Page 12 of Sin Like the Devil

“Your room’s across from mine.”

“Oh.”

Another patient sidles up to the woman, eyes nervously darting from side to side. She reaches out a hand, and they exchange a quick, perfunctory shake. Something is passed between them before the other patient scuttles away with a muttered, “Thank you.”

I’m shocked to silence. I thought this place was meant to be some kind of rehabilitation program, yet here this chick is, dealing drugs in broad daylight without a single care. It’s hard not to be impressed.

“Can I get ya something?”

I stop at the edge of the grass, close enough to see the calculating gleam in her eyes. “Like what?”

“Anything you want.”

The relentless itching in my veins forces me to ask, despite my determination to remain invisible for the next three years. If I don’t paint or sketch soon, I’ll be staring down the barrel of yet another manic episode.

“Charcoal pencils? And a sketchpad?”

Snorting, she doubles over with a short laugh. “Do I look like a fucking art supply store?”

“You said anything I want.”

“People usually ask for stuff that’s a little more… irregular.”

I shrug dismissively. “I’ll pass on the hard stuff, thanks. I didn’t get time to pack all my supplies before they took me away, and my useless uncle has pretty much disowned me. So pencils it is.”

“What did you do?” she chortles.

Biting my lip, a smile breaks free. “Might’ve accused the pizza guy of being a Martian and gone on a rampage that made the news. You know, the usual world-ending stuff for prissy family members.”

“Clearly.” Considering for a moment, she looks me over. “Fuck your family. I can get your damn pencils.”

“How much?”

“Consider it a welcome gift. You got a name?”

“It’s Ripley.”

She outstretches her wrinkled hand for me to clasp. “Holly. Stick with me, kid. You’ll be alright.”

Quickly shaking her hand, I catch sight of two other patients hanging nearby in the shadows of the tree line. Rather than approaching to strike up a deal with her, they’re silent, creepily watching us.

Two pairs of contrasting eyes track our every move—one belonging to an over-muscled boulder of a man. His eyes are filled with burning anger that corrupts his pale seafoam irises visible beneath his mop of tousled, chocolate hair.

The other is a stark comparison. Where his companion is all muscles and rage, he’s slim and birdlike, his platinum hair paler than fresh snow. He wears his midnight-blue eyes with absolute detachment. Not a single hint of emotion belies his intense stare.

“Friends of yours?” I whisper, unnerved by the attention.

When Holly tracks my line of sight back to the pair, her easy-going persona falters, showing a glimpse of something darker. It flickers across her features like bubbling storm clouds, casting a foreboding shadow that promises retribution.

The broad mountain with fiery eyes offers a smirk before walking away, his ghostly pale friend following behind. Nothing that passes between them and Holly could be classed as friendly; I feel like I’ve inadvertently stepped into a minefield between two enemy lines.

“Hell no,” Holly mutters curtly. “If you know what’s good for you, kid, you’ll stay the fuck away from those two.”

Jerking upright, a cold sweat clings to my skin. I’m shaking so hard, it feels like my body is vibrating. The memory rests at the forefront of my mind after clawing its way out of my mental lockbox while I fitfully slept.

My nightmares are usually reserved for high-definition retellings of my parents’ deaths. Not so much Dad’s heart attack. My mind prefers to imagine how Mum’s car crash unfolded while I was safely at home with a babysitter as she travelled back from a girls’ night.

But not tonight.

---