“That lying…”
Biting off a string of expletives, I jab a finger into my brawn’s inflated chest.
“Finish the clean-up and send a photo as evidence. You arenotto leave a crumb behind, do you understand me?”
“What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“Men who disobey orders.”
Frustration simmers through me, annoyance weaving through my tone. Vector mutters something intangible under his breath, his attention shifting back to the vacuum and dustpan I set out for him earlier.
ME: The package better be secured by the time I get there.
Twelve years is a long time to know someone, over a decade of learning the inner workings of Marlin Seaborn’s mind. Perhaps that is why a feeling of unrest settles deep in my gut as I cut through the kitchen and make a beeline for the garage.
ME: I mean it, Marlin. Do not deviate from the plan.
Chapter 42
CHRISTOPHER
I don’t know which part is worse.
The name that’s been crossed out or the childish scribbles screaming happy birthday.
“Maddox Shoreshire.”
It comes off as a question, the letters hard to distinguish beneath the thick black line slaughtering each one.
“Chester’s older brother.” Marlin lets out a sigh as he takes in the only name plate on this floor, “A madman in his own right, the two of them have been separated for years.”
“What’s special about the Shoreshire brothers?”
“Besides the fact they love riddles? Not much, to be honest.” Curiosity flickers beneath his smooth façade, “Maddox was supposedly the co-founder of Wolf Hollow. One of the first residents to claim this town as his own, and one of the few who remained after the Dragon took over.”
He pauses, eyes darting down an empty hall.
“His admittance to Hollow House arrived soon after she took control. Something about a conflict of interest.”
I look at him in disbelief, “He got checked into an insane asylum for a conflict of interest?”
“That, and his more obvious nature.” A smile flutters past his lips, “I hope you’re in the mood for a cup of tea.”
Before I can ask what the hell that means the door to the cell swings open.
Streamers, bright and colourful cover the entirety of the floor. Made from wrappers and pieces of discarded garbage, it’s an explosion of cheap, childish joy that spills from a patient’s futile attempts at decoration.
Two plastic folding tables sit in the middle of the room, their uneven surfaces cluttered with plastic cutlery and teacups that are covered in chips and paint scratches.
It’s every parent’s nightmare, and that’s before you take in the disfigured animals sitting round the table.
The headless, decapitated stuffed animals keeping an old man company.
“Merry, merriest birthday to you!” A pink teacup clinks itself against a green one, each missing chunks of plastic from their base, “And a merry, merriest birthday to me! To me?”
Chortling and clutching his chest, the man breaks out in hysterical laughter.
“That’sunbirthday to me, my friend! We’ve got another three hundred and fifty-five days until my own.”
