Page 110 of Fool Me Twice

Fine. Let them live their lives as they saw fit, without him there to make it all worse for them. Without his mistakes and insufficiencies. The things he’d been accused of that weren’t true.

He had been yelled at and pointed at and cast away, and it did hurt. Because he knew how Nexus worked.

His team would get a replacement for him now that he was gone. Each cursebreaking team had to be complete to function. Nexus would send another interpersonal specialist to Slatehollow, and then it would be like he’d never been there at all. A ghost. A memory. Would they ever think of him? Would they even care?

A voice told him they wouldn’t. That they’d never wanted him. Never appreciated him. Look at how fast they had turned on him.

But his brothers weren’t the only ones who had let him go.

At the thought of Cane, Hart writhed on the scratchy bed cover, like it was enough to cause him physical pain. He squeezed his arms around his stomach, sweating and panting, his head feeling like someone had shoved a poker into it.

Being replaceable to Cane…he couldn’t stand it. No, no, no. It couldn’t happen.

For years he’d been aware of the fact that there was nobody out there who fit him better. There was nobody out there for Hart other than him. But now that feeling was under a microscope. He felt like he couldn’t breathe without him there anymore. His thoughts were all mixed up.

Cane didn’t think the same about him, obviously. He’d turned on Hart just like his brothers had, convinced there would be the next man. A different man who’d be just as good for him as Hart. No, not just as good. Better.

All those years of being the best version of himself, and it had all been for nothing. He wasn’t good for anything. Or anyone.

It ripped Hart up and sent him springing out of bed, disoriented and stumbling. He crashed into the far wall and tried to balance himself.

“No, no, no…”

Cane couldn’t leave him. He could never leave him. It was a crushing weight. An urging hand.

He stumbled into the bathroom to the yellowing sink there, bracing himself on it and running the water. He splashed some on his overheated face before glancing up.

He met his own eyes in the mirror. Darker than night with almost no white left. Only a curling flicker at the corners of his gaze, just out of sight.

He stood transfixed.

And then there were a thousand Harts, scattering like confetti all over, the tinkling in his ears adding to the funfair he’d just created. He looked down at the chaos as if through someone else’s eyes.

When had that happened?

He dropped the soap dish to the floor and stepped over the mess, glass cracking underfoot. His head felt heavy and swollen, so he curled back up on the bed, pulling the collar of Cane’s shirt over his mouth and nose, inhaling the scent of smoke and his bodywash.

He closed his eyes and tried to make the bad thoughts go away. He visualized all of the motivational posters he had hung up at home and in his office. None of the words on them fit what he was feeling. None of them helped. The letters rearranged themselves, the thoughts behind them hard to focus on.

He wanted to sleep, but that nagging voice, that force inside him kept throwing images at him. They flipped behind his closed lids like a movie and wouldn’t let go no matter how hard he tried. He was arguing with himself and losing.

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts.

He straightened up in bed and frowned at the chipped wood. He hadn’t ordered anything—not that the dingy place he was in had room service. He’d paid in cash, so the suspicious-looking man tending the front desk had nothing to ask him for.

There was no reason for anyone to be knocking on his door unless it was a mistake. He went to burrow back into bed when another knock sounded, this time more forceful. He stood up and walked toward the door, the haze of compulsion falling over his mind once again. He looked down at his body, finding his arms and legs moving as if in slow motion. How many times had this happened? Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he stop himself? He was so exhausted.

Something had taken over the reins of his body and wouldn’t let go.

He looked around himself and spotted a heavy-looking ashtray sitting on top of the worn and cheap table in the corner. It was filled to the brim, the butts matching the ones Hart usually smoked. But he didn’t remember seeing the ashtray before. He didn’t remember chain smoking until the thing was full.

He took a detour to it without knowing why, emptying the tray into the trashcan right next to the table and gripping the glass in his hands. The tips of his fingers smudged the ash left sticking to the surface as he walked back to the door still being rattled by loud, insistent knocks. He lifted the ashtray over his head and reached for the doorknob.

“Come on, sweetheart. Open up.”

The voice made his heart jump, a rush of dark, creeping satisfaction and ecstasy flooding his brain.

Cane.

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