Page 6 of Psycho

“She’s relatively new to my office. Anastasia has only worked here for a couple of months. She seems eager to serve the community. I think she’s the ‘change the world’ type.”

“Her family?” I ask.

Easton shifts in his seat uncomfortably as I glare at him.

“I don’t know much, but she was the first in her family to go to college, and most of her pay goes to taking care of her mother.”

I scratch the side of my jaw, wondering what the story is, but it doesn’t matter.

A sob story will not change the outcome, if there is one.

“Do we understand each other?” I ask with an arched brow.

“Did she do something?”

As I drag my hand down my face, I answer, “She did. It seems your overzealous ADA is doing her own side work. A little investigation into the Bonetti Brothers. I assume you didn’t put her up to this? I’m sure you know the consequences of such behavior.”

His face goes pale, as he taps his foot under his desk in agitation, likely resisting the urge to run. We both know he wouldn’t get far, so it’s hardly worth the risk. I’ve never killed anyone in a government office, but I’m not above it either. I may need to add that to my bucket list.

“No, sir. I know the rules and I play by them. I would never cross your family.”

I pull out a bag of cocaine, which is how I bought his silence three years ago. He does whatever the fuck we want, and the drugs keep coming. That’s how we control so much of the city. If you find a weak spot, you can easily exploit it.

“Not a word to her, or anyone. If she has a warning to run, you will watch me slice your pretty wife to shreds.”

Does he even react to me threatening his wife for the first time? No, of course not, because he’s far too focused on his little treat.

Easton stares at the bag on his desk, and I can see him nearly salivate. The second I walk out the door, the white powder will be up his nose. His jaw is clenched, fists tight, like it’s taking everything in him to not get high right now. This is why junkies are my fucking favorite. They are the easiest to control.

“I won’t betray you. Ever.”

I rise from my seat, and pat him on the head.

“Good boy.”

Turning away from him, I walk to the door, and hear him rip open the bag before I’ve even left. Predictable.

CHAPTER FOUR

ANASTASIA

Losing a parent at only twelve years old is tough, but losing two is heartbreaking. My mother isn’t dead, but she may as well be. The day my father died, she stopped living. I spend every weekend cleaning her trailer, because it has gotten disgusting. No human should live like this, but she simply doesn’t care about anything. Her condition has only gotten worse over time. It started with her eyes glued to the tv, devolving to this nearly catatonic state. I sit beside her bed and stare at her lifeless body, her gaze fixed on something across the room that I’m not sure even exists. Like I’m not here beside her.

“Mom. You can’t keep going on like this. I love you and miss you so much. Don’t you remember how things used to be? I wish I could even remember the last time I heard you speak to me. Remember how much I hated it when you yelled at me? I’d give anything for you to scream at me right now.”

There’s no response, like I could’ve predicted, because there never is. I have not heard my mom’s voice in years. Once I moved out, she went further inside herself, and I have no idea how to get her to come back to the land of the living. I have read every medical journal on severe depression, trying to find the answer. I’m no longer certain there is one.

“The doctor says you stopped taking your medication, and that it would probably be best if I put you in a facility.”

I draw in a long, steady breath attempting to control the pounding in my head. Her silence causes the frustration to build, and I do my best to not raise my voice. I know it has been hard on her, but I want to scream, ‘what about me?’ No child should be deserted the way I was, but I also know, she didn’t choose this.

“I know you miss him. I understand that, but I can’t comprehend why I don’t matter to you. When you gave up on living, you abandoned me. I was twelve, and lost everyone and everything that ever mattered to me, in one fell swoop.”

Her stillness continues to fill me with a rage that only leads to guilt, so I turn away from her, and stomp to the kitchen like a petulant child. Every cent left, after paying my own bills, goes to caring for my mom. There’s a cook that comes in several times a week, to make meals she rarely eats. It’s clearly time to hire someone to clean, because I don’t think my weekend cleaning sprees are enough anymore. The doctor’s bills are more than I can afford, yet I keep paying them in hopes that they can help her. If she’s going to refuse the medication she’s on for depression and anxiety, they can’t do anything. It’s a waste of money, but if I take that option from her, she won’t ever get better. How can you make someone want to live?

I grab a pot, and warm the soup the cook made for her. It has yesterday’s date on it, but doesn’t look like it’s been touched. I’m not surprised, because over the last several months, she only eats enough to survive. After pouring it into a bowl, I grab a spoon and head back to her bedroom, setting the soup on her worn black end table. There is no point in trying to get her to eat while I’m here, because I already know she won’t. I know she does get out of bed occasionally to eat a little, but never when anybody is here. And she is still going to the bathroom on her own, but whenever there are people around, she plays dead.

“I’m going to the graveyard to see Dad. As always, I’ll bring him red roses, because I know he’ll think of you when he sees them.”

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