Page 39 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

The downfall and destruction of Emma Belmont.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

EMMA

Ibarged through the doors of the local police station. For early evening, it was surprisingly quiet. There was a man in uniform sitting behind the glass partition at his desk, tapping away on his computer. When he saw me coming in, he stopped and looked up.

“How can I help you?” he asked, and I glanced around, unsure how much I should disclose in the reception area.

“I need to report something.” I moved closer to the glass and leaned forward, so I could lower my voice. “I have a stalker.”

He nodded, not surprised in the slightest. I guess this was an everyday occurrence for him.

“I need to take a few details,” he stated, and I gave him my name, address, and phone number, and then, he asked, “And who is it that’s stalking you? Is it someone you know? An ex, perhaps?”

“I don’t know who it is.”

He stopped typing and stared back at me blankly.

“You’re being stalked, and you don’t know who by?”

I shrugged. “That’s not unusual, you know. Most people are stalked by a stranger.”

“I understand that, Miss Bel...”

“Emma,” I interjected. “And he isn’t really a stranger. I mean I have seen him, but I haven’t met him. I know who he is, but I don’t know who he is.”

He shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. He obviously thought I was a crazy person.

“I’m confused.” He leaned forward to give me his full attention. “You’ve seen him, but you haven’t met him. You know who he is, but you don’t know who he is. Excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn, but are you okay, miss? Do you need to see someone from the community support team to discuss your mental health needs?”

I gritted my teeth, rolled my eyes, and then blew out an exasperated breath.

“Yes, I’m fine. And no, I don’t need to see someone about my mental health. I might do soon, though, if someone doesn’t take this seriously.”

He looked startled for a second, and from his confused expression, I could tell he didn’t believe for a minute that I was okay.

He studied my face briefly, before saying, “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Tell me exactly what’s happened to bring you here tonight.”

I took a deep breath and told him, “I went to see an artist. His name is S.K.A.M.”

“I love his work,” the officer interrupted, his eyes lighting up at the mention of S.K.A.M., and he grinned a stupid grin back at me.

“Yeah, I did too. But then I didn’t.”

The policeman nodded, making notes as he listened to me.

“I work for the Merivale Echo. And an article was published not long ago that wasn’t very...” I paused to try and find the right word. “Flattering about his artwork. That piece had my name on it. He took offense, and now he’s stalking me.”

“S.K.A.M.,” he stated plainly. “Is stalking you. Because of a bad review.” He shook his head in disbelief. “That doesn’t sound like him. He’s quite a chilled guy. A man of the people. I doubt he’d be bothered by one newspaper article. He never comments on the critics, it’s beneath him.”

“You’d think?” I replied sarcastically.

He wasn’t taking this seriously, and in a way, I didn’t blame him. I thought it was ridiculous too. But here we were.

The officer leaned right up to the glass and whispered, “Do you know his real identity?” He still had a look of excitement and wonder on his face. He was obviously wrapped up in the celebrity of it all, like a star-struck fan.