A garbage truck arrives at dawn, and the sanitation worker hops down from the truck with tired resignation. He reaches for the dumpster handle. Tumbles backward. I let out a hoot of glee, clapping my hands as the man’s body goes slack. I lament I’m not close enough to observe, but I know the worker’s face will have gone that gorgeous shade of green.
I cannot stand these idiots with their disgusting lies. Do they not know their lies hurt people? That these lies havemeaning? What makes me want toscreamis that, deep down, theyknowthey’re lying, but they still dare to keep repeating it even though it means absolutelynothing.
I wish they all died. I wish I could kill themall, but I must settle for one pair at a time.
I would have preferred to have a new couple in mind for the next trials already, but the men unraveled so quickly. There was no time to look for anyone.
Could the prune have anybody she pretends to love?
I bat away the thought. She was too weak-willed to put a garbage bag into the receptacle properly. She would give in to the pain straight away, and that would be no fun to watch. Imay want to destroy as many liars as possible, but selfishly, it can get boring if they don’t resist at all.
I have time to take as many couples as I would like now. I don’t need to rush. No fools can stop me.
The knowledge should bring me deep pleasure, but it doesn’t reach me the same way as I would expect it to. After a trial, the thrill used to sing through my veins for weeks, but now, it’s already fizzled away.
Perhaps I’ve been going at this for too long. It’s gotten me bored. I could try something new. Take more time with the next. Go slower. Ensure they’ll last longer than a Tootsie Pop commercial. How many licks does it take to get to the center? The world may never know, but now I know exactly how many teeth it takes to break a liar.
CHAPTER 12
I jolt awake, fumbling for Dad’s dog tags under my T-shirt.
I press the metal against my palm until the edges bite into my skin, counting my breaths until my heart stops pounding as hard, and the dream stops feeling so real. The mattress is solid. The sheets smell like laundry detergent. I’m here.
I’m safe.
What’s weird is that I really think I am, even though I’ve just met these people.
Am I only trusting them because I’m scared and don’t want to be alone? Would Dad think I’m stupid for trusting them?
Shut UP.
I know where this spiral goes, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it once it starts. I wish I had my Jim Beam—what’s left of that handle is still in my car. I don’t want to go wandering around at night alone, but I could use something to quiet the noise.
The smell of plastic fills my nose. I feel it sealing around my mouth, clinging to my lips with each breath, sucking closer…
I practically punch the lamp switch, flooding the room with light. It does nothing to prove I’m not back in that house.
My fingers find the hair tie around my wrist. The sting brings me halfway back. I snap again, and again, until my wrist turns pink and my lungs remember how to pull in air.
A therapist taught me this trick when I was sixteen, and my panic attacks had escalated to carving up my forearms with whatever I could find because it was the only thing that made the noise in my head stop. I’d rolled my eyes at the time, but the hair tie was the only thing that could get me to stop hurting myselftwo years ago. It has been a monumental effort. Some days I can barely fight the temptation.
It’s been a long time since the urge has been this strong. The hair tie is keeping it under control, and I’m not at the point where I’d need to avoid sharp things entirely, but it had better stay that way. Donny would have to reconsider how muchextraordinary courageI have if he finds me trying to gouge my arm with a railroad spike in the back of the ghost hunting van.
Sinking back into the pillows, I do my breathing exercise until my breaths even out. I’m about to close my eyes when the front door opens and closes downstairs.
Bob’s head snaps up. I hold still, listening, as footsteps climb the stairs, but then they stop.
I check my phone—2:17 AM.
It’s probably nothing. But I can feel the weight of them standing out there.
I count to sixty. When the person still hasn’t moved, curiosity wins out. I ease out of bed, remove the chair from under the knob, disengage the deadbolt, and crack my door open just enough to peer through.
Nico stands at the top of the stairs in shorts and a black long sleeve that clings to every line of his chest and shoulders. His arms are huge, and his muscular shoulders taper to a narrow waist, resulting in a body I’ve only seen men have in the movies. His legs are covered in tattoos. A spiderweb over his knee catches my eye first, then a snake wrapping around his calf. There’s a spider so detailed it could crawl off his skin, an angel with haunting eyes, and a sliver of moon disappearing under his shorts. His damp black hair falls into his eyes as he braces his hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Oh. He went running.
At 2 AM?
