Page 72 of Soul of a Psycho

“That’s why I’m here,” I croak. “Because it was too embarrassing for my father.”

Cade opens his mouth, blinks several times, and then snaps it shut as a tremor rolls through him. The veins in his neck bulge, and I swear I hear him grind enamel off his teeth. I’m about to reach out to calm him when I notice fresh blood appear at the drain. My eyes slowly track it until landing on his fist. He’s squeezing so tightly, his nails digging into the gash, that crimson drips rapidly.

Oh, god. I think I created a monster.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Cade

Late November sleet drips from my hood as I drop the boxes into my trunk and slam the hatch. I should probably be more gentle, considering the chemicals in them, but part of me would be happy to create a poisonous gas right now. I could choke and die, and then the rage that’s settled in my bones like a terminal illness could cease. They would have to evacuate Angel Point—what I have in those boxes is potent enough to need a hazmat team—but it wouldn’t save the crotchety old fuck who owns the postal shop.

He’s standing in the entrance, arms crossed as he watches me from the sidewalk. His bushy gray brows and saggy jowls are pulled down, giving me the same suspicious look I garner from everyone in this town. Any other day, I would be paranoid that he somehow knows, that he’s opened my mail against federal law and did some research, that SWAT is waiting around the corner to tackle me, but today, I wish he did. Then maybe he would fuck off and keep his distance.

I climb into the car and peel out, white knuckling the steering wheel till I reach the highway. I haven’t been able to sleep. Or, I have, but not well. I wake up feeling exhausted. The fucking pills aren’t doing shit for me, not since I stopped sleeping outside of Lamb Hall with the first snow. Sky all but battered me when shefound me, half dusting off the icicles, half hitting me in anger. But she was right. I could freeze to death, and that was not in the plan. There was so much that still needed to be done.

The bare trees on either side of me blur by in a smudge of gray as I go through it again. I’ll need to place over twenty more orders. Each order contains enough supplies to make two and a half bombs. I already have thirty-five made and ready. I need to make sixty-five more. That’s one-hundred total to place evenly under four-hundred chairs. I only have twenty-eight weeks to build sixty-five. Plus, a bonus one. One that detonates upon facial recognition and will sail through the mail without being detected.

It was surprisingly easy finding out who assaulted Sky. One search brought up her father, Congressman Lyons, and another brought up a poorly buried article willing to mention names and accusations.

Chase Louden.

It’s amazing what information you can get for a thirty-dollar background check. I had an address before I even knew what to do with it.

But what’s not easy is dismantling an FCC Compliant webcam and writing the code. Luckily for me, the guy is a douche bag that has more than a thousand photos on social media. More than enough to train facial recognition. When he opens his package, faced with a cute little teddy bear, he will have no idea the eyes are scanning his bone structure and sending a signal for combustion into its plump fuzzy tummy.

Whoever’s with him will be collateral damage, and I don’t have a single qualm about it. You are who you surround yourself with. I doubt anyone in his vicinity would be a saint. I can only hope he opens it around his parents. They’re the ones who brought a rapist into the world, after all.

As much as this side project is keeping the rage at bay, I’m wearing myself thin, and I have to fight to keep my eyes open as I near Hillcrest. I had everything perfectly mapped out for this year, but I didn’t anticipate Sky, her irresistible aura drawing me to her every waking hour, or her past needing justice. Now, I’m not even scraping by. I should have had at least eighty of the bombs built by now. And as midterms approach, I’m nowhere near as well studied as I should be in order to maintain a higher GPA than Arnold Calhoun.

And there’s no corners that can be cut. Not when the hourglass is counting down to death and there is no redo. I can’t leave Chase alive. I can’t not be Valedictorian. I can’t have less than one-hundred bombs. I can’t lose out on any time with Sky.

I thought I had made peace with my meager existence, but now I have something I fear I can’t get enough of before that last grain of sand falls. I’m plagued with what if’s that not even the fucking sleep pills can thwart. What if I spare her and wait in the afterlife for her? What if I spare us both? Will she still love me in prison? What if I spareeveryone? Could I walk away from Hillcrest with the rot still eating me alive?

Sky has mentioned Japan a few times. Could I go with her and be who she deserves while the justice I didn’t seek pecks at my sanity like a crow finishing off a carcass?

For the first time since this plan manifested, I’mscared.

I’m scared I won’t have the guts to press the button. I’m scared that I’ve spent two years teaching myself a craft for it to end up in a hole in the woods. I’m scared that I’m doing the wrong thing.

A cold sweat slicks down the back of my neck as I pull through the iron gates, back into hell. My mouth is dry by the time I park, and I’m nauseous when I finally drop the packages on the workbench in my shack.

The small space is in disarray, littered with spools of wire, empty tubs, and empty energy drink cans. I have piles of duct tape and adhesive putty scattered about, stuffed wherever they will fit. Enough for one-hundred chairs and then some, just in case. Three unstuffed teddies lay with their innards open, none quite the right size. There’s an obscene amount of textbooks, some dog-eared and others laid open, that are a testament to my commitment to learn coding and excel at midterms, but all are half finished, coated in black smudges from working on the stars of the show.

The bombs.

They’re the only neat things in here. Stacked in three crates under the workbench with the tarp on the ground around them.

For fuck’s sake.

I bend and fix it, making sure to cover them fully. I’m really losing it if I left them on display like that. Yes, the ax was poised to impale if anyone came snooping, but there’s no such thing as being too careful when dealing with explosives.

I sway from the effort and grasp onto the chair before I pass out. I steady myself and then sink down. I stare at the boxes, knowing I need to open them and separate the contents. That and order another bear, one with a bigger midsection. I also have to take notes for chapter twelve before the history test tomorrow. And I really should get the last third done of the current bomb I’m working on.

I sigh and lean my head back, dragging my hands over my face before giving my cheeks a good slap.

I can do this.

But I only get through three hours of work before my hand cramps up, and I succumb to dry swallowing two sleeping pills.

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