Page 52 of The Psychopaths

With all the cobwebs, spiders, and dust, it’s rare that anyone goes up there. Which isn’t surprising when you think about it,since that’s where my mother keeps all the archives for our family under lock and key.

I doubt she knows it, but I’ve seen her carry boxes up those stairs, and when she was finished, I watched her lock the door and tuck the key into the top of the doorframe. It never occurred to me that something sinister could be hidden behind that door. I guess years of playing the quiet, invisible invalid of the family has finally paid off.

I check my phone—Richard is at the office until six, and Mother has her hospital board meeting in ten minutes. The staff won’t disturb me if I say I need to rest.

“Miss Lilian?” Maria, our housekeeper, knocks softly. “Your mother asked me to check on you. Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine,” I answer, making my voice appropriately weak. “Just tired. I think I’ll lie down for a while. Please don’t disturb me.”

“Of course, miss. I’ll let your mother know.”

Perfect. They’re all so trained to respect myconditionthat they won’t think to check on me again for a few hours.

Time to discover what other secrets the Hayes family is hiding in that attic. After a few minutes, I slip from my bedroom and tiptoe down the long hall. The thundering of my own heartbeat fills my ears, drowning out any other noise. I’ve never done something like this before. It’s almost exhilarating to stop pretending and be myself.

By the time I reach the door, my hands are trembling.

I rise onto my tiptoes and feel for the key. My fingers skim the edge of the wooden doorframe, and thorns of panic prick at my senses.

It’s not there.I try the other side, my muscles aching as I put all my effort into finding that key. A scream of joy builds in my throat when my fingers graze the cold brass key, but instead of screaming, I smile and pluck the key out of its hiding place.

With the door open, I put the key in my pocket and peer up the stairs, the darkness looming with untold secrets.Here goes nothing.Gently, I close the door behind me and ascend. The attic stairs creak under my careful steps despite my practiced movements.

Up here, the mansion’s perfect facade crumbles—a thick coat of dust covers everything, cobwebs stretch between boxes, and the air tickles my nostrils with the scent of dust and wet gym socks.Gross.

To the right of me are shelves with boxes in each spot.

I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight, sweeping it across labels written in Mother’s precise handwriting:Christmas Decorations, Summer Clothes, Family Photos Pre-2010. Everything is categorized and controlled, just like our lives below.

As I move my flashlight across the space, I notice a door across the expansive room. I don’t know why, but my legs feel heavy with each step I take toward it. I grip the brass doorknob and push the heavy door open. I shine my flashlight inside, and the beam catches on rows and rows of filing cabinets, stacked boxes, and a large desk covered in papers.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” I whisper, moving to the nearest cabinet.

The first drawer reveals nothing interesting—tax records, property deeds, insurance policies. The second holds medical files, but they’re recent. My quarterly checkups, Aries’s anxiety prescriptions, Father’s blood pressure monitoring.

Holy shit, they have a file on each of us.

Dust tickles my nose, and I reach for my inhaler, more from habit than necessity. The familiar action steadies me as I move deeper into the room. I can’t seem to get my eyes to move fast enough, to take all the information in fast enough.

A box labeledFamily Holdings - Confidentialcatches my attention.

I tug the top of the box off, eager to discover its contents. Inside are more medical records, but these are older. I squint as I read off the names at the top of each file.

Elizabeth Martov, Marcus Richards, Thomas Wright.

I’ve never heard my parents talk about these people or say their names.

Why would they have information on them?Curiosity draws me deeper down the rabbit hole, and I examine the files. Each name belongs to a teenager and contains notes aboutbehavioral issuesandinstitutional care recommended.

My hands shake as I continue to read. I move on to the next file, and the next, and the next. Each file follows the same pattern—troubled teen, family connection to the Hayes business empire, sudden transfer to specialized facilities. There are no follow-up records. No indication of what happened to them.

A spider scurries across one of the files, and I jump, barely holding back a scream. But in my haste to escape the small spider, I bump into a stack of boxes. They topple with a crash that seems deafening in the stuffy attic air.

I freeze, listening for footsteps, voices, anything.Nothing.Not a sound.

Breathe,I tell myself, staving off the building panic attack. I gather the scattered papers up and place them back into the boxes. Something sparkly on the floor catches my eye, and I shine my light on the object—a metal lockbox half-hidden behind an old dresser.

I pull it out and frown when I discover the digital keypad on the front. I chew on my bottom lip, trying to think of what the code might be.

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