Page 31 of Psycho Obsession
“Two hundred and fourteen days, Hallow,” I whisper against the paper. “Hang on to that madness. Don’t let him take the blue and red. The Dealer is coming to play, and I’m bringing the whole fucking circus with me.”
I turn to the Choir, my eyes wide and shimmering with a terrifying, beautiful insanity.
“Load the van. We’ve got a girl to wake up.”
Chapter
Eleven
JEX
“The problem with the world, Pip, is that everyone is so damn polite about their sins.”
I’m standing in the kitchen of a penthouse that belongs to the City Comptroller—a man who spent his afternoon signing off on a budget cut for the asylum’s food supply and his evening enjoying a vintage Bordeaux. He’s currently sitting at his own dining table, though ‘sitting’ is a generous term. He’s taped to the chair with silver duct tape, his eyes darting between me and the silver platter I’m prepping on the marble island.
I’m wearing his wife’s floral apron over my purple coat. It’s a bit tight in the shoulders, but the ruffles are a nice touch.
“You see, Monty,” I say, picking up a paring knife and testing the edge on my thumb. A bead of red blossoms. I lick it off. “You think you’re a good man because you use a pen to kill people. You sit in your air-conditioned office,you click your tongue at the ‘unfortunate statistics,’ and then you come home to your silk sheets. But me? I like to look my work in the eye.”
I hop onto the counter, sitting cross-legged next to a bowl of fresh gala apples.
“People think madness is a scream,” I muse, tilting my head. “But it’s not. It’s a whisper. It’s the realisation that the rules are just a bedtime story we tell ourselves so we don’t have to admit we’re all just animals with better wardrobes.”
I reach out and pat Monty’s cheek. He’s hyperventilating, the tape over his mouth fluttering.
“You know what Hallow told the board before you locked her up? She told them that the city didn’t need a saviour; it needed a funeral. I liked that. It had poetry. It had teeth.”
I stand up, my movements fluid and jagged, like a marionette with its strings tangled. I pick up a heavy, glass decanter of $5,000 scotch and pour it—not into a glass, but directly into the open piano in the corner of the room. The golden liquid splashes over the strings, filling the air with a rich, peaty scent.
“Why are you doing this?” Monty’s eyes seem to scream.
“Because it’s funny, Monty! It’s hilarious!” I bark, a sudden, sharp laugh escaping me. “You spent thirty years climbing the ladder so you could buy this piano, and in thirty seconds, I’ve turned it into a very expensive puddle of booze. That’s the joke! Nothing is permanent! Not your money, not your power, and definitely not your skin.”
I walk over to him, the paring knife gleaming under the chandelier.
“I’m not going to kill you, Monty. That’s too easy. That’s a one-act play, and I’m a fan of the epic.”
I lean in, my face inches from his, the ‘Joker’ grin pulling so wide it actually hurts my cheeks. I can see my own reflection in his panicked pupils—a pale, painted monster with eyes that have seen the bottom of the abyss and found it cozy.
“I want you to be my messenger. I want you to go to work tomorrow—well, if you can still walk—and I want you to tell them that the Dealer is in town. Tell them I’m not looking for money. I’m not looking for a seat at the table.”
I grab his hand, the one he uses to sign those death warrants, and spread his fingers out on the mahogany table.
“I’m looking for my Queen.”
With a movement so fast it’s a blur, I drive the paring knife through the centre of his palm, pinning his hand to the table. The sound he makes—that muffled, agonising soul-shriek—is better than any symphony Aris ever played in his office.
I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. I lean in and kiss his forehead, right between his sweat-beaded brows.
“There,” I whisper, my voice dripping with a terrifying, honeyed affection. “Now you’ve got something to remember me by. Every time you try to pick up a pen, you’ll feel me. Every time you try to sign a girl away to a white room, you’ll remember the man in the purple coat who reminded you that you’re just meat andbone.”
I spin around, grabbing a handful of gala apples and juggling them as I head for the balcony.
“Knuckles! Pip! Let’s go! I’m bored of this set! The lighting is terrible!”
I walk out onto the terrace, the wind whipping my hair across my face. I look down at the city, the lights twinkling like a fallen galaxy. Somewhere in that mess of concrete and cruelty, Hallow is waiting in the dark.
“Two hundred and fifteen days,” I shout into the void, tossing an apple into the night. “Can you feel the punchline coming, Hallow? It’s going to be a riot!”
