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“Mid-episode Vero does things he has to live with after an episode, you both know that. But it’s not a haze—he remembers a lot of what he does. Aaron hurt Kayla, and if Vero knows that, then whatever he is doing feels like justice to him now, but when he comes down . . .”

“He could think he did it for the wrong reasons,” Ares finishes.

Brawley nods. “He will convince himself he did it because he lost control, not because the asshole deserved it. That will eat at him, and he will think he could hurt Kayla.”

I don’t respond because Brawley knows Vero better than all of us. He is the one who picks up the pieces.

“There is also the possibility that he doesn’t kill him,” Ares adds. “Technically, Cave has Aaron, and whatever he does is controlled. Cave doesn’t act any other way.”

“You think Cave is managing the situation?” I ask.

“I think it’s possible. Cave has seen Vero’s episodes, and we really have no idea how much humanity he has left. But it’s enough that he scares kids but won’t hurt them.”

“If that’s true, then Vero is out there with a machete and the knowledge that the woman he loves was buried alive, but Cave has given him no outlet for that information. That is not better; that could be worse.” Brawley’s brows furrow in concern.

Shit, he’s right. Vero with a target gives him direction—he has a purpose. But with no target and everything building up inside, he could do a lot more damage. This might be the one time I hope he actually kills the guy as a filter for his rage.

A dead body we can deal with, but Vero loose with a big-ass knife and acting the way he does is a very dangerous situation.

Chapter Four

Vero

Most people don’t think of paper as a weapon; they think of knives and guns and all the obvious things. I would never have thought about it either if I hadn’t met my paper-cut princess. Yet every single person in the world has had a paper cut and knows they hurt like a bitch.

I have lost count of the number of paper cuts we are at, but I know how many pieces of paper I have used, and that is a smaller number.

“Forty-seven. It isn’t as many as I thought we would be up to by now. Sixty would be better. I had a system, but it turns out that the human body is not a very cooperative test subject when it comes to paper. Which is ironic because paper is made from trees and we are also technically . . .” I stop because I can’t remember where I was going with that. “Forty-eight.”

Luca makes a muffled sound. He hasn’t said much, but when he does, I cut him some more.

The problem with all this is that I keep giving myself paper cuts too. He makes another sound, which I find less interesting than his words, though his current situation limits his options. He is zip-tied to a chair in the corner of Cipher’s shed. It’s not the type of chair made to tie someone to, and I need to compliment Cipher on his chairs later.

I glance over at Cipher, where he stands at his workbench with his back to us, fixing an old radio. I don’t know why we aren’t friends. He hasn’t asked why I am here or why there is a man zip-tied in his shed; he simply moved his tools out of the way so we had room.

Cave sits in the corner, and I try not to look at him too much. He still scares the life out of me, but his attention has mainly been fixed on Cipher. If I pretend he doesn’t exist, I can keep my mind on my task at hand.

“Shit,” I say, dropping the sheet of paper into a pool of blood.

I may have stabbed him at one stage with a screwdriver because the paper cuts were not producing enough blood. I grab another piece of paper and hold it up with a grin. “Forty-nine. The inside of the wrist is very productive—seems to hurt a lot. I should write this down, Cipher . . .”

“Drawer on the left,” he answers without turning around.

“Brilliant, thank you.”

I find a pen and paper waiting, causing me to laugh. “I’m writing this on paper.” I look at Aaron. “It’s called irony, or maybe poetic justice, possibly both. I will ask Ares. He’s smart.”

Aaron says something, but I don’t catch it. I regret slicing his mouth stitches open because he still rarely speaks. I wanted to hear screams when I stabbed him with the screwdriver—that’s why I cut them open, and it was music to my ears.

“Sorry, what? You’re going to have to speak up.”

“She doesn’t care about you,” he says, his voice rough.

I may need to waterboard him soon, so he doesn’t die of dehydration. That would be a shame after all this effort to show my paper-cut princess that a man can die from her namesake. Even if it is proving difficult and time-consuming. He filled me in on their history when I sliced his mouth open, and the picture he paints of her is warped. My paper-cut princess is none of the things he said.

“She was using you. She uses everyone; she always has. She will move on and won’t think about⁠—”

“Hmm,” I cut him off, but he continues on, talking about her as if she were a possession he owns that someone stole from him. He tries to convince me that Kayla is manipulative, but my mind wanders to when she taught me how to crochet—or tried to. Not sure how she could manipulate me in that moment. He says she runs from things, but she ran back to me, so again, not a good example.