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WARNING

RAE

There were easier ways to ruin a Sunday than being told you might end up in a psych ward. But I'd be foolish to ever expect anything easy. That wasn't my life. It never had been.

Decades of research suggested mental illness ran in families. Not always, but enough my aunt Patricia felt the need to remind me of it every time I visited.

Most days, I could convince myself I was normal. Days like today made that harder.

“You really shouldn’t encourage her. If you’re here to talk about that witchcraft nonsense again, you should leave now.”

Biting my tongue, I stared across the backyard. Grandma sat alone in her white gazebo, surrounded by shrubs and colorful perennials. Patricia would have people believe she planted every single begonia lining the manicured lawn herself.

She didn’t.

Patricia Knight didn’t stoop to that level of manual labor.

Heaven forbid my uncle Tim let his trophy wife do anything but attend church, go shopping, or grab lunch with the other well-to-do wives.

Patricia settled into the resin wicker chair, ankles crossed, hands on her knees. Even in a chair meant for relaxation, she never slouched. Slouching would wrinkle her chiffon blouse. Unacceptable.

“Are you listening to me?”

Not because I want to.

I set my glass of sweet tea on the coffee table, careful to use a coaster. Patricia would have a coronary if I sullied the table with water rings. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her sharp gaze settled on me, impassive except for the flicker of judgment she never bothered to hide.

The woman wasn’t skilled at hiding her emotions. No, she merely subscribed to the notion that Botox and expensive cosmetics fixed everything. She’d never correct anyone who guessed she looked younger than fifty-four.

The quest for eternal youth made me cringe.

“So, we are in agreement, then? None of that demon talk in this house. It upsets her. The last time you were here, she ended up having night terrors and we needed to sedate her.”

I pressed my lips together, avoiding words that wouldn’t make a difference.

Patricia had convinced herself I triggered Grandma’s episodes. I let her believe it. Safer than wasting breath on someone who’d never believe me anyway. Grandma only talked about those things with me.

She trusted me.

When Papa died, the family decided the best place for Grandma’s recovery was my aunt and uncle’s home. It made little sense. Tim had urged Patricia to separate herself from the family after my parents died, so Grandma barely knew them anymore.

Then Papa’s life insurance payout designated for Grandma’s care arrived.

Funny how greed brought families together.

“Besides,” Patricia started, waving her hand, the large diamond on her ring catching the sunlight. “If you’re not careful, darling, you’ll end up in Broughton Hospital. We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

Here we go…

“If you insist on upsetting your grandmother, you’ll no longer be allowed to visit.”

I bit my tongue until I tasted copper. If she thought a threat would scare me off, she didn’t know me at all.

“Your uncle is already concerned about your well-being. You should come to church again and let our pastor pray for you.” Her glance held concern as fake as her smile. “Tim’s looked into Broughton Hospital, and they have room for you to treat this little problem before you become like Bonnie.” Patricia looked across the yard and shook her head, her chestnut bob cupping her jawline. “A pity what happened to her after Lillian—”