Page 33 of Psyop Kings

His words don’t make sense.

“You’re making all this up,” I hiss. “Where’s Megan? Let us go home. Please.”

He scrubs a palm over his face. “You really think something terrible’s happened to her, don’t you?”

I don’t satisfy him with an answer. He knows how I feel.

Suddenly, he jerks his head up and grins. “Why don’t I prove it to you? That Megan is just fine?”

My muscles tense at his words. This is progress. They’ve yet to tell me where she’s at or how she’s doing.

“Prove it,” I challenge, voice shaky.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and begins moving his thumbs rapidly. Then he shows me what looks like an Instagram page. It’s Megan’s page.

I get tangled up in the blanket in my crazed effort to get off the bed to take a closer look. I try to take the phone from his hand, but his grip is too strong. In the picture, Megan looks…happy. And not in a shy way. She’s grinning and wearing a lot of makeup. In fact, she’s radiant.

Gareth doesn’t stop me when I use my finger to scroll down to read the caption: “CUP is saving the world one person at a time. I’m proof!”

“This isn’t real,” I tell him. “I don’t know how you did this. She was taken. You people took her just like you took me!”

He flinches at my outburst but then shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”

I cower away when he rises to his feet. His disappointed frown somehow makes me feel guilty, which is absolutely ridiculous.

What if he’s telling the truth?

My mind isn’t always reliable. It’s been lying to me since I was six.

“Let me show you,” he says softly. “I know this is hard to comprehend, but it’s reality, Ro.”

The way he says the shortened version of my name with familiarity like my own brother has tears flooding my eyes. None of this makes any sense.

He then shows me his phone again. It’s my Instagram profile this time. The last posted picture is of me and Megan. We’re both wearing CUP shirts, grinning at the camera.

What?

The picture beside it is of me at the event—the same one they stole me from. Next to it is a picture of Caius in his tux. I mash it to read the caption: “My boyfriend’s hotter than yours.”

No.

Caius is not my boyfriend.

This is messed up.

“This isn’t real,” I whisper, shaking my head. “You’ve made all this up. I want to leave. Let me go home.”

“Romy, this is real.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and his jaw works like he’s fighting tears. “I miss my friend. Come back to us, Ro. Search deep inside of that twisted mind of yours and remember. Please. It’s killing all of us, especially Caius.”

His pain is palpable.

It’s a punch to my gut.

“Gareth,” a deep voice admonishes from the doorway. “I told you to give it time. Can you not let it be?”

Caius.

My supposed boyfriend.

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