Page 49

And God, that photo she sent me, her body posed just so, hair veiling her face like a forbidden offering, had me painfully turned on the second I laid eyes on it. The thought of Robert seeing her that way before me, thinking it was something special for him, makes my jaw ache with tension.

But more than that, it thrills me in ways I can’t explain. Wynnie isn’t just playing the game anymore; she’s rewriting the rules entirely.

The second my feet hit the gravel of her driveway, the porch light flickers once, catching my attention. Right where I leave her flowers almost daily, the vase still stands, but everything else inside it has changed. Gone are the lively blooms that once filled it; they are replaced by something that makes my pulse rise. Wilted flowers, shriveled and crumbling; however, it’s not their decay that stops me cold.

No.

Tucked among the lifeless stems, nestled is flesh. I finish my way up the steps to get a closer look, to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. A severed penis, the skin already taking on that waxy pallor of death.

A low hiss pulls in through my teeth as I reach down to see more of the deliberate arrangement. This isn’t just violence; this is art. My brother’s final performance, curated by the hands I dreamed of touching me the way they had him.

Careful not to disturb the appendage with a rose peeking out of the tip, I reach for the note taped to the side of the vase. Without intending to, I smile slowly and widely. A scoff sneaks its way out in equal parts disbelief and admiration.

My darling little monster. She hasn’t just embraced the darkness and accepted its place in her life; she’s fully become it.

I lift the vase like it’s sacred, a relic of devotion, and carry it with careful hands. The front door stands ajar, creaking softly in the breeze. Inside, the familiar scent of Wynnie is overwhelmed by copper and… fear, maybe? Possibly excitement.

I place the vase at the foot of the stairs, as if I’m laying an offering at the altar, then step back to admire it properly. In the dim hallway, it looks almost beautiful in its own mutilated way.

“Darling, I’m home!” I call out playfully, but the house absorbs my words.

I wait, counting heartbeats. The anticipation builds pressure behind my sternum.

Nothing.

I wander through the hallway, each footstep slow and deliberate. My fingers brush against the walls, feeling for vibration or signs of life. The house feels different. Charged.

And then, I reach her bedroom.

I push the door open with two fingers, the old hinges groaning with protest.

There he is. Robert. My brother is reduced to something almost unrecognizable. A disgusting sprawl of blood and exposed flesh collapsed on her floor.

I exhale slowly through my parted lips, a ripple of sympathetic pain zipping through me. It doesn’t stop the admiration from igniting a wildfire in me. I had killed her friends with efficiency—quick and merciful in their own way, and she has chosen theater.

Standing there in the doorway, the moment hangs as I stare down at the shredded ruin of what used to be my brother; I feel the most profound surge of love I’ve ever known. She did this to hurt me, yes, to make me feel the loss as keenly as she did, and somehow, it’s made me love her more.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out without a thought, to find a new message from Wynnie. A video.

I press play.

The screen comes to life with a scene I can’t tear my eyes from, even if I wanted to. Wynnie and Robert—the carnage was recorded not long ago.

Her voice is silky and poisonous, playing the siren with devastating effectiveness. She draws him in with touches, and I watch my brother drunkenly fall for every second of it. The seduction stings more than the violence that follows. Seeing her hands on him, her mouth, even in manipulation, sends jealousy searing through my entire body.

When the red chaos begins, her face remains calm through it, and her movements are controlled. The look in her eyes as she worked was cold and focused.

I need to see her.

“Wynnie!” I shout with a rasp from deep in my throat. Every light is off in the house, and shadows drape across corners. I don’t know which one she’s in, but I know she’s somewhere waiting to pounce.

I move room by room, like a cop sweeping a house. I check each one down the hallway until I get into the living room and kitchen; that’s when I notice them.

Dead flowers strung from the ceiling exactly as I had left them for her. My mouth curves into a smile. I’ve been in and out of the house so much it hardly registers anymore that even through all of this, she kept my gift.

“Darling,” I call into the darkness, my voice softer this time. “Come out and play with me.”

The downstairs yields nothing. She isn’t hiding there; too obvious, too easy. I climb the stairs, each footfall heavier than the last as the aged wood creaks under my weight. Wynnie is close, I can feel her presence.