Page 108 of Cruel Cravings

And then no less than five minutes later…

BREAKING NEWS:Brighter Days Psychiatric Hospital in Flames - Suspected Arsonist at Large

My phone buzzes in my hand as we ride the subway and the train jostles down the dark tunnel. It’s another alert, this time my favorite of all.

I smirk and nudge Brontë, who towers over me, one of his thick arms above his head as he grips the steel pole on the subway car. He’s earned a few odd looks from the other riders, but nobody dares question the muscly, six-foot-seven guy in a minotaur mask, covered in blood and ash.

“It’s me,” I giggle. I double tap my screen to bring up the news article linked to the alert. My photograph comes up on the screen, right beside the long paragraphs of text explaining I’m the suspect on the run. “Wow, I guess they finally see me. I’m glad they at least used a flattering photo.”

Brontë shakes his head as if he can’t believe me, but deep down he’s amused in his own way.

A chorus of pings, chimes and buzzes go off around the subway car. One by one the riders seem to glance at the alerts on their phones and then up at me and Brontë. Comprehension slowly dawns on their faces as they recognize me and realize I’m the girl in the article.

The one that Easton PD believe set the fire at the psychiatric hospital—and a whole bunch of other stuff too.

Apparently, over the past couple weeks, they’ve been hard at work piecing together the spat of bodies they’ve been finding and have realized maybe it wasn’t the Cleaver after all.

Maybe it was a harmless enough looking young woman who had recently been discharged from the hospital for good behavior.

“C’mon,” I mutter to Brontë when we reach the next stop. “These people have a staring problem.”

I wrap my arm around his thicker, meatier one and we’re the lone passengers to get off. Nobody else dares move. But they damn sure watch us go.

It’ll probably be a matter of minutes before they alert the authorities.

I don’t really care. Not anymore.

I tried behaving myself. I tried being the good girl, listening and obeying and doing what they said I should do. Where did that end up getting me?

Dr. Wolford used our therapy sessions to take advantage. He used them to make me feel like I was losing my mind.

Almost everybody else was either cruel or judgmental. They were Winston trying to get me to sleep with him for a job and the people at the Midnight Society betting on people like race horses.

They were the people right now in the subway station gawking at me like I’m a freak. Can’t a girl walk down the platform with her bloody, minotaur-masked boyfriend without people staring?

A cop stationed by the platform rushes toward me and Brontë, apparently recognizing us from all the alerts. He doesn’t get anywhere near me before Brontë uses his brute strength to snatch the guy by the neck and slam his face into a brick wall.

He crumples to the ground with his baton limply in his hand.

We ride the escalator like any other couple would, arms linked, and once on the city street outside, we head toward our next stop.

A townhome where someone who’s practically become an old friend lives. Even if she has no idea about me and we’ve never officially met.

Imani Makune is in her bedroom packing up her suitcase when we climb the fire escape and peek through her window. The curtains are sheer enough, a slide part down the middle, that we’re able to watch her throw things into her suitcase. She leaves the room a moment later to grab more things.

I lift my leg, hooking it over the window ledge to climb inside. Brontë moves to stop me but I give him a look of reassurance.

“I’ve got this,” I tell him. “Be my backup.”

Continuing the little game I’ve been playing with her, I place a memento from our time at the Midnight Games on top of her suitcase—the same kitchen knife that had been used to kill several of the Society guests. I have just enough time to slip behind the curtain before she returns clutching a toiletry bag.

She senses something off almost immediately. Her body goes rigid as her gaze falls on the contents of her suitcase and she notices the blade. Looking up to the window, the sheer curtains flutter, barely concealing me.

“I know you’re here,” she says. “I know you’ve been watching me.”

She pads closer to my silence, then she picks up in stride, seemingly concluding I’m the person she’s been looking for.

I’m my sister.

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