Page 77 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

I did. But I wasn’t going to give it up that easily.

“Then I’ll change his locks. I’ll change all the fucking locks. Not that you’ll be able to access her house that way again anyway. It’s getting bricked up.”

“Maybe not that way,” I replied. “But you know I have my ways.”

“For fuck’s sake. Enough,” he shouted, drawing the attention of the waiters and the few other patrons in the restaurant. “I’ve told you, this isn’t happening anymore. It’s over.”

I knew we weren’t getting anywhere fast. I also knew Alex was so stubborn he’d stay here all fucking night. So I decided to humour him.

“Fine. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll go to your rehab and I’ll leave you to self-implode in the little love-bubble you’re creating. By the way, does she know you have no intention of ever letting her leave?”

“I’m not gonna imprison her. What the fuck do you take me for?”

“Aren’t you? Damn, Alex. You’re getting boring in your old age.”

“I couldn’t give a shit what you think,” he snapped. “I want a shot at a normal life. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Not at all. But what do I know? You don’t care what I think. But let’s face facts, neither one of us is normal.”

“I’m done talking.” Alex stood up and watched, waiting for me to do the same.

“Looks like I’m taking a little holiday,” I announced, standing too, but doing it as slowly as I could for effect.

“You’re lucky that holiday isn’t being spent at the bottom of the canal.”

“I heard you loud and clear the first time, I’m so fucking lucky. I haven’t always been lucky though, have I?”

The way Alex froze in response told me he wasn’t prepared to take a trip down memory lane. Not when that lane was like walking on hot coals, laced with shards of glass, with some acid thrown down for good measure.

We headed out into the cold, dark night and I turned to face Alex as a driver held the door open to the car he wanted me to get into.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you soon. You’re gonna love the Milan show. Paris was a mind-fuck, but Milan...”

“I won’t be there,” he replied, ignoring my outstretched hand, refusing to shake it.

“You’re not coming to Italy?”

He stared back at me, blankly.

“No, I’m not. I’m not coming to anymore shows, and I won’t be buying any more pieces or investing any money. I’ll pay for your rehab, but after that, this,” he gestured between the two of us, “Is over.”

He went to walk away, but I called out, “Alex.”

As he turned around, I took the ring he’d given me off my finger and threw it at him.

He caught it, as I told him, “I won’t be needing that anymore. You don’t need to track me.”

“No, I don’t.” He slid the ring into his pocket. “I don’t need to see you ever again.” Then he walked away, getting into his car as I stood there, watching him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” I muttered to myself. “It’ll take more than a few idle threats and a stint in rehab to get rid of me. I will be seeing you again very soon, Alex Kingston. You have my word.” And I climbed into the car and let it drive me away.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

ALEX

Driving away, I knew he was lying. He’d said he didn’t feel anything, but that was bullshit. His problem was he felt too much. That’s why he needed to do what he did, to numb the pain. He used his art to forget the world around him. A world that was hostile and bleak. A world that left him out in the cold like a kid in the snow, peering through the windows of houses, wishing they’d let him in for just a moment of their warmth. I’d been that warmth for him for far too long, and now it had to change. It’s why he needed to go, to break the chain of destruction. He’d started something, and I had to finish it.