Page 14 of Deviant Illusions

Strangers’ conversations filter through as I make my way to the cemetery for my night shift. A literal graveyard shift. My stomach churns as I pass an all-night diner, but my entire body freezes at one sound.

A laugh.

It’s late, so she can’t see me across the road as she stands there, like she’s fucking innocent, with a smile on her face. It could be a hundred years and I’d always recognize that laugh. The sound that once filled me with warmth now only heats my blood with rage.

Delilah fucking Leroux.

She’s as beautiful as ever, with her hair neatly held together. The uniform doesn’t fit her rich-girl, prissy image. There’s not a universe where any member of the Leroux family would work. Yet she stands there, outside of Carol’s Diner, with a name tag pinned to her lapel, flirting with some dickhead.

Murderer isn’t enough of a descriptor for what she’s done. Not when she buried two people in one casket. And now she’s living her fucking life like nothing happened.

The man isn’t her type. He’s too normal, when she’s been crafted by the devil. Jealousy isn’t a new emotion. I’ve envied many people, many things. But this is different. I don’t want to fuck her, I want to fuckingruinher.

Delilah rolls her eyes at whatever the man says, then leans up on her toes to kiss him. She hasn’t just moved on from the events of the past, she’s fully ignored them. There’s no guilt or remorse eating away at her.

I don’t continue walking. I step back into the shadows between two buildings and watch her. I watch her kiss him, how she runs her fingers through his light brown hair in the same way she did to me. She smiles at him—in the same fucking way she did to me.

Bringing my phone to my ear, I call the overbearing dickhead who acts like a mama bird.

“Does your offer of working for you still stand?” I ask before Niko can say anything.

An engine slows in the background of his call, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, kid. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go through the rules.”

Before I entered prison—before I was falsely sentenced for a murder I didn’t commit—I had dreams of owning a tech company, making things out of nothing. Now that Delilah has made me a murderer, her lies have grown and become reality. And my dreams have evolved. Fuck creating anything—destruction will be therapeutic.

But she’s going to beg me to end her suffering.

6

DELILAH

Stale smoke is the first thing that reaches my senses. Even before I open my eyes, I can smell it. The smell turns more pungent as I twist away from it, only to have a face full of old grease. It sticks to my nostrils, and I can taste it despite my mouth being closed.

A blaring trill vibrates near my face, and I groan as I slap out to get the sound to stop. My fingers skim warmth. Human warmth, covered in skin and prickly hair.

I try to control my breathing as it all rushes back. My hand slowly goes to my throat, and I wince before I even make contact. But there’s no pain, no bruising, no marks that show I was hanging from a rafter.

“Babe.” The deep voice beside me is one I faintly recognize. It doesn’t belong to my tormentor—the dead one or the live one. Martin sleepily groans as he rolls over to face me and pulls my phone from under the pillow. “Answer it or ignore it, just make the noise stop.”

I must be stuck in another vivid dream, seeing as I haven’t spoken to him in over a year. Not since he decided to act like a prick after finding out who my family is. Instead of kicking theapparition out of my dreamland bed, I take my phone. The warm screen feels real as an unknown name and number flashes on the screen.

Dr. Raymond.

I don’t know a Dr. Raymond.

My senses are slow at returning. I look down at my body. The uniform covering me is one I remember. That motherfucker made me think I was crazy and question my own memory. But as clear as fucking day, the polyester t-shirt hasCarol’s Dineracross the chest and there are small holes from my name tag being pinned to it.

The same can’t be said for the rest of the room. It’s not one I’ve been in before. There are boxes piled in the corner. If Kane thinks I’m stupid enough to fall for whatever bullshit he’s planned a second time, he’s got another think coming.

Swinging my legs over the bed, I answer my phone to a deep voice. “Miss Leroux, you missed our session yesterday.”

Kane is a prick, and whatever he’s using to alter his voice isn’t enough to convince me that he isn’t on the other end of the line.

“Fuck you, dickhead,” I snap, and end the call.

None of my clothes have been removed and my shoes aren’t in sight. What stops me from moving is the date on my phone. It’s my birthday. Three months have passed. The last thing I remember is the twisted fuck—literally.

There are no marks on my wrists from being restrained and my legs are thinner than they used to be. I have no recollection of the missing time, but Kane is a sick fuck. He’s done something to orchestrate this, just like he did before. I can’t work out what Martin’s involvement is, but he can fuck himself too.

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