“Madness, as you know, is like gravity.
All it takes is a little push.”
—The Joker
I scrub a hand down my face, flicking my gaze to the clock on the wall again in between pacing. It’s been two hours. Their trailer is seven minutes away. How long does it take to say a fucking goodbye?
“Hey,” Felix calls from the mini kitchen to my right. “Deep breaths, man. In and out.”
I snarl, and he chuckles, shaking his head.
I’m tempted to look out the window again, but the sunlight rips right through my head every time I do. We already had to hang a spare blanket over the glass. It’s sunny as shit in August, and the curtains here might as well be non-existent.
Jesus, I don’t get the painful sensations running rampant inside me. Two days of her resting, then she leaves right after she finally talks to me. The adrenaline racing through me is ready to burst. I keep going for my knife, thinking the feel of the blade in my hands will calm me, but it doesn’t. My chest burns, and my lungs are too tight to pull in enough air. I try to focus on somehow getting to my last two kills for some goddamn relief, but all I can think about is her.
I’ve even tried distracting myself with other things. Felix and I have talked in length over these past couple days. For a while, we monitored the house through the camera access he has on his laptop. Watched the police raid the place, trying and failing to get info off the software Felix fried and from the desks Aubrey cleaned out before she organized getting the secretaries to our extra vehicles.
Call it bittersweet. All I feel is bitter.
Nothing is foolproof. There’s still shit to lead back to us and what we’ve been up to. And then there’s Raife. Felix and I went through the backlogged recordings; Raife, with Stella’s help, walked away from the bullet he took in his side. He’s somewhere, his heart beating and his Emmy/Katerina obsession most likely thriving. But we’ve escaped death, prison, and worse before. Recreated ourselves and found sources of income behind screens. We can do it again, and better this time. As far as Emmy is concerned, if Raife comes looking for trouble, he’ll find it in the form of my knife in his throat.
None of that is behind the tension in my muscles and craving in my bones.
The last words Emmy spoke to me were filled with loathing, and before that, she didn’t speak to me at all. I watched her sleep, seeking something to fix me, but all that built was a weird ache in my chest. That shit was worse. I need her to look at me with something other than pain and venom. I need to feel her grip me back when I hold her. I need her exhales to saturate my lungs.
My body can’t seem to function without her, so it’s basic fucking survival I’m concerned about.
“Dude, we’re missing it,” Felix mutters, pulling my thoughts back to the room. He grabs the remote from the counter and turns up the volume. “Showtime.”
I step closer, my eyes narrowing on the screen. Felix wasn’t kidding the other day when he said the files were set to automatically release to all major platforms.
“. . . that the investigation into the murder of attorney and soon-to-be Kentucky state senator elective, Arnold Murphy, is still ongoing. However, officials have since acquired further evidence of the atrocious acts committed by members of Misha, an underground criminal group Murphy allegedly operated and oversaw. Fifteen years ago, Misha reigned in the black market, with records showing millions of dollars gained through sex trades and . . .” the brunette reporter folds her hands over the desk, a swallow passing through her throat as the first image appears in the upper right corner of the screen, “selling the disembodied bones of kidnapped minors.”
It’s bright when I spot it. Colorful and lively. It can’t be more than four inches long on the screen, but in person, it’s closer to nine.
I remember this skull. The way Katerina carefully glued the peacock feathers on all sides but the face. The white paint that lingered on her fingers long after she smeared the color across each cheekbone. I also remember the forearm that belongs to the same subject, a bone Katerina once handed her daughter just before asking if she still liked to color.
My lungs constrict more with each second I stare at it, making every inhale feel like a goddamn chore.
I wasn’t expecting this. Actual photographs as real as my memories, maybe more so. I refuse to look away. I’m a part of it, Misha and that very skull. They’re embedded into my soul, stitched with the blood I’ve witnessed and drawn.
When the image changes to spotlight a small white notecard sitting in front of the skull, Felix pauses the TV and cranes his neck toward the screen.
“Fly for me,” he reads aloud. “I’m not a bird. I’m not a swan or a dove above your head. Perhaps my wings are made of dirt from the earth below your feet. Perhaps my soul, the very air you breathe. My heart is fire; don’t get too close, for you will fall to ash deep in the shadows. Don’t go too far, for you will thirst for me like you would a cascading waterfall in the desert. I’m not a bird, for I am you, and you are me. I’m not a swan, for I am everything, you see? I’m not a dove. I’m only human with dreams of being set free. Won’t you fly for me?”
Silence expands in the room when Felix finishes. His eyes are stuck to the TV, his body as still as the news reporter on pause. “Hell,” he whispers. “Katerina makes us look normal.” He shifts his gaze to me then winks. “Well, me at least.”
I pull at my collar and squint at the walls, certain they’re inching closer. Was this room always so damn small?
Felix hits play, and as the news reporter resumes speaking, I glance at Emmy’s bedroom. It’s so empty. A strange rhythm erupts in my chest, each beat lingering like an echo. Digging my knuckles into the area, I try to rub the irritating sensation away.
So fucking empty.
“. . . and a string of those allegedly in connection with Misha at one time or another have reportedly begun disappearing over the past several years, including Hugo Perez, the well-known CEO of Shaggy Entertainment Industries who was officially reported as missing on July 22nd of this year. While there are currently no leads on the person or persons behind the disappearances, viewers are being encouraged to speak now if they have any information on—”
“Cut it off.”
Felix looks over his shoulder, his brow shooting up.
I press my fingers and thumb to my temples, attempting to quiet the throbbing in my head.
A second later, the screen goes black. It doesn’t relieve any of the tension from my body, but it does shut that reporter the hell up. I blow out a breath. What the hell is taking Emmy so long? I flick my gaze back to the clock, then the shaded window, my shirt feeling too tight across my shoulders.
Felix walks back to the kitchen, watching me as he passes. He doesn’t say anything as he places our leftovers in the fridge. After a minute, I pace into Emmy’s room, stopping midway and wrapping my fingers around the doorframe.
Fuck this.
“Dude, wait—”
I barely hear Felix when I barge past the exit. Within seconds, I’m in the shoddy lobby and blurring past two young receptionists. The news is on, that reporter’s grating voice filling the space, and one of the guys behind the desk is clapping his hands.
“Serves the bitches right, though. Doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, man. Sick shit right there.”
“Call the person behind the disappearances a hero and move on with your damn life, reporter lady!”
Sunlight beams in my eyes as I push the front doors open, and I groan. My head pounds like a hammer is swinging inside my scalp. A fucking hero. Those kids don’t know what in the hell they’re talking about. Draping an arm over my forehead, I take a step forward, no clue where I’m headed, just that I fucking need her. The rays of light creep past my arm and beat on my skin and eyelids. My throat tightens a little more with each step I take.
When the light closes in on me, cutting off my breath, I curse and bend forward, placing my palms on my thighs and trying to suck in some goddamn air.
What the fuck?
I start to turn around, but specks of black dot my vision. Where the hell is Emmy?