Page 30 of The Psychopaths

I don’t really know. Anything that feels weird or looks out of place.

The first two drawers yield nothing but school supplies and neatly organized papers. The third is locked. I pull a bobby pin from my hair, bending it into shape the way Aries himself taught me just after our parents married. It takes longer than expected since I haven’t done this in years, but eventually, I hear the satisfying click of the lock disengaging.

I pull the drawer open, and my pulse spikes when I see a leather-bound journal worn from frequent handling. Beside it is a small USB drive. This is it. I don’t know how I know, but my gut tells me so. I grab both items and climb up onto his bed with them.

Opening the journal, I scour the pages.

The first pages contain mundane details—class notes, schedules, to-do lists. As I flip further, the content changes. Sketches appear between entries, careful pencil drawings made with a skilled hand. A street scene. The campus quad. And then—me.

My breath catches in my throat. It’s unmistakably me, sitting by the fountain outside the Hayes mansion, head bent over a book. The attention to detail is astonishing—the shaping of my face, the curve of my neck, the concentration in my expression. With a newfound eagerness, I skim the pages to reveal moresketches of me, all in various settings—at family dinners, in the garden, walking across campus.

He’s been watching me all this time. Drawing me. Preserving moments I never knew he noticed.Between the sketches are journal entries, his neat handwriting filling page after page.I shouldn’t read them.It’s an invasion of privacy that crosses even the boundaries I’ve already broken by being here, but curiosity has a choke hold on me.

I need to understand, need to know if there are answers here.

I read over the words quickly but find nothing but mundane details and observations. Then I remember the black leather book he used to carry around.

This isn’t the same one.This is the fake one he used to write in for therapy.

The ones the parents might read or the therapist.

Where the heck is the real one?

I dig around the desk a bit more, then I think about all his hiding spots when we were kids. He wrote in a journal religiously. One time he hid it under his pillow, another time under a floorboard. I drop to my knees on the rug by the bed and run my hands along the frame, then pause when I find the familiar edge of a notebook.Jackpot.I smile to myself, my constant observation of him finally paying off. This journal is smaller than his other one.

Which makes it easier to hide. I drag it out and sit on the edge of the bed again to read. I open it to a random entry.

September 15th

Dinner with Father and Patricia. Lilian wore a blue dress. It matches her eyes in a way that makes it difficult to look away. Had to excuse myself early, claiming a headache. Ironically true, though not for the reasons they assume. The longer I stay in her presence, the harder it becomes to maintain distance.The careful boundaries I’ve established feel increasingly fragile. For her safety, I must be stronger.

My heart pounds as I turn the page.

October 3rd

Found her crying in the garden today. Some argument with Patricia about college applications. Wanted to comfort her, but what comfort could I possibly offer when I’m the one who needs to stay away? The space between us is the only gift I can give her. If she knew what I am, what I’ve done...

He breaks off there, the entry incomplete. I flip forward, my hands trembling.

December 24th, Christmas Eve.

Family photo session for the Hayes holiday card. Patricia positioned us side by side. Lilian’s hand brushed mine, a casual touch that shouldn’t mean anything. I’ve spent the hours since in cold showers and punishing workouts. Father’s suspicious glances suggest he notices more than I’d like. Must be more careful.

I can’t do it. I close the journal, emotion tightening my throat. All this time, I thought his distance was indifference, even cruelty. These entries suggest something else—a purposeful separation, a protective measure. It doesn’t make sense.

What is he protecting me from?

I don’t know what comes over me, but instead of stashing the journal back into its hiding spot, I slip it into my backpack. There’s more I need to know, and I’m willing to face the consequences if he figures out I took it. But, really, how would he find out?

With the journal secure, I continue my search. Where would a person hide things they want no one to see while still keeping it in plain sight? I scan the bedroom. There’s nothing under the bed. No more drawers on the desk.

My gaze falls to the closet door.Bingo.I pull the door open and flick the light on. Ten minutes later, I discover a shoebox that’s been pushed to the back of the highest shelf. Nothing says secrets like that. I pull it down, brushing off the thick coating of dust on the top that tells me he hasn’t opened the box in some time.

I flip the top of the box off. I’m not sure what I anticipated finding inside that box, but it isn’t the watch I had given him two years ago. I don’t know if I should be angry or melt into a puddle over the fact that he’s kept it this whole time.

It’s in perfect condition, and looks just as it did the day I gave it to him. Unsure of how I feel, I shove it into my pocket and move onto the numerous newspaper clippings, the paper yellowed with age.

LOCAL TEEN SENT TO TREATMENT FOLLOWING BOATHOUSE INCIDENTreads the headline. The article is sparse on details, mentioning only that aHayes youthhad been transferred to a specialized facility following anunfortunate accidentat the family’s lake property.

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