Page 14 of Dead Man's Wish
Brent Hale
There comes a time where you realize this is it. This is the moment that I want to solidify in my subconscious. My moment was today and it was Bexley. It’s always Bexley, isn’t it?
It’ll always be Bexley.
This one wasn’t even with me, and as I look at my wall, well, they hardly ever are. But that will change. They’ve been telling us that after high school, it all changes.
So Bex—
She was by the lockers today, and she looked so sad. I wanted that sadness. I wanted it on my wall, to touch and hold it. I didn’t have a chance to take a picture without someone else noticing so I just absorbed it.
Her eyes are the prettiest blue—I’ve mentioned this—but today? They were so dull and pale—it was a tease. A damn TEASE. I want to see those big, sad eyes beneath me. My lust soured when I saw who she looked at: Jaiden. What a lost cause. What circles did they fucking run in together where she would be sad for him? Over him?
If she was sad because of him, it’d be his last fucking day.
Bexley isn’t my first long game, but she’ll likely be my last. The sweetest. I didn’t think I had the capacity for these kinds of feelings but here they are, growing. Every day, I crave her more, but there’s too many fucking people.
There’s always too many fucking people around.
One day.
Five
July 24, 2025:
Bexley Wells
The week started slowlyand continued the same through Thursday, I exercised the psychologist portion of my title sparingly, doing intake calls for new clients. My focus was forensics but on occasion, I’d find availability for a patient or two. Though those endeavors never lasted long-term, I enjoyed the change of pace. My longest client stayed with me for a year before she moved out of state.
That was the way it went.
I looked over the notes from the web meeting I ended almost an hour ago. By this time, I should’ve handed them off to Jaiden for transcription and file management, but I tapped my pen softly against the stack of papers as my mind drifted again.
Brent.
Brent was a truly ghost haunting me. It felt like rather than the supernatural being at play, the memory of people was what kept the feeling of their presence around. An exorcism or cleansing of the house would never reach the dark corners of my mind he occupied.Always watching.
A shiver worked down my spine, and I turned to the box on my floor. The evidence still sat there from the night Bishop gave it to me. I managed to take out one of the journals, but I could only fully stomach a week’s worth of thoughts. The first entry, at least from the notebook I determined came first, was from our last month in high school. The overlay of his vulgar, private thoughts and desires on my once fond memories left a rotting feeling in the pit of my stomach.
People had gut instincts to not let others get too close, but a psychopath enmeshing themselves in everyday people’s lives without detection wasn’t uncommon. It was what they craved—to infiltrate and then manipulate. He stated his one desire that night, and it’d been an object of obsession for Brent for so long. As I looked over the three journals, even from a distance, I could tell there were more, which meant Bishop handed those over with a purpose.
It was coming on too fast and all at once.
I broke my concentration on the evidence box and woke up my computer. Searching for my file folder of templates for testing, I opened the well-visited psychopathy document. It was a simple test—a basis for diagnosing and understanding where a patient may fall and if there were concerning areas to look for in the future.
“There we go, the Hare Checklist,” I whispered to no one as I opened the file and waited for it to populate. There was a delicacy to this. Brent was dead and gone, so going off memory alone would skew it as I’d never paid that kind of attention to him when we were younger. Memory and case evidence would go hand in hand for his posthumous diagnosis. It was clear in his crimes and behavior, but treating Brent like a new patient would be best for my mental health.
“Question one,” I mused to myself, pretending like this was an everyday case of catching a killer.
Superficial charm . . .
That one was an easy selection fordefinitely present. It was one of the initial things that landed him on my personal red-flag list. There was an insidious sheen in his smile and eyes. His expressions were perfect by all practiced means, but they was too perfect to cover the evil that took over his soul. That was where some serial killers fell apart and what people picked up on. They couldn’t fake it quite right; at the very least, they couldn’t maintain the perfect mask for so long.
It wasn’t a question ofiffor people like Brent. It was a question ofwhen.
“Question two, previous diagnosis . . . ,” I trailed off. Thinking to myself, I mentally cataloged everything I knew of in the box. There were no prior reports of professional intervention or observation. Bishop would have included anything they were able to collect. “For now, no.” I clicked the checkbox and scanned my eyes down the list—grandiose views of himself, his tolerance, pathological lying. I filled in what I could from case recall, and as I typed a new file title for his record, my office door opened.
The smile that crept on my face was involuntary as Jaiden’s body moved into frame. Today was a workday and that meant his usual taste but business casual. His black slacks were a skinny cut that hugged his well-earned curves and angles. The black button-down he wore was tailored to accommodate his shoulders and wingspan. A silver-buckled espresso-colored belt pulled his look together with matching dark loafers. Jaiden’s hair was his best accessory, and it fell flawlessly messy into his eyes. I did another once over.
