Page 53 of The Psychopaths

Let’s try the most obvious.

Mother’s birth date doesn’t work. Neither does Father’s. I consider mine or Aries’s birthdays, but I don’t think either of them would use our birthdays for something like this. A light bulb goes off in my head and I try the date from one of the old medical files—the day Elizabeth Martov was committed.

I’m both excited and afraid when the box clicks open. I don’t allow myself to reflect on any of the findings. Instead, I start to dig. Inside, beneath more institutional paperwork and payment records, lies a single birth certificate.

My heart stutters in my chest as I read the name printed there:

ARSON ALEXANDER HAYES.Born six minutes after his twin brother,ARIES ANDREW HAYES.

“Yes! I’ve got it,” I breathe, but the victory feels hollow as I realize what this document represents—proof of a systematic erasure of inconvenient truths. And holding this evidence in my hands, knowing it exists…that could get me erased, too.

The birth certificate is just the beginning. The lockbox is a treasure trove of carefully documented atrocities masquerading asmedical care. My stomach tightens as I spread the documents across the dusty floor.

Hospital records show the twins were identical in every way until age seven, when notations regarding Arson’s concerningbehaviorsbegan to appear.

There are payment receipts—large sums transferred to varioustherapeutic facilities. Not just for Arson, but for others. Monthly payments to doctors, administrators, even judges.

All signed by my mother. I do the math on that little tidbit...she wasn’t even married to Richard Hayes yet. This must have been when she was working for him...before his first wife died. A stack of commitment papers reveals a pattern. Every time the Hayes family faced a potential scandal or businessthreat, someone’s child would develop concerningbehaviorsrequiring immediate institutional care.

How could something like that be possible?

The timing is too perfect to be coincidental.

I continue to scour through the papers and pause when I find the reports about Arson. Pages of clinical observations, medication logs, therapy notes.

They read like torture documents.

“Patient exhibits continued resistance to treatment...”

“Increased doses recommended...”

“Solitary confinement implemented after the mention of his twin brother...”

My hand flies to my throat, remembering Arson’s grip. No wonder he’s dangerous—they made him this way. They systematically broke him while rewarding Aries for staying quiet, for playing his role. If I thought the terror ended there, I was wrong. The medical authorization forms make my blood run cold.

Mother’s signature dots numerous lines authorizing“experimental treatments”to be performed on minor patients. Father’s signature on liability waivers. An ache rips through my chest. Both of them knew exactly what they were condemning these children to, and not just other people’s children, but their own son. A letter from Dr. Matthews—my doctor—catches my eye. It’s recent, dated just last month:

“Regarding Lilian Hayes: Patient’s cardiac condition provides excellent coverage for any necessary behavioral modifications. Recommend increasing monitoring as she approaches college age. Previous symptoms of independence and questioning authority can be easily attributed to stress on her heart...”

All these years, my heart condition wasn’t just something they managed—it was something they weaponized. A built-in excuse to control me, drug me, commit me if necessary.

Just like they did to Arson.

Just like they’ve done to countless others.

The perfect Hayes family, making problems disappear behind beautiful mansion walls and medical terminology. Looking at these papers, it becomes clear that I’m not their daughter or even their victim—I’m their next potential project.

Unless I can figure out a way to stop them.

At the bottom of the box is a letter from Richard to the board of Hayes Pharmaceuticals, dated fourteen years ago.

“The acquisition of Northstar Facilities provides us with additional resources for handling sensitive family matters. Their psychiatric wing has proven particularly useful in managing potential threats to company interests...”

Northstar.The abandoned pharmaceutical warehouse where Arson is holding Aries. It wasn’t a random choice—it was where they first learned to make people disappear.

My fingers trace the family tree sketched in Mother’s elegant hand on another document. Hayes family connections branch out into every major business in the city. Next to certain names, are small red X’s. I recognize some from the medical files—families of the troubled teens who vanished intotreatment.

Arson isn’t the only one they’ve done this to. A photo slips from between the pages—two boys, maybe ten years old, dressed in identical prep school uniforms. But their smiles are different. Aries looks directly at the camera, confident and controlled even then. Arson looks sideways, watching something off-camera with intense focus.

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