Page 28 of Sin Like the Devil

“Then remind me. What is the purpose of a stooge?”

Lacing his fingers together, he props his chin on top and gives me his undivided attention. Does he want me to lay it out for him? Every last way I’ve corrupted my soul to avoid the torture I’ve seen inflicted on others?

If you haven’t figured it out yet, grab the fucking popcorn. How far does the depravity go? The answer would take far longer to explain than even I think I have left on this godforsaken planet.

And it starts right here. At the top.

“To be a secret participant.”

“In what?” Davis asks pointedly.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “In a psychological experiment.”

He smiles slyly. “The stooge acts like one of the patients, but their loyalties lie elsewhere. To further the aims of the research team and perform whatever task they may require of them.”

Tasks like selling drugs. Blades. Contraband. Whatever volatile elements the clinicians fancy throwing into the mix to elicit a new result. The more accelerant, the hotter the flames. That’s good for research and good for business. As long as it remains a secret. That’s why it’s all controlled from within by surveillance and the placement of a stooge to gain the patients’ trust.

I choose the perfect candidates.

Then sell to them so the clinicians can study the result.

I’m not just allowing them to hurt the vulnerable people in here for their own scientific purposes. No. Far worse. I’m the one hurting the patients here, people just like me, to avoid being hurt myself. Their pain is my protection.

The ultimate selfishness.

But don’t the selfish ones always survive the longest?

“You’ve been given a very comfortable life here, Miss Bennet. A lot of allowances have been made.”

“I understand that.”

“Then tell me why you’re attacking other patients and threatening Lord knows what?” Davis frowns like this whole conversation is an inconvenience. “When you’ve been explicitly told to keep your nose clean?”

I don’t respond. He doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say. It’ll only buy me a one-way ticket back into that padded cell. Or somewhere far worse. A useless stooge is a dead stooge. Rich uncle or not.

“We have to keep the program running as discreetly as possible. You signed yourself over to us the day you agreed to work for us.”

“Yes, sir,” I repeat monotonously.

What I wouldn’t give to puppeteer him the same way that I do every other crazed, medicated patient in this place. I’m their God. But management? They’re mine.

“No more fighting.” He straightens, palms landing on his desk. “Do your job. I don’t want to see you in here again. Do you understand?”

His harsh tone brooks no argument. And fuck, do I want to argue. That broken, pitiful part of me, still convinced that we can piece the jagged shards of our morality back together, wants to stop this once and for all.

But I won’t walk away from Harrowdean if I do. This job offers me protection from the sickness the others must face. The truth behind the story everyone else is told about these institutes.

This isn’t just an experiment.

It’s far more sinister than that.

Behind the façade—a successful, rehabilitative regimen for criminals and the insane alike—lies its true purpose. Camouflage for the program. An experiment of the sickest sort. The same torture I signed Xander and Lennox up for as a parting gift.

“Miss Bennet,” he barks, jerking me from my thoughts.

Nodding, I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood.

“Good. One more strike and I’ll be forced to re-evaluate your place here.”

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