a miserable one. Rain pounded down on me as I watched the first coffin lowered into the ground. I had to have one special-ordered because of the small size. We’d never had to bury an infant before.

The gravestone was a simple one: a sleeping lamb carved from granite, curled up in the grass beside Barbara Reed’s grave.

Her coffin was pine. I wish I could have afforded something better. But since my father’s death, I had taken over the asylum’s accounts and had spent our budget on new equipment that would improve the lives of all our patients. I knew she’d understand.

I’d opted to bury them close, away from the overcrowded cemetery that lay at the edge of the property. I liked the idea of seeing them from my office window. Ever since Bunny had come here after turning her stepdad into meatloaf, I’d felt responsible for her.

I would blame myself forever for not protecting her better. And I’d live with the bitter knowledge that she probably would’ve been better off in prison.

The gathering for Bunny’s funeral was a pitiful one. An invitation had been sent to her family, but no one showed. Only the funeral director, the priest, and her primary nurse, who’d taken a shine to the girl, came.

The rain fell hard, rendering the priest practically inaudible.

Once the service was done, I placed Bunny’s doll on top of her coffin. “I hope there’s plenty of sunshine, lollipops, and roses wherever you end up, Bunny.”

When I turned away from her grave, all but one man had left. I hadn’t noticed him approach during the funeral; he must have come from behind. The curtain of rain was too heavy to see his face. It was probably one of Bunny’s male relatives. At least someone showed up.

“Thank you for coming.” I raised my voice to be heard over the rain, trudging across the green to greet him. “How did you know Barb⁠—”

The words crystallized in my throat as the noseless face came into focus.

I blinked once. Twice. Half a dozen times. Was my mind playing tricks on me? Was I experiencing psychosis?

“I slit your throat. I watched you die.”

My father flashed me a malevolent smile. His bandages were off, the wound at the center of his face completely healed.

“Your body was cremated,” I went on, my throat tight. “I have your ashes in an old coffee mug you fucking hate.”

He lifted a bushy salt and pepper brow. “The one that says I love medical malpractice?”

I nodded, mouth agape. “Yeah.”

“I always hated that mug.”

“It’s a funny mug,” I told him, brows furrowed, my jaw nearly on the ground. “So, what’s happening right now?”

“I’m about to show you.” He reached behind him and pulled something he appeared to have stuffed in his belt. I blinked and found myself staring down the barrel of my grandfather’s 1949 Luger pistol.

Rook’s scowl contorted into something awful as I made no move—not even a flinch—when he aimed the gun at my brow. “This is the part where you beg for your life.”

My eyes narrowed into lethal slits. “This is the part where you’re going to be disappointed because I’m not fucking doing that. If you’re going to kill me, kill me.”

“Oh, I’m going to kill you, boy. I’m going to kill you over and over until I’m bored with it.”

The bang of the gun going off at point-blank range was like an explosion in my ears. Total darkness took me.

Then nothing.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Tuesday

“So, what happened next?”

“I woke up in his laboratory, where he forced the second dose of the Treatment on me.” Mal shuddered as he appeared to recall the moment. “A big dose.”

“You survived a point-blank bullet shot to the head?” There was no point masking my skepticism. He had to know how far-fetched it sounded.