Page 32 of Psychotic Faith
In the margin of the book, I realize I've been unconsciously tracing letters with my finger. L-U-C-A. My hand jerks back.
"Miss Faith?" Little Lily tugs on my skirt, her voice high and innocent. "What happens next?"
I blink down at her, this innocent child who has no idea her favorite librarian spent last night with a killer's fingers inside her, tasting herself on his tongue. The children's voices sound like judgment, like they know what I've become.
"I… the princess…"
Sarah, my coworker, steps in smoothly. "Why don't I finish the story today? Miss Faith isn't feeling well."
But as I'm leaving, I notice him: a man in a dark suit by the reference section, pretending to read but watching me over his book. One of Luca's men. Making sure I know I'm never alone, never free.
I escape to the bathroom, gripping the cold porcelain sink as my reflection stares back. I look exactly the same: cardigan, modest skirt, hair in a neat bun. But inside I'm unraveling, coming apart at the seams Luca pulled.
The afternoon only gets worse. The Neumann Foundation meeting I've been preparing for, my chance to get closer to records, and I can barely focus. No sign of Janine this morning, and I hope that means she escaped unscathed after the premiere, just like Luca promised.
"Faith." Neumann's voice cuts through my spiral. "You seem distracted today."
His hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and possessive, and I flinch violently. The movement is too obvious, too telling. His fingers tighten, pressing into pressure points that make my arm tingle with warning.
"Jumpy," he observes, studying me with those cold eyes. "Not your usual sunny self."
Nine men dead for me.Luca would remove this hand. Would probably remove the whole arm. The thought makes me wet instead of horrified, and I hate myself for it. Who am I becoming?
"Just tired, Mr.Neumann." I imagine his hand on my mother's shoulder, and the whole world tilts around me.
I stand too quickly, his hand falling away. "Excuse me. I need to use the ladies' room."
I flee, making a beeline out of the library and straight home.
My apartment feels like a cage. I've been pacing for two hours, wearing a path in the carpet. My body vibrates with rage and need and years of control crumbling to dust. I need to go for a run to release this nervous energy, but I can't make myself do anything but pace and picture Neumann’s headless body.
My cracked phone sits on my coffee table, the spider-web fracture across the screen from when I threw it against the wall.I've been fighting the urge all day, telling myself I won't use it, won't give in. But my resolve weakens with each circuit of my apartment.
The evidence board stares at me from across the room. Photos of Neumann, documents I've collected, connections I've mapped. Twelve years of patience, of playing the perfect innocent, of getting close to his circle. Twelve fucking years.
And one night with Luca's touch has ruined everything.
The red dress hangs in my closet like an accusation. I wore it to save Janine, but all it did was lead me to him. To those fingers. To that coat room. To my complete undoing.
I grab the nearest stack of papers, throwing them across the room. They scatter like dead leaves, all my careful work meaning nothing because I can't focus, can't think, can't do anything except remember his fingers inside me.
"Fuck!" I scream at the empty room, knowing he's watching through his cameras, knowing he can see me falling apart.
I flip open my laptop and search for psychiatrists near me, but as I scan the list, I know nobody can cure me. I'm broken somewhere deep inside, forgetting my father, forgetting God, letting myself spiral deeper into a hole I don't even want to escape.
I need him. His hands, his mouth, his cock. Need him to finish what he started in that coat room. Need him to destroy what's left of me so I can stop pretending.
The evidence board mocks me. I grab another handful of documents, ready to destroy it all, when my eyes land on my damaged phone.
My life is already ruined. What's one more terrible decision?
My fingers shake as I text him on my cracked screen: "We need to meet in person."
His response is immediate, like he's been waiting: "Finally."
"Tomorrow. Somewhere public." Even now, I'm trying to maintain some control, some boundary.
"No.Tonight. Your apartment." His text demands total surrender.
