Lena jumps up, "Good idea! Go now before we start drinking. I'll go with you."
Fuck.
"Okay!"
I lead the way, trying not to look too comfortable here, eventhough I know exactly where the bathroom is, as well as where the secret door in the back leads to.
I've been here enough times over the years that I could walk it with my eyes closed.
When it first opened, I knew the developer from prior projects, who, not so subtly, told me about the extracurriculars they planned to have beneath.
Why on earth he trusted me with that, I'll never know.
Maybe he saw something in me that's mirrored in everyone who comes to see the fights. The yearning for a normal life, while knowing deep down that something dark and wicked lives inside of us.
I keep my life strategically boring. Maybe because I'm afraid of what I might become if I let myself color even the slightest bit out of the lines.
It's no small miracle that I grew out of my aggressive tendencies as a child.
Mom's lack of emotional regulation spurred my own, and it became easier as I grew up to keep everything in check and feel nothing rather than risk what happens when I feel too much.
"You've been here before," Lena suggests as we wash our hands side by side, looking at my reflection with an amused expression. When I don't answer, she winks. "Your secret is safe with me. Grace won't say a thing, either. I just thought you looked familiar and figured it was from seeing you here."
My shoulders slump in relief.
"We aren't going downstairs tonight," she whispers, leaning closer, "But we'll cover for you if you do."
"Really?" I ask.
"Of course."
And just like that, the last of my nerves about tonight disappear, leaving me filled with only excitement for what lies ahead.
Chapter 5
Inadmissable
CORMAC
As it turns out, amnesia is not a good enough reason not to stand trial.
And according to Clyde, that means they have enough evidence to convict me without even asking me a single question.
Sitting here in a black suit, my ankles chained together and my wrists stuck in handcuffs far past the point of discomfort, my skin itches for me to escape.
From what I can tell, they must be broadcasting my trial, putting all my alleged sins on display for the rich and powerful so they feel like the monster amongst them has been put away. So they can pretend they're safe.
But what nobody is saying is that these people that I'm meant to have killed were highly deserving of it.
Of course, theycan'tsay that. This is my trial, not theirs.
Who they were in life doesn't matter in this room, only who they can paint them to be now that they're dead.
The evidence they've presented against me thus far has been overwhelming for me to take in.
And their questions for the witnesses, though they make little sense to me, seem to be guiding them towards what they already know. The only person who could have done these things was me. Though there hasn't been a smoking gun, so to speak, the dates of the murders lining up with my travel is enough for reasonable suspicion.
Nobody here believes that I don't remember anything.
