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“Yeah.” My hands clench into fists. “Have it dug up, embalmed, and brought to number 13.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Smirking, Jynxson gives me a salute and disappears behind a mausoleum.
I drift back to the graveyard, already calculating the numberof ways I will terrorize this little ghost. No one exploits my emotions. Not Father, and certainly not some two-faced woman trying to profit from my notoriety.
She brushes the dirt off the front of her corset and hobbles back toward the path. Every few steps, she glances in my direction and shivers.
“By the time I’m finished with you, Amethyst Crowley, you’ll be a nervous wreck. I’ll crack you open, and after plucking every dirty secret, I’ll grant you a messy death.”
SIXTY-NINE
Bitch,
I know what you did last night.
I’ll sit back and enjoy the show.
Me.
P.S. If he doesn’t cut out your heart, I will.
SEVENTY
XERO
While Amethyst cleans up the crime scene, I explore her home.
Next to the kitchen is a windowless space painted in green. It’s exactly how she described it in her letter about the room where she would shoot for my official fan club. I glance over my shoulder, where she’s in the kitchen on her hands and knees, soaking up the blood with sanitary pads.
Her living room fits the image I pieced together from the few photos she shot downstairs. It’s tasteful, with black walls, black furniture, and gilded accessories.
I can’t help but wonder how much of this was financed by men she’s duped. Clearly, she’s a skilled little honey trap, capable of drawing anyone into her trust. Was the man she killed another of her victims or was his attack on her a coincidence?
Doesn’t matter.
Amethyst will soon spill her secrets.
At the top of the stairs is a charcoal portrait that makes me grip the bannister. It’s my mugshot, except whoever created it has depicted me as godlike, with my pale hair forming a halo of light. What could this possibly mean?
Ignoring it, I continue to the bedroom I once foolishly wished I could teleport into. I’ve already committed all its corners tomemory as Amethyst shot many videos for me from all angles, except from the back wall which overlooks the cemetery.
I open a door that leads to a large walk-in closet lined with ornate wardrobes crammed with beautiful clothes. There’s even a floor-to-ceiling rack of designer shoes she must have bought with all that cash she made from monetizing our relationship.
She’s heartless, just like Father and his worthless family. A woman like Amethyst would step over a man’s heart and crush it underfoot for profit.
There’s a phone charging on her nightstand, which I recognize as the one I bought her specifically for our communication. I guess its security passcode and scroll through its contents.
All the pictures I sent are in her photos app, along with the images and clips she shot of herself. I continue scrolling forward to find a reason why she left me at the altar and stop at a picture of a manilla envelope. It’s addressed to ‘Bitch.’
The next one contains its contents: an image and a note, shot too far away for me to make out any details. I swipe left to find a close-up.
It’s a prepubescent girl restrained on a gurney with a bit in her mouth. Bulky electrodes push into her temples, secured by a headpiece. Each one is covered in moist, white cloth, reminding me of an execution.
Flat electrodes cover multiple points over her body, like a bizarre form of ECG. She’s naked, and even more disturbingly, covered in large scars.
“What the hell is this?” I mutter and scroll to the next image.
It’s a threatening note, signed by someone who identifies themself as ‘Me.’
