Page 137 of Wicked Sins

This isn’t talking. This is a therapy session. But I’m not supposed to know that, not supposed to be wise enough to figure out that everyone in this place is either crazy or well on their way to insanity island.

I turn my attention to Angie. “I told you what I need.”

She sighs. “Someone your age shouldn’t need sleeping tablets to fall asleep at night.” She shifts in her chair, pursing her lips in silent judgment of my insomnia.

Back in her day—

“We have to uncover the underlying issue.”

“Fine.” I flip my hand idly, and go back to staring at the pictures. “I’m sure, eventually, I’ll just pass out from sheer exhaustion.”

She doesn’t say anything, which is unusual. When I look at her, she’s practically steaming.

“I’ll up your dosage.” It’s as close to a mutter as I’ve ever heard from her. Then her eyes snap up to stare at me. As close to a glare as I’d ever seen. “Are you sure you’ve never taken sleeping tablets before?”

“Why would I?” I shrug. “I’ve never had trouble sleeping until I got here.”

The ghost of Candy Present takes over, and that memory dissolves into the fireplace’s glowing embers.

I guess all the drugs he’d been feeding me, combined with the meds and the sleeping tablets at Happy Mountain, had turned me into a good ole junkie. He doesn’t realize it, but my tolerance is sky-high compared to what it used to be.

Clink.

Clink.

The flames dance—silently reproachful of my bad habits.

Clink.

Clink.

“Aw, would you look at that?”

I make sure to only move my eyes. Wayne takes off his glasses and sets them down beside the chessboard. Then he stands and smooths his hands down the front of his button-up shirt.

That gesture is familiar to me now. I’m not as fucked up as I should be—as he thinks I am—but according to my mind, I’m still in Wonderland.

He did this every night we played chess.

He’d drug me, play chess, and win.

“Checkmate, Candy Cane.”

The game was over. Now came the time for the victor to claim his spoils.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Josiah

Jo!

My eyes open to darkness and a low-key rumbling that I can feel as well as hear. When I breathe, there’s an ache in my throat. There’s a horrible, chemical taste to the air. A fierce headache thumps on the inside of my skull as I try to focus on something, anything.

My brain takes precious seconds to figure it out. When it does, panic floods me like a dam wall breaking.

I’m in a car.

In the garage.

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