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What the hell am I going to find inside?
NINE
Alderney State Penitentiary,
Dear Amethyst,
Thank you for the second photo. I love your freckles. Do you have any more?
The insight of your last letter left me speechless. What made you think there was more to the murder of my stepfamily than simple resentment?
Would you be open to receiving a phone, so I may send a photo of my reaction?
Xero
P.S. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else. I want to know your darkest fantasy.
TEN
AMETHYST
Blood roars between my ears. I grip the red envelope so tightly that the paper warps. This feels too real to be a hallucination, but I force myself to remember Jake’s corpse.
I heard it move in the closet. It was cold and heavy against my skin when it fell from the door, and it was loud when it landed on the wooden floorboards. If my mind can conjure up dead bodies and black wraiths that stalk my steps, then it sure as hell can make me think I’m holding and feeling something as simple as an envelope.
With my free hand, I snap a picture of what I’m holding and check the camera app. The envelope is still there, which proves nothing. Dr. Saint always said the brain was a powerful organ, capable of throwing out all manner of delusions to cushion the psyche from severe trauma.
My fingers shake as I ease out the letter inside, which contains my loopy handwriting. I bring it to my nostrils, inhale the faint aroma of my pussy, and grimace. It’s so… accurate.
One quick glance at the contents tells me I’m reading a word-for-word response I made to Xero’s request for my fantasy, where I wrote something about somnophilia. I take another photo, only to find an exact replica of it on my phone.
What if it’s not a hallucination? What if the man sending metext messages is in my home, watching me freak out over a letter? It wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t one of the bastards who beat Xero bloody before his execution.
I place the letter back in its envelope, set it back down on the bed, and walk to the closet. My fingers hovers over the door handle. There’s a part of me expecting to find Jake lying on the floor with black blood oozing from his neck wound.
That malfunctioning part of my brain needs to woman up. There’s no need to feel guilty. It was kill or be killed. Jake is dead. We buried him ourselves. Hallucinations can haunt, but they can’t attack.
Right?
I fling open the door and stare into the walk-in wardrobe, finding the closet organizers intact with no sign of bodies, blood, or bogeymen because everything’s in my head. Regardless, I walk to a drawer, pull out a bag, and pack a change of clothes.
Something is wrong beyond my slipping grip on reality. I’m going to drive across town, stay at Mom and Dad’s, and see if I can book an emergency appointment with Dr. Saint for tomorrow morning.
Ignoring my buzzing phone, I zip up my overnight bag and walk out into the bedroom. The red envelope is exactly where I left it, making me think it might be real. Hallucinations don’t tend to stick around. They disappear to screw with my mind and then return at the most inconvenient times.
Like the time I got a boyfriend and hooked up with him in his apartment. An apparition of Mr. Lawson appeared at the foot of my bed and crawled across the mattress. I screamed so loud, his roommates burst into the room, thinking the worst, and Mr. Lawson vanished. That was the end of that relationship.
Since it’s looking like the envelope is real, then the man sending me the texts has somehow entered my house. I charge down the stairs, deciding to call the police from Mom and Dad’s.
I fling open the door and step out into the night, letting the cool air seep through the fabric of my hoodie. Ignoring the chill, I race down the steps and glance over my shoulder at the house, looking for any signs of an intruder.
My narrow townhouse stands where a cobblestone path onceled to the cemetery, shut down after a mafia murder. I used to think the story was quaint. Now, it’s just gruesome.
With a shudder, I unlock my car with its remote and open the driver’s side door. After tossing my overnight bag on the front seat, I scoot inside.
My gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, and I make a double take. Sitting in the back passenger seat is Jake’s mottled corpse. He stares at me through cold blue eyes, his strawberry blonde hair disheveled. Purple blotches appear beneath his skin, which is already starting to rot.
Alarm punches me in the heart. I jerk away, my shoulder hitting the window hard enough to make the glass reverberate. I suck in a sharp breath, inhaling the faint scent of alcohol, copper, and damp earth. Fingers scrambling for the door handle, I launch myself out into the street.
