Page 44 of The Psychopaths

A rush of anger fills my veins, and I can’t help myself. This moment has been coming for a while now. I grin at him. “How does it feel to want something you can’t have?”

As expected, he hauls off and punches me again. My face throbs, but I smile as more blood fills my mouth. “Don’t tell me. I don’t really give a fuck. I’ll get it out of her.”

No. Fuck.

“All I told her was that you were dangerous.”

Arson releases me with a disgusted sound, standing to pace the small cell. For the first time since my capture, I take a moment to look at him—not just with the shock of seeing my reflection come to life, but as someone I once knew who’s become a stranger.

We’re identical, yet at this moment, no one could mistake us for the same person.

His body is harder than mine, whipcord muscle built from a different kind of life. Scars I don’t have mark his forearms, neck, and disappear beneath his shirt. His hair, though styled like mine when he’s playing me, is now pushed back carelessly, revealing a faint line across his temple that I don’t recognize. Another scar.

All those things can be used to mark differences between us, but it’s in his eyes that I see the greatest difference. We share the same hazel color, but in the depths of his gaze is something I’ve never seen in my own eyes: a void, bottomless and hungry. Not emotionless, but containing too many emotions crushed together until they’ve formed something dense and dangerous, like coal compressed into diamond.

“Why the fuck are you staring at me?” he snaps, pausing in front of me.

“I’m still surprised you’re here. I never thought you would be free, never thought I would see you again,” I blurt.

The words have been building since I first saw his face after being taken.

“They couldn’t keep me confined to that place. I wasn’t ever meant to be there, anyway.”

I don’t miss the intentional dig. He took the blame that night in my place, and I stood by and let him. I didn’t speak up, didn’t try to stop them.

“They had a funeral for you. Told everyone you died in the institution. Brain aneurysm. It was a closed casket. We were sixteen.”

I remember the day so vividly because even though it was nothing more than a ruse, a way to make Arson disappear forever without the risk of anyone asking questions, it felt real, like he really was dead.

Arson laughs, and it sounds like breaking glass. “I’m not surprised. They would do anything to make certain their secrets are never brought to light. Always putting the Hayes family image first.” Barely contained rage simmers just beneath his mask.

There’s a hollow ache in my chest as I mourn his loss a second time.

When we were kids, he couldn’t sleep without me in the same room. He even cried when I broke my arm after falling out of the big oak tree, like my pain was his own. Those memories feel like a million miles away now.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” I blink the past away.

“Like you give a fuck.”

“I don’t know. I was just remembering the past, when we were kids. We were inseparable. You even cried when I broke my arm.”

“That version of me was weak and naive. It died the night they took me, and no one, not even you, said a word. I didn’t understand or see the danger that lay ahead. I won’t be so stupid this time.”

“What did they do to you?” I ask because I truly want to know.

His expression darkens like ominous storm clouds rolling in. “Don’t. Don’t you dare fucking pretend you care about what they did to me. Not after believing their lies for ten years. Not afterliving the fucking life you did. The time to give a shit was back then, not now. Not when it’s time to pay for your sins. You never looked for me. Never questioned them.” He crouches suddenly, bringing our faces level again. “You just took my place and enjoyed all the privileges that should have been mine.”

“I didn’t take your place,” I argue, though the lie tastes like ash. “They separated us because?—”

“Because of the accident?” Arson interjects. “You mean the one you caused?”

The memory hits like a physical blow.

Age fourteen, the boathouse, that stupid dare. I was showing off, playing with Father’s emergency flares. It all happened so fast. It was never supposed to end like that, and I froze. I took the coward’s way out, and Arson stepped forward, taking the blame.

“I was going to tell them,” I say weakly. “But Patricia?—”

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