Page 81 of Cruel Riches

“That’s all you have to say about it? It’s not yours?” Nate said, eyes glimmering with disdain. “So you’re claiming you’ve never been medicated for anything?”

I gritted my teeth. “I’ve been prescribed sleeping tablets before because I’ve always struggled with sleep. But that’s all. I don’t even take them anymore because they didn’t help me.” I hesitated and shrugged. “Maybe they mixed up the drug label on the pill bottle, and that’s why you found it in my trash. It was meant to say Ambien.”

“I don’t think a pharmacist would be that stupid and incompetent. You were obviously prescribed Aripiprazole because you’re batshit fucking crazy.”

My head was aching now, and there was a dull roaring sound in my ears. “Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?” I asked, lips curling with disgust. “Even if that was my medication, it wouldn’t mean I’m a killer. Tons of people are on meds like that for all sorts of reasons, and mental health issues don’t automatically make people murderers!”

Nate laughed again. “You’re seriously trying to be politically correct right now?” he said, shaking his head. “Do you really think people who slice and dice girls are mentally stable?”

I gritted my teeth. “No. Obviously they’re unstable. I’m just saying it’s fucked up to paint all mentally ill people with the same brush.”

“I’m only painting you with that brush, because these are your meds and you’re a fucking lunatic. Just like daddy dearest.”

Anger surged through me like acid, starting in my belly and burning as it rose to my throat. “So that’s all your evidence, huh? A search history and a pill bottle.”

“Of course not. Remember the camera I put in your room?”

I glowered at him. “Yes.”

“All the footage from it was transmitted wirelessly to my computer. I also had an alert system set up so that it would ping me if there was any movement detected in your room while I was sleeping. I set that up just in case you tried anything in the middle of the night, because I was sure you would at some point, and I was right. Too bad the alert system didn’t work. I slept right through it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Slept through what?”

“This.” He grabbed his own phone and clicked a few buttons. Then he turned the screen to show me a flickering video. It showed my apartment at 1:03 yesterday morning. The camera had a night-vision mode, so everything was visible and clear.

“It’s just me sleeping,” I said, rolling my eyes again. “What does that prove?”

“Wait for it.”

A moment later in the video, I got out of bed and stared into space. Then I slid some shoes on and grabbed a coat, blank-faced the whole time. I picked up a key and slipped out of my dorm.

Nate fast-forwarded the footage to 3:19 a.m. I returned to my dorm, removed my coat, and kicked off my shoes, leaving dirty patches on the floor. My pajama pants were covered in blood, and so were my hands.

My knees buckled, and I slid back down to the cold floor. There was a high-pitched sound in my ears, as if my head had been struck with a tuning fork. I had no idea what was happening.

“I… I must’ve sleepwalked,” I said, panic brimming in my words. “I don’t remember leaving my dorm that night at all.”

“You left for nearly two and a half hours and came back covered in blood. The bodies of those girls were found hanging in the quad by a jogger two hours later. You do the math, Alexis.”

“No.” I shook my head wildly. “It’s not what it looks like. I have my period. You can check. Seriously.”

He arched a brow. “Your period?” he said with a scoff. “Do you see the amount of blood on your legs and hands in this video?”

“You don’t get it,” I replied, holding up a shaky hand. “I’ve always had extremely heavy periods. Guys never understand that stuff because it doesn’t happen to them. But it’s not the first time I’ve woken up with my legs covered in blood.”

“And your hands?”

“I must’ve touched the blood when I was sleepwalking.”

“What about your face?” Nate zoomed in on the footage. There was a scratch running across my cheek. “Defensive wound from one of the girls?”

I’d noticed the minor abrasion in the mirror when I woke up yesterday and went to the bathroom to clean myself up, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I thought I just scratched myself in my sleep. I’d done it before. No big deal, and easily covered with concealer.

“I scratched my face in my sleep,” I said, staring up at Nate with wide eyes. “Or maybe a twig scratched me when I was sleepwalking.”

“You know what you sound like with all these flimsy excuses, right?” he asked, cocking his head.

I swallowed hard and looked down at the floor. I knew exactly what I sounded like. A fucking lunatic, as he so eloquently put it earlier.

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