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Brava.
FOUR
AMETHYST
Afterimages of JakeRake69’s death mask haunt my mind as I reach the front door. I close my fingers around the lock, wanting to fling it open, but cold air swirls around my skin, reminding me that I’m naked.
Shit.
It was just another hallucination. There’s no way in hell JakeRake69 could have survived getting stabbed in the neck and buried, only to climb out of his grave, break into my house, and crawl into my bedroom closet to die.
It doesn’t make sense. This must be a figment of my imagination.
My memory is so screwed up that I barely even remember the last time I took my pills or even ordered a new prescription. Every ounce of attention has been absorbed by my social media presence and my relationship with Xero.
And the book.
Seeing Jake was just a trauma response. It happened one time at boarding school when someone broke into my room. For days afterward, I kept imagining my creepy doppelgänger had found a way out of the mirror. Not to mention the hallucination that pops up every time I try to hookup.
“That’s right,” I say to myself. “It’s just my messed-up brain.”
With a deep breath, I walk down the hallway, assuring myself that the creaking is just my feet moving over the floorboards, and climb the stairs. Intrusive thoughts float to the top of my mind like bloated corpses. What if it isn’t a figment of my addled mind and JakeRake69’s body is real? I can’t drag him back to his grave in the middle of the morning, and my muscles are still shredded from last night.
Jake came to kill me because I’d publicized my relationship with a mass murderer. He said bitches like me who wanted to fuck killers instead of high-value men were begging for death.
I reach the top of the stairs, realizing that Xero didn’t call me this morning from the exercise yard, and my heart sinks into my empty stomach. Tears sting the backs of my eyes at the reminder that he died believing he’d been ghosted. He probably thought I’d been using him to gain online clout.
After his mugshot went viral, hundreds of women tried to reach out to him at Alderney State Penitentiary, thinking they had a chance with the Angel of Death. That’s what they called him because of his blond hair, blue eyes, and chiseled bone structure. He had the kind of masculine beauty that belonged to a Michelangelo statue.
Those other women never saw past his masculine beauty, overlooking the brutal murder of his stepmother and brothers. I was one of the few people who saw a kindred spirit. The way he tore out their hearts was poetic.
I creep along the upstairs landing, passing a portrait a fan made of him in charcoal, and return to my bedroom. Sunlight streams through curtains I’m sure were closed, illuminating my bed. The family of antique dolls who usually rest on the nest of pillows lie strewn across the floor, and there’s no sign of Jake.
Just to make sure, I fling open the walk-in closet and turn on the light. The mini chandelier springs to life, lighting up the antique wardrobes I painted black. There’s no sign that anything has been disturbed.
So, the sight and feel of that cold, heavy corpse was in my mind, as was the loud thud.
This is my first compound hallucination.
I really need to get some new meds.
The doorbell rings, making me flinch. Now is not the time for visitors. There’s a trash bag downstairs filled with sanitary products, still soaked in Jake’s blood, and I don’t even know if I’ve gotten rid of the smell of bleach. The bell sounds again, and I shudder. Whoever is outside is either persistent or knows I’m pretending to be out.
When my phone rings, I swallow back a scream.
With a silent prayer to the patron saint of murderers, I slip out of the closet, creep out of the bedroom, slink into my study, and peer out of the window to see who’s calling.
It’s Myra, my cheerleader, oldest friend, and literary agent, wrapped up in a tattooed little package. She lives downtown and wouldn’t normally drive all the way to the suburbs without informing me in advance. Paranoia roots me to the spot, and I answer the phone.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Open the bloody door,” she says. “I’m outside.”
“Oh. Sorry!”
In all the excitement about yesterday, I’d forgotten she said she was coming to visit to offer a shoulder to cry on after Xero’s execution. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I slip on a black kimono, fasten its belt, and rush down the stairs.
Myra stands on the doorstep, holding a bottle of champagne. The morning sun shines down on her red hair, reminding me of the blood that spilled on the kitchen floor. Today, she wears a pinstripe, burgundy corset that accentuates her perky new implants. She wraps her arms around my neck, aggravating my bruises and making me wince.
