Page 45 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

Mr. Gold leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk as he fisted his hands. “They can’t find the heart.”

I shot up from my chair.

Of course they couldn’t find the fucking heart, because it’d been left in my living room as a warning that I was next.

“Fuck this,” I spat. I was spiralling, grabbing my hair in my fists as I backed away from his desk. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Calm down, Emma,” Mr. Gold sneered at me. “It’s a murder. We deal with those all the time in our line of business. I think you’re being a little over dramatic.”

“Over dramatic? Over. Fucking. Dramatic!” I slapped my hands on his desk and leaned forward, glaring into his face that was so full of ridicule. “When he comes for you, let me know. Let’s see how you like being fucking terrorised and threatened with your life. But until then, why don’t you just shut the hell up. I’m not being over fucking dramatic.”

I expected Gold to argue, but he just shrugged in response to my anger.

“You mean S.K.A.M.? He has come for me,” he replied like it was nothing. “The only difference is, I have a thick skin, and I don’t give a shit.” Then he sneered at me as the cogs in his brain started to work. “You don’t think he did that, do you?” He huffed a laugh. “Emma, seriously? Are you losing your mind?”

“It certainly looked like something he’d stage. And the reference to pride on the wall, that’s a little convenient after his performance.” I didn’t want to add that I knew where the heart had ended up. I knew he wouldn’t believe me.

“You need to be careful, throwing accusations like that around. Do you want to get sued by one of the country’s wealthiest and most successful artists?”

“He came for me first,” I seethed.

Gold huffed impatiently. “He’s a famous artist with a reputation to uphold. I doubt he’s running around on a murder spree in his spare time.”

I thought back to the last email he’d sent me, when he’d told me the K in his name stood for killer. I believed him. But I knew I was talking to a brick wall, standing here trying to argue with Mr. Gold.

“Think what you like,” I sneered.

“I will,” Mr. Gold replied. “Because that...” He pointed at his door. “Out there isn’t the work of an overpaid artist, it’s the work of a fucking psychopath.”

“You think?” I nodded dumbly at him, sarcasm dripping from my tongue.

“I don’t think, I know,” he snapped. “And when they catch him, we’ll have the story on the front of our newspapers. But that story won’t have your name attached to it. I think maybe we were a little hasty in promoting you to junior reporter. I don’t think you’re ready for the job.”

I could feel heat burning in my cheeks as fury raged through me.

“I’ll tell you what I’m not ready for, having my words taken out of my mouth and replaced with yours. For your incompetence to land me a fucking stalker.”

Mr. Gold shook his head, and I swear he huffed a quiet laugh as he replied, “Emma, if you ever want to succeed in this industry, you’ve gotta learn to roll with the punches, toughen up. You won’t last five minutes if you throw a hissy fit every time someone upsets you. So he sent you a few pissy emails? So what? Deal with it.”

“He’s stalking me. I’m not throwing a fucking hissy fit. This is my fucking life you’ve been playing around with, and you know what? It’s not happening anymore. I quit.”

“What?” He scoffed, and his sneer turned into a condescending laugh that I wanted to smack off his face.

“You heard me. I quit. Stick your job up your ass. I don’t need this. I’m done.”

“Well, good luck finding another job,” he shouted, as I pulled his door open and marched back down the office with every eye on me. “And don’t come to me for a reference. I’ll make sure you never work again.” Was his parting line.

I was fucked.

So fucked.

But I didn’t care what he said.

I didn’t have a job anymore.

I couldn’t pay my rent.

But at least I might stand a chance at keeping my fucking tongue, or any other part of me, from being pinned to a wall for being associated with this fucked-up media circus.