Page 119 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

“Then let her go.”

Arran cocked his head to the side, paused, and then shrugged. “Maybe I can revise the plan a little. Make her watch it all play out, instead. See? I can compromise when I need to.”

“Watch what?” Alex asked with his gun still trained on Arran.

“The performance of my life... Or should I say, our lives.”

CHAPTER

FORTY-EIGHT

ALEX

Iknew he was unstable.

I knew he was fucking insane.

Dangerous.

Out of his mind.

A lunatic.

And all of this was on me.

I should’ve done more to stop him. I should’ve taken him to the facility myself, had him committed, then visited every fucking day to make sure he was still locked up in there.

But I put my trust in others.

I was a fucking fool.

Because when it came to my brother, I couldn’t trust anyone.

He always found a way to distort things.

To manipulate people.

To twist the story to suit his own ends.

Just like he was doing now.

I could feel my finger flexing, itching to squeeze and pull the trigger. All that mattered was getting Emma out of here, making her safe. And yet, the fucked-up part of my brain couldn’t bring myself to do it. He was my brother. My brother, who’d been dealt a shit hand in life. Even though I wanted this to end, and even though I would kill him if it meant protecting her, I still stood there, waiting, hoping for the tide to turn.

Anything was possible where Arran was concerned.

But he was so unhinged right now, staring down the barrel of my gun like he didn’t have a care in the world. Part of me thought pulling the trigger might’ve been a relief for him. But for me, it’d mean a lifetime of regret. Regret I already lived with and battled every single day.

“What fucking performance?” I snapped, “Fucking answer me.”

I needed to hear what fucked-up shit would come out of his brain. I had to know what I was dealing with.

My brother was a beast.

He was a killer.

But I knew how to handle him... Most of the time.

He had urges that he struggled to control. To help, I’d used my connections with the police to find out about men who’d evaded justice. Men that deserved to die for crimes that they’d managed to wriggle out of on a technicality or some other bullshit. It had worked so well, too. Channelling his hunger that way. Until it didn’t.