Page 39 of Psycho
August gripped the steering wheel hard. “When you’re done, I want you to know more about him than his proctologist.”
“Done. I’ll get back to you when I have anything.”
With that, she was gone. August felt somewhat better knowing Calliope was tracking Kohn and Adam and Noah were watching over Lucas.
He doubted Lucas would feel the same way.
* * *
August liked to think of himself as a feminist. He didn’t really care about the sex organs of who was on the other end of his wrath as long as they deserved it. And Dorothy Bryer deserved it. She was the worst kind of monster, in August’s opinion. One entrusted to care for children, both others and her own.
She looked innocent enough. If anybody saw her tied to the metal folding chair, they would most definitely think August was the bad guy. Which he was. But she was so much worse. She was sweating through her Lululemon leggings and matching crop top, her ponytail bobbing as she shouted muffled curses at him from behind her heavily duct-taped mouth.
They usually panicked when the instruments came out. That was when they knew this wasn’t something they were going to charm, bribe, or scream their way out of. They knew they’d been found out. Dorothy, though… She wasn’t scared, she was furious. She looked two seconds away from asking for August’s manager.
Just for kicks, he pulled the tape from her mouth. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
She huffed out a breath through her nose. “I said, ‘Do you have any idea who I am? Who my husband is? You’ve just kidnapped the wrong bitch, asshole.”
August did know who her husband was. Reggie Bryer. Real Estate Mogul. August knew everything about Dorothy because she documented her every thought and feeling online, using social media to garner sympathy over her sick or dead children. Lamenting her shitty genetics or terrible luck. Asking God why he would keep taking her children from her.
“Does your husband have any idea whoyouare?” August asked, running his fingers along the surgical instruments laid out on the sterile metal table.
There it was—the barest hint of fear, a momentary panic they could never hide no matter how devoid of feeling they might be. “Excuse me?”
August grabbed a scalpel, holding it up to the light. “Does your husband know what you did to his children? What you keep doing to his children?”
“You’re sick. How dare you bring up my children. You can’t even imagine the hell I’ve been through. My life is a nightmare.”
With that, she began to weep, real tears streaming down her face. August grabbed the other metal folding chair, loudly scraping it across the concrete before he sat before her, straddling the back as he faced her. “You can skip the theatrics, Dorothy. I’m immune to tears or crying or begging. It just gives me a headache.”
She sniffed delicately. “You’re a fucking monster.”
“I know you are, but what am I,” August chided, slowly dragging the scalpel across her cotton covered forearm. She didn’t even scream, just hissed as the blood bloomed across her snowy white top. She glared at him now, her tears disappearing as fast as they appeared. “That was expensive, you dick.”
August thought this would be fun, but Dorothy was just proving to be tedious. “Funerals are expensive, too, but you seem to love planning those. Ironic since black’s not really your color.”
She strained against the duct tape around her wrists, working them this way and that. He let her tire herself out. When she flounced back against the chair, she glowered at him. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“Why do you do it?” August asked, ignoring her question.
“Do what?”
“Kill them? Hurt them? Drown them, smother them… Why kill poor, defenseless children?”
“I didn’t! Both of my children were born sickly. No matter how many doctors they saw or treatments they tried, nothing worked. Why are you doing this to me? I was a good mother.”
“Both your children were born sick?” August asked, feigning interest.
“Yes. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t know what you’ve heard but I swear, I loved my children. I was a good mom to both of them. Please, you have to believe me.”
August jerked to his feet and he watched her recalibrate. She thought the tides had turned, that she’d somehow gotten the upper hand. He walked to the table and grabbed the small pile sitting on its surface. When he was sitting down, he held up a photo. A little girl of about four. “Is this the child you loved? The one you were such a good mother to?”
“Yes. Look at her,” she sobbed.
August tossed the picture at her, watching it flutter into her lap. “She died of an overdose of allergy medication.”
“That’s not what the coroner said,” she snapped, mouth tightening into a hard line.
