Chapter Seven
Tuesday
Rook’s brows popped in surprise, and a beat later, he burst into laughter. “You can’t be serious.”
My eyes narrowed with irritation. This wasn’t the first time a male doctor had laughed at me. “I don’t joke around when it comes to cannibalistic murderers.”
“You’re right, it’s no laughing matter,” he said, recovering in an instant.
It was unsettling how quickly his demeanor could change in a blink.
“This isn’t like the hospital you trained at, Tuesday.
Within these walls are violent criminals who’d slit your throat and violate your corpse without batting an eye.
No woman is safe around Patient Seventeen. ”
My stomach churned with disgust at the derogatory lilt in the man’s tone.
“I’m well aware that humans can be cruel, Dr. Rook,” I countered, my tone intentionally pointed.
“I’m not some delicate flower. I’ve trained with the best. I’ve seen death, disease and the ugliness of mankind.
I can handle the challenge. You led me to believe you thought so too. Otherwise, why invite me here?”
A barbed silence unfurled between us.
Something told me it wasn’t often that his female staff spoke back to him. Or anyone, for that matter.
“Let’s set this discussion aside for now. Regardless of your capabilities, you’re too new at Saint Bartholomew’s to take on black file patients.”
With a tentative nod, I dropped the topic.
Seeing the patient in the black file wouldn’t fix anything. The real Patient Seventeen wasn’t like the man in my nightmares. This was a real-life criminal and a murderous cannibal at that.
And yet… While logic told me they were not the same, my gut screeched that seeing the man in the black file would answer the questions haunting me.
My anxiety had me changing the subject. "Do we have an EHR I can access?"
"EHR?" Rook shook his head, seemingly confused.
"Electronic health records. My last office used Therapractice."
He grimaced and sat back. "Electronic? Oh no, not here. We use traditional record filing here.”
“I’m expected to handwrite everything?” I waited for the punchline.
His rigid smile confirmed that he was perfectly serious. “These methods are traditional for a reason, Doctor.”
I swallowed a bitter rebuttal. The next thing he’d be telling me was that they still used trad methods like lobotomies and electroshock therapy.
“Right. Well, what about the Wi-Fi? I couldn't find a good signal last night.
" I pulled out my phone. Still no signal.
Without Wi-Fi, my cell was little more than a paperweight.
Rook’s brows wrinkled with confusion. “Internet? Erm, no. We don’t have that here. If you need to make a call, there’s a phone in the reception.”
My eyes nearly bulged from my sockets. No internet? How did this place operate with any kind of efficiency whatsoever?
He stood and gestured to the door. “Now, how about that tour?”
The first stop was my office, down the hall from his, where a brass plate with my name on it hung on the door.
Beyond that door was an outdated, unremarkable room, with enough space for a desk and a sofa.
In the center of the room, bolted to the floor with a complicated leather restraint system currently tangled on its cracked leather cushions, sat a heavy metal chair.
Something inside me hardened.
I was going to be treating dangerous criminals. Who was I to deem if they were fit to be released back into the public?
I swallowed thickly, thinking back to Lauren. I couldn’t be responsible for any more deaths.
"You can make small changes,” Rook told me, pulling me from my thoughts. “But no personal decor. Photos, trinkets, et cetera. Our patients have a tendency to hyper-focus or attach themselves to things. We want to keep you and your loved ones safe."
“What about plants?” Photos weren’t a problem. I didn’t have any family to show off. Joanie was the only decorative item I’d brought.
“That is fine. Come, I’ll show you the rest of the building.”
Saint Bartholomew’s was a labyrinth. The reason for the tour was so I could better find my way around, but I was more confused than ever.
There were an absurd number of rooms, endless hallways and countless doors.
When I asked how many patients lived here, I got a vague answer.
The rooms were rundown, the equipment obsolete.
The hospital was not only isolated; it was stuck in the last century.
This was going to make my job caring for my new patients difficult.
If I could just stick it out here a couple of years, it would be enough to crawl out of debt and gain some good references so I could get a job at a modern facility.
Dr. Rook led me to a yellow map tacked to a wall, featuring the floor plan of the church building. It had been converted to better suit a hospital in the sixties and hadn’t changed since.
I was very much a “tax the church” kind of person, but in this case, the money would certainly be better spent going into helping people, which is what a church ought to do when given the same tax exemptions as charities.
Being locked inside a hospital that didn’t look like something straight out of Silent Hill would certainly help my mental health.
I mean, I’d be screaming all night, too, if I had to stare at this hideous mint and puce paint all day.
I bounced on my toes, impatiently waiting for Rook to reach the end of his spiel. “What about level four? You haven’t shown me that yet.”
“The high-security ward? Oh no. You’re much too new to go there yet. You need to complete onboarding first.”
“What do I need to do for that?”
“You need to take Saint Bartholomew’s special medication that we formulate right on the premises in the basement. My own formula.”
“Special medication? What does it do?”
“Think of it as a vaccine of sorts. It will protect you while you’re working here. I require all my senior staff to take it.”
My brows furrowed. Whatever this special formula was, it couldn’t have been FDA-approved. “What’s it called?”
The doctor stepped close to me—too close for my comfort. He dropped his voice low, like he was telling me a dirty little secret. “I call it the Treatment.”
An inexplicable chill washed through me, goosebumps bursting across my flesh. “What’s that?”
Rook’s grin darkened at the inquiry. “My life’s work. Come, I’ll show you.”
The doctor led me down a series of dusty, narrow corridors. We didn’t pass a single soul, though it was almost too dark to see even if we had. Most of the bulbs were burnt out, and the one that hadn’t flickered, creating an ominous halo of light on the floor.
“Here we are.” Rook stopped just past the flickering bulb. His noseless face was terrifying in the lighting. He gestured to a stone staircase leading down into what was clearly the basement. “After you.”
Every muscle in my body seized as I stared down the staircase, that human survival response stopping me from venturing deeper into the creepy basement of a historic mental hospital.
My hand smoothed over the wall, sensing the pain the bricks held, the memories of its former prisoners embedded in the worn brick.
I disregarded the foreboding sensation; any woman would be wigged out by the situation. And Rook had already told me about the pharmacy on the basement level. It made sense to bring me here.
Steeling myself, I descended the steps and glanced at Rook to ensure he was following me. When I turned back to the door, I cried out.
There—with her face inches from mine—was Lauren Hawkins.
I would have been better at stifling the jump-scare she gave me if it wasn’t for the fact that I hadn’t seen her for days.
She reached for me and grasped my hands.
I felt her warmth in my fingers.
Like she was really there.
“Don’t…”
The wisp-thin voice that dropped from her pale lips was barely audible.
Logically, I knew what this was. Anxiety was a common side effect of hydrocodone, even if I was taking the proper dosage. Which I wasn’t.
That didn’t seem to matter, though. Something about seeing her again, seemingly with a warning, had my head swirling and my knees buckling.
The floor fell out from under me, and Dr. Rook caught me in his arms. Darkness closed in, and all I could discern was myself being carried down, down, down.
Into the dusty bowels of Saint Bartholomew’s basement.