Page 66 of Psychotic Faith
“I’m not here for money,” I repeat, pulling out the second folder: photocopies of emails between Neumann and his head of security, detailing payment schedules to SafeGuard for “offsite asset disposal.” A single sheet of paper on top: Patricia Harrison’s sworn deposition, notarized by a county clerk.
He pauses over the name, recognition flickering behind his glasses. “Patricia. I remember her. Nervous woman. Always apologizing.” He reads the statement, lips twitching at the key lines. “She was killed in a car accident last week, wasn’t she?”
The room tilts. I feel my pulse in my teeth. “What?”
“I reviewed the dashcam footage myself.” His smile returns, sharp and symmetrical. “She was driving home from her daughter’s violin lesson. Wet pavement, reduced visibility. The autopsy found no evidence of foul play.”
I’m shaking now. Not just my hands—my entire body, a tremor that starts in my knees and works up my spine. “You’re lying,” I say, but the words sound childish, unconvincing.
“I don’t need to lie,” he says, folding the deposition and tucking it into his jacket pocket with a proprietary neatness that makes my skin crawl. “That’s the difference between us. You’re a truth-teller, but I am the truth.” He leans close, close enough that I can smell the expensive aftershave, the faintesthint of smoke and old books. “If you plan to extort someone, Miss Winters, you should not let them dictate the terms of engagement.”
25 - Faith
Neumann steps back, returning to the window, letting the skyline reassert its dominance over the room. “May I be candid with you?” he asks. It’s rhetorical, but he waits for my nod.
“You’re not the first to uncover this, and you won’t be the last. Nervex was a tragedy, but it saved lives, too, if you think about it. The money we make goes into funding the development of new drugs. You want a confession, or do you want to feel powerful? Because I can give you both if it means you’ll disappear quietly.”
My throat is dry. “I want you brought to justice. I want you to answer for what you did to my mother, to those kids—”
He interrupts with a dismissive wave. “Justice? There is no such thing. There is only leverage and cost.” He turns fully, regarding me like a specimen pinned to glass. “What will it take, Miss Winters, to buy your silence? Money? An apology?” He shrugs.
For a second I see myself from above, a woman in an old black dress, armed with a folder and a dead woman’s sense of righteous anger. In the entire city, there is no one less powerful than me. But I do the only thing left to do: I stand. I stare him down.
“I want the world to know what you did.”
He laughs, low and soft. “Then you should have tried harder to survive.”
He approaches the table again, moving to the next document. "This one… Gustav Treyson. Overdosed three days ago. Surprising for a man who never touched drugs." His fingers trail across the papers like a caress. "Your witnesses seem to be having terrible luck, Faith."
The sound of my first name from his lips makes my skin crawl. I take a step back, hand moving toward my purse where the gun weighs heavy. "You killed them."
"Killed is such an ugly word." He organizes the papers into a neat stack, movements practiced and calm. "I prefer 'resolved complications.' Much like your mother was a complication."
The words hit like ice water. Everything stops. "What did you say?"
"Come now, Faith." He sits on the edge of the table, casual as discussing quarterly reports. "Did you really think I didn't know? Sarah's daughter, spending years getting close to my business associates, volunteering at my company events, playing the innocent librarian while gathering evidence?"
He laughs, the sound refined and horrible. "I've been watching you for three years. Waiting to see what you'd do. It's been fascinating, really. Like watching a mouse build an elaborate trap for a cat."
"You knew." The words come out hollow. All those careful moves, all that planning, and he'd been watching me perform for him.
"From the first charity gala you attended." He stands, moving closer. "You wore green. Did you know that? The same color she wore to the medical conference where we met. Where she rejected me."
My hand closes on the gun in my purse. "You murdered her."
"Murder is a legal term." He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne. Expensive. Suffocating. "Your motherwas investigating the Nervex trials. She was going to expose everything. But that's not why she died."
"Then why?" My finger finds the trigger through the leather, as I take another step backward.
"She laughed at me." His voice shifts, something darker bleeding through the executive polish. "I offered her everything. Protection for her investigation, money, a life together. And she laughed. Said I was pathetic. Said she'd rather die than let me touch her."
The mask drops completely now, his face transforming. "So I gave her what she wanted."
"You strangled her." My voice cracks. "I saw you. I was under the couch and I saw you smile while you did it."
"Yes." Simple. Casual. "And you've spent all this time becoming her. Same righteousness. Same careful planning. Same naive belief that justice means something."
I pull the gun from my purse, but he's already moving. Faster than a man his age should be. His hand clamps on my wrist, twisting until the weapon clatters across the floor.
