Page 79 of Art of Sin

My gut churns, preparing to eject the coffee and muffin I forced down this morning. Bile tickles the back of my throat.

Even after all these years, this version of him triggers a Pavlovian response. Warmth. Connection. Memories of his gentle touch, his soothing voice. The only comfort after hours of horror.

The absolute mind-fuck of it all.

As a teen, I didn’t know how to recognize true mental illness. Sure, Mama was a drunk, but she was mean with or without booze.

This man was—is—different.

He has dissociative identity disorder, formerly known as multiple personalities. And in this particular case, also known as batshit-fucking-crazy.

Marcowas our friend, our caretaker. A champion who promised to keep Nate and me safe, who cared for us after the abuses of clients. He swore he’d help us escape one day, that he’d punish his brother for treating us the way he did.

But there was no brother.

Only the other half of him: Julep.

The demon who called us his muñequitas—little dolls—who drugged us and pimped us out to cartel members, politicians, and wealthy elitists whose sexual tastes colored outside legal lines. Julep, the monster who was obsessed with me, who periodically chained me to his bed for weeks on end, who nearly killed me twice.

I should have killed him.

Why didn’t I kill him?

“I can hear you thinking,” Marco says lightly.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Where’s Julep?”

“Don’t worry, he’s not here,” he whispers, then laughs. “We don’t speak much anymore.”

My stomach rolls again. It almost sounds like he knows they’re not separate people, but that’s impossible. In an upside-down world, the one certainty we had was that Marco truly believed Julep was a different person. Hated him, even. But I don’t hear the usual loathing, the undercurrent of agony.

The phone slips in my hand, my fingers damp with sweat. I grip the plastic so tightly I hear it squeak.

Pushing away the nagging sense that something is terribly wrong, I say, “You’ve broken our agreement. Why now, after all this time?”

“Don’t worry,” he deflects. “Julep doesn’t know I found you. I won’t tell him.”

But Julep does know! I want to scream. He knows because he sent that envelope. He broke into my condo. He’s stalking me!

“Did you like my gift?”

I almost drop the phone. “What gift?”

“The flowers, silly! I left them by your bed. Tuberose, your favorite. Where’s my thank-you?”

Time grinds, slows. My heartbeat is a muffled roar in my ears. This isn’t the Marco I remember. That Marco would have never done something so sure to frighten me. And that Marco never knew what my favorite flower was.

But Julep did.

If I wasn’t already sitting, I would fall. As it is, I sag against a wall, eyes closed as futile defense against the assault of truth.

Retribution.

Damnation.

Consequence.

“Julep,” I breathe.

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