Page 31 of Psychotic Faith
"Fine." The lie burns my tongue.
He watches me over his own coffee, those sharp judge eyes that miss nothing. Years of lying to him about my plans forNeumann, and I've never slipped. But now my body betrays me with every breath, remembering Luca's touch, his taste, the way he made me come apart in that coat room.
"You know the Rosetti pre-trial hearing starts next month," Dad says carefully, watching my reaction. "Armed robbery, three dead. Though of course they'll walk. They always do."
My thighs clench involuntarily. Three dead. Only three? Luca's killed nine men just for looking at me wrong.
A plate drops in the kitchen, the crash making me jump. My coffee slips from my trembling fingers, brown liquid spreading across the table.
"Jesus, Faith." Dad grabs napkins, mopping up the spill while I sit frozen. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry. I just—"
"You've been different lately." He studies my face, and I force myself to meet his eyes. "Distracted. Nervous."
"The holidays are always busy at the library," I manage, cutting into my pancakes with hands that won't stop shaking. "Plus I'm tired from the library fundraiser planning last night."
Dad nods slowly, but his expression doesn't soften. "Speaking of last night."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. The syrup on my pancakes pools thick and golden on the plate.
"Someone saw you at the Arcadia Theater." His words land precise and heavy. "During the premiere. Leaving a coat room."
My mind races through possibilities. Who could have seen? One of Dad's contacts? Someone who reports to him about the Rosettis?
"I wasn't at any premiere." The lie burns my throat. "I was home early, remember? You texted me about being safe."
"The witness said you looked disheveled." He leans forward, voice dropping. "Said you were with a Rosetti man. Tall, dark hair, expensive suit."
Luca's family name from my father's lips sounds sinful. Like my memories, how he made me beg, made me come while confessing his murders.
"Must be mistaken." I force myself to take a bite of pancake. It sits heavy on my tongue. "Lots of blonde women in Chicago."
"Faith." His hand covers mine on the table. "You know what the Rosettis are. I've warned you about them before."
I know exactly what Luca does. Know he's killed over a dozen men who looked at me wrong. Know he watches me sleep. Know his fingers can make me forget years of careful planning.
"I know to stay away from them," I say, the words hollow as my thighs press together under the table.
"Especially Luca." Dad's grip tightens on my hand. "Remember what I told you? He's the worst one. Genuinely disturbed. The things he's done, the bodies they've found—or haven't found…" He stops himself, shaking his head. "Last month, someone's hands were delivered to his widow in a gift box. That's Luca's signature. He doesn't just kill. He makes art out of suffering."
My core clenches. God forgive me, but hearing about his violence while my body still remembers his touch… I'm sick. I need to see a psychiatrist.
"Just promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise." Another lie to add to my collection, another sin I'll have to confess if I can ever face Father Murphy again.
"The witness was very specific," Dad continues, not releasing my hand. "Said the girl looked just like you apart from her clothes."
"Dad, I was home by eleven. You can check with the library board if you want." I pull my hand free, wrapping it around my coffee mug, though the ceramic offers no warmth against the ice in my chest. "Your guy is wrong."
But he's still watching me with those judge eyes, seeing something I can't hide anymore. The change in me. The corruption that started with a Polaroid and exploded in a coat room.
I skip church for the first time in forever and head straight to the library. It should be my sanctuary, but even here I'm falling apart. Bright faces stare up at me during children's story hour, waiting for me to continue the tale I've been telling them for weeks. The book trembles in my hands, pages rustling with each shake.
The smell of old paper and crayon wax, usually comforting, now mixes with the phantom scent of expensive cologne and blood that I can't wash off my skin. Every time I breathe in, I smell him.
"And then the princess…" I stop, completely losing my place on the page. The words blur together. All I can see are pale blue eyes. All I can hear islittle faithgrowled against my ear.
