“Right.”
She takes a swig from her beer. “You killed another ten people following your escape. Fled toward nonextradition Cuba, pursued by law enforcement. You were presumed dead after a confrontation near the Mexico-Guatemala border in November of that year.”
He grips his bottle on his thigh. His other elbow is on the arm of the lounge chair, his fingers against his lips. “I did all this by the time I was twenty?”
There’s only one explanation she can give him. “While imprisoned, you were diagnosed as a pure sociopath.”
He blinks. “What does that mean?”
“It’s a personality disorder. It usually manifests in early adolescence.”
“What are the symptoms?”
“High impulsivity. Heightened sense of superiority. Propensity for violence.” Each dot point sounds like a coffin nail being hammered in. “Deceptive and manipulative behavior. Disregard for morals and social norms. A fundamental lack of empathy.”
There’s another pause, longer and more weighted.
“Working as the manufacturer intended, huh?” His hopeless snort seems self-directed. Noone sips from his beer, clears his throat. “All thatstuff you described—the murders, the imprisonment. I don’t remember any of it. Not one bit.”
“Your body seems to remember, though. The languages you speak are Gutmunsson’s languages. The dreams you have of the girl with white hair—Gutmunsson had a sister, Kristin. There’s a lot of his instincts in you. The way you dress, the way you ... change.”
“Being good at following people—it’s a hunting pattern.” He meets her eyes, stunned at the realization.
“Yes.”
“The medical proficiency. And I have a job in a slaughterhouse, I know how flesh works.” It’s all coming together for him now. “Are you scared of me?”
“Should I be?” But she holds herself very still when she says that.
“I don’t even know.” He makes a short, desperate laugh. “Most people would say yes.”
“I’m a little scared of you,” she admits. Her body is tense. “I’ve seen you menace people. Examine a corpse. Manipulate a witness. I’ve seen you lose your shit.”
“You haven’t really seen me lose my shit.” His eyes are dark, and the shadows from the lamp give him a peculiar gothic silhouette.
Nomi swallows. “Well, I don’t know if I necessarily want to be beside you when it finally happens.”
Noone looks around like he’s lost. Then he raises the beer bottle to his lips and drinks, keeps drinking, until almost all the beer is gone. He leans forward and claps the bottle onto the coffee table; Nomi awards herself points for not flinching.
“You cut yourself on purpose?” he asks.
So now they’re getting into this. “Only in certain ways, on certain days. I have rules.”
“Only on weekends?”
“Fridays and Saturdays, yes.”
“Why do you do it?”
She tries not to stiffen. Like everyone else, he’s asking the wrong question. “Why do you take Vicodin?”
“For pain relief.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Is it?” His head tilts. “When did you start?”
That’s therightquestion, which is surprising enough that she’s jolted into a truthful answer. “Eleven years ago. After my mother passed.”
