Page 3 of Mine

Only the inside.

There was a time when these detached emotions, disjointed flashbacks, and witless self-harm used to alarm me. To be honest, for a while I thought I was going crazy. That a life defined by monetizing murder had finally caught up to me.

But as the days went on, I accepted this temperament as inevitable.

I am fully aware that one day I will go crazy. That the ghosts of my past will find me, wrap their fingers around my throat—like the raindrops slithering down the window—and drag me into the afterlife. And when that time comes, all the money I’ve amassed over my lifetime—the homes, the cars, the jets, the yachts, the clothes, the priceless this, the exclusive that—none of it will matter. I will be judged solely on the decisions I made during my time on earth.

Isn’t that an unsettling thought?

I find myself pausing as I step into the library. I do like this room. I like the smell of the leather couches, the musty scent of old books. I like the gold accents on the bar cart, the crystal decanters. The dim lighting, the thick red velvet curtains that block out the light. I have libraries in all of my properties, each a replica of the next.

Trailing my fingertip across the bindings of the books, I read each title. Most are first editions worth more than most people’s cars.

All these things. So many things I have. Yet, still, I’m not happy.

Resigned, I shove my hands into my pockets and go to my office to check my email.

“Mr. Stone.” Prishna’s deep, sultry voice scolds me from the doorway.

Without turning or breaking my stride, I acknowledge my assistant with a dip of my chin.

I don’t need to turn around to know that she is wearing the same floral robe she wears every night. That a pair of cream slippers cover her feet. That her long silver-streaked braided hair is pulled into a bun on the top of her head. That her caramel skin is sallow from lack of sleep, and that her strong, angular face is screwed into a scowl.

In her hands, she will be carrying a sterling silver tray with a porcelain teacup filled with chamomile. Next to it, a warm Medu vada, a traditional Indian food that looks like a doughnut but tastes nothing like it. Trust me on this.

Same tray, same cup, same tea, same doughnut-thingy, same scowl. Every goddamn night.

“You should be asleep,” she says, frowning as she slides the tray onto my desk. Though Prishna—Pri for short—is younger than my forty-eight years by three years, she acts like my mother.

With a sigh, I look up and meet her catlike golden eyes, as intense as a sandstorm.

“Wandering again, I see,” she says unhelpfully.

This has become our routine. Every night, I wander the suite until Prishna eventually gets sick of it and chases me down with a cup of tea that she knows I won’t drink and a snack she knows I won’t eat. This has been going on for so long now that I’m beginning to think this ridiculous pattern is more for her than for me.

“I’ve made an appointment for you.”

This gets my attention. “An appointment for what?”

“With your doctor. Your insomnia is getting worse. I’m worried about you, Mr. Stone.”

“Don’t.”

“Someone has to, and for reasons unbeknownst to me, the gods have chosen me for this task.”

“Have they? Are you sure it has nothing to do with the grossly generous paycheck I deposit into your account weekly?”

She sighs, rendered speechless by frustration.

So, leave me. Someday she will, I remind myself, because they always do—in one way or another.

“I’ve also made an appointment with a therapist.”

“What?”

“It’s with a grief counselor. She specializes in the loss of loved ones ... children, specifically.”

I gape at my assistant as heat rises up my neck.

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