Page 40 of The Psychopaths

Bingo. My way in.

A light flickers on inside, visible through a sliver of uncovered window. I spot Aries’s silhouette as he moves across the space, purposeful and unhurried.

What’s the plan now?

I’m a terrible stalker because I didn’t even think of my next steps.Go inside, you idiot.My brain urges, but I hesitate to move for an instant. What if whatever I find inside changes everything? My fingers close around the inhaler in my pocket, then move to the pepper spray beside it. Both are symbols of different parts of myself: the vulnerable patient and the person I could be if I stopped accepting the limitations others place on me.

The real question isn’t what I should do—it’s who I want to be. The delicate flower my family has cultivated, or someone who takes risks when necessary.

Before I can second-guess myself any further, I move toward the loading dock, heart drumming a rhythm of fear and exhilaration in my chest. If I find nothing, I’ll leave and reconsider my options. But if I find something...

The gap beneath the loading dock door is just wide enough for someone of my slight build to slip through. Sinking down on my stomach, I take a deep breath and slowly army crawl beneath the door and into the unknown.

The concrete scrapes my stomach as I squeeze beneath the loading dock door. There’s a distinct change in air temperaturebetween the outside and the warehouse, the warehouse air being cooler and carrying an undercurrent of disinfectant. Instinctively, I know this isn’t just a random warehouse.

I push into a crouching position and cling to the shadows, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dimness. The warehouse stretches before me, cavernous and compartmentalized. Most of it remains industrial storage space—stacked crates, abandoned shelving units, dust-covered equipment. To my left, ancient pharmaceutical machinery looms like sleeping beasts. To my right, rows of empty shelves disappear into darkness. Ahead, a shaft of light cuts across the concrete floor, showing me a route to somewhere deeper inside the building.

I move toward the light, keeping one hand against the wall. My footsteps make no sound—a skill perfected through years of midnight wanderings in our home, avoiding the creaking floorboard outside Mother’s room.

As I advance, the warehouse reveals its secrets. Not a hideout—a home. A strange, compartmentalized home built within the industrial shell.

Is Aries living here? It sure seems that way, but if so, why?

The first area I discover confirms this—a kitchen, modern and immaculate, carved out of the warehouse space with temporary walls. Stainless steel appliances gleam under recessed lighting. A coffee cup sits in the sink. There’s even a knife block with professional-grade cutlery resting on the counter.

Everything is organized with precision—cooking implements arranged by size, canned goods labeled and facing forward, a meal plan for the week magnetized to the refrigerator.

My confusion grows, and that strange feeling in my gut festers, eating away at my insides like acid. Warning bells go off in my head, but I ignore them and continue, moving deeper into the space, keeping close to the wall.

Twenty paces beyond the kitchen, another section emerges from the darkness—a living area with a leather sofa, television, and bookshelves. I pause at the edge, scanning the titles: tactical manuals, psychology textbooks, true crime. A dog-eared copy of “The Art of War” sits prominently on the coffee table.

Ahead is a bedroom, and I nearly gasp in shock. It’s not just functional but luxurious. A king-sized bed with black satin sheets. Artwork on the walls—abstract, violent splashes of red and black. The room looks nothing like the one at The Mill or back home. A large armoire stands open, revealing clothes—some are those I’ve seen Aries wear before, while a few others are darker and more utilitarian.

Is he a part of some undercover operation?

My head moves on a swivel as I take in all the details. I notice a nightstand with a framed photograph. It’s turned down.Why?That’s such an odd thing. Maybe it got knocked over by accident? Curiosity overcomes caution.

Three careful steps, and I’m close enough to lift it.

The photo shows two identical boys, perhaps seven years old, one arm wrapped around each other’s shoulders. It hits me...this is the same photo I found in his room. Matching faces, matching smiles.

Aries... and someone else. A twin brother? That’s impossible. Or is it?

I don’t know what to make of the photograph. All I know is something isn’t adding up. I know his brother died, but...he was a twin? Wait, I peer closer, and I see that these two look like the same boys in the picture I found at the Mill House.Twins?It can’t be true...

I set the photo down exactly as I found it while my mind whirls. The creaking of pipes catches my attention. A shower? Like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, I freeze.I’ll be found if I don’t move. The sound came from somewhere deeper in the warehouse.

Move, Lilian.If he’s showering, he’ll be heading to the bedroom next.

I dart behind the armoire when I hear a set of heavy footsteps approaching.

My heartbeat quickens, and I focus my attention on controlling my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Panic will only trigger an episode, and I can’t afford to have one of those right now. I watch between the cracks as Aries enters the room, a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets gleaming on his skin.

A gasp threatens to escape my lips when I see the scars etched into his flesh.

Who hurt him? His back is a topography of old wounds—some surgical, others jagged and violent. Evidence of events that I know nothing about. What has Aries been doing? What kind of danger has he put himself in?

Logic tells me now is not the time to let my body react to his proximity, but I can’t help myself. I stare at him, unable to look away, my gaze moving over every inch of exposed flesh. The curve of his body, the tense set of his muscles, each sculpted from hard work. I ignore the way my core tightens with excitement.

---