Page 2 of What We Become

White noise crowds in, a static hum so thick I can’t tell if I’m about to pass out again or ascend to some fucked-up new plane of consciousness. I blink again, harder, and the world sharpens enough to hurt.

“Jamie,” I try again, and my voice comes out better, the consonants slippery and slow but clearer. “Why are you doing this?”

He ignores me, continuing his rhythmic building.

Fuck.

“Stephen,” I try. His name is a curse on my tongue, and even before the last syllable sticks, Jamie’s jaw flexes, registering it. His hand hesitates with the next brick, losing his hypnotic rhythm.

He meets my eyes for longer this time. Studies me as if through a microscope, not a window.

“Finally,” he says. “I was worried you’d forget and I’d have to explain it to you all over again and we’d waste all this great bonding time.”

A tremor starts up in my arms, but the rest of my body is so lead-thick I can’t tell if it’s rage or hypothermia. “You drugged me.”

The bottle was sealed. I cracked it myself.

He snorts, an ugly little exhale. “A needle through the plastic. The cap never moved. Mild sedative. Benzo, mostly. Not as fun as it sounds. I needed you lucid when you woke up. Present for the occasion.”

I look again at the wall, the bricks knitting together with every pass of his hand. “Are you going to kill me?”

A whole mood passes over his face, one cloud dissolving into another, and he sets the trowel down with the gentleness of someone lowering a baby into a crib.

“Obviously.” He presses the newest brick into its paste with a rolling of his wrist and looks at me with this slow, melting fondness. It makes the back of my eyes burn. “I mean, that’s the first thing people ask. And I get it. It’s clarifying. But I think you should ask something better.” His shoulders twitch with a quick, private laugh. “Like, why?”

“Fine. Why?” It comes out ragged. With the plastic trapping heat, I can hear the word bounce off every slick surface.

“See? Now we’re getting somewhere.” He picks at a drop of mortar on his sweatshirt. “Why gives the villain a chance to deliver his final monologue. Although, unlike the movies, no one’s coming to interrupt mine.”

He smiles.

“The knowledge dies with you, bestie.”

Bestie.

My heart beats against my ribs like it might find a way out if it tries hard enough. The air inside the plastic grows thicker with every brick he lays. Mortar, chemicals, and the sour metallic smell of my own fear.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

He folds his arms and angles his face so he can see me clearly through the gap. “Why you? Why now? Why the encore after my first little event didn’t stick?”

The terrier. The bushes. The rope.

“That was you as well.”

“Well, it wasn’t Brock.”

At the mention of his name, Brock’s final Kennel post flashes through my mind. He’d shared a picture of me at the party and tagged me as a “possible new pet.” A bunch of those evil bastards replied. But the one comment we focused on was from . . .

“SMAN69,” I say.

His smile widens.

“See how I’m not flinching? I knew you’d know about this.”

“Brock sent you my picture.”

“Brock sent me pictures of all his potential pets.”