Scrolling through dozens of search results, I read everything that seems reputable. Then I move on to the other term Q and West used.
What is Antisocial Personality Disorder?
“People with antisocial personality disorder play mind games to control the people around them, often feeling no remorse at all for their actions. To many, they can appear charismatic and charming, which makes it easier for them to draw their victims into their trap.”
Q survived someone like this? And he’s healed enough to trust me? That alone is a fucking miracle.
My watch alarm reminds me I have to get ready for my shift, but I bookmark half a dozen links to read on my downtime—assuming it’s a quiet night. Mondays usually are, though.
I don’t have any more clarity on how to proceed with Q, but as I pull on a light jacket and head down the stairs, I know one thing for certain. His trust is a gift, and I need to make sure he knows how much I cherish it—and him.
And that means telling him what happened to me eight years ago.
* * *
Quinton
Even after mopping the floors, washing my clothes and shoes, and lighting a candle, the disgusting stench of cider lingers in my kitchen.
I had to ask for the grocery store manager to get them to forward me the email that came in adding the cider and popsicles to my order, and after a little electronic detective work, I was able to confirm that the message was sent from an IP address in Texas, not Seattle.
It’s possible Alec learned how to spoof his location, but while he’s incredibly smart and cunning, he wouldn’t hide if hewerein town. And if he’d left that hotel room, my brother would have called.
It’s well after midnight, but I can’t sleep. My back aches, my left leg is numb, and I couldn’t keep down the cereal I had for dinner. So I’m lying in my massage chair with the heat turned up to maximum and Clementine curled on my lap, purring.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you, sweetie,” I whisper. Pulling out my phone, I stare at the last text I sent Graham a little before ten.
“I’m sorry. I still want to see you tomorrow. Maybe dinner and a movie in bed?”
He hasn’t responded.
I should go upstairs. Lie down, even if I’m just staring at the ceiling all night long. Hell, I should have done that hours ago. Instead, I’ve stalked Alec’s social media pages off and on, told my latest client that I needed another day for his proposal, and checked my security system a hundred times.
Why would he come after me now? It has to be the app. I renamed it after I escaped him, but he saw most of the designs when we were together, and it wouldn’t be hard for him to set up a Google alert for new anti-anxiety apps.
Is this all about money? He’s probably one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, but he can’t hold down a job for long. After a few months, those around him figure out he’s an emotional black hole, and he gets himself fired.
He needs someone to bankroll his life of takeout, online shopping, and gaming. My therapist told me that sociopaths, narcissists, and those with true antisocial personality disorder always have an eye on theirnextvictim in case theircurrentvictim wises up to their lies.
During the months we spent together, he’d often tell me about other people in his life who’d wronged him. How he’d been betrayed time and time again.
“My last serious relationship ended when I forgot to send flowers for his birthday,” he tells me on one of our first dates. “My dad had just died, and I flew to Utah for the funeral. James couldn’t get the time off of work, so I went alone. But when I got back, he screamed at me for hours. How could I forget his special day? Why didn’t I care about him?” Alec shakes his head, tears shining in his eyes. “He didn’t care that I was hurting too.”
Those stories—and he had a hundred of them—were designed to trap me. He prayed on my empathy, my anxiety, my desperate need to find my place in this world, twisting and turning all of my fears against me.
I know he moved in with another guy not long after I left the rehab center, but his social media went suspiciously quiet. Even now, all I can see from an anonymous web browser are random memes and the occasional picture of downtown Dallas.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. Graham.
“I’m two blocks away with a pint of mint chip and an order of deep fried Oreos from the bar. If you’re still up, can I see you?”
I shouldn’t reply. There’s no way I’m good company. But I shut him out so completely after the grocery delivery, and I need to make that right.
Which is why five minutes later, he’s standing in front of me, minus his usual confidence. And holding a bag that’s easily half grease stains.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Not really.” If I want something real with Graham, I can’t keep hiding from him. It might destroy me to tell him everything, but maybe tonight it’ll be enough for me to let him know I want to. “I was a jerk earlier. I’m sorry.”
