Page 21 of What's Left of Us

My mind goes on autopilot as they set me up. I’m used to the dreary visitation room, which feels more like a police station interrogation room, and the waist chains are unlocked so they can attach my wrists to the hitch in the table. I’m not supposed to be able to break free from anything.

“That seems like enough precautions,” McKinney says, stepping into the room. It feels like I’ve seen more of him than anyone else recently. “We need the room please so I may speak to my client.”

“McKinney,” Bradshaw says, and I glance up. His voice is low, but not low enough that I can’t hear it. “Why are you defending this scum?”

“Because you aren’t even giving him a chance to share his truth,” my attorney barks, and he wins another point in my head. I don’t like a ton of people, but Tobias here isn’t half bad. He treats me more like a person than the guards or police officers around here usually do. Even the hospital staff kept their distance from me, but that’s nothing new.

Bradshaw sighs, and I wait for more snappy comebacks. But he has none, nodding to his guards instead. “Preston, stay in the room-”

“We’re not playing this game, Bradshaw,” McKinney says, dropping his briefcase on the table. I can’t imagine whathe’s hiding in that thing. “My client deserves attorney-client privilege.”

His jaw ticks. “Mr. Constantine is a danger-”

“Just because you are unable to handle your inmates doesn’t mean I have the same issue,” he snips. “I don’t need a spy in here as pretend protection. The room, please.”

Alright, I like McKinney a bit more now.

Once they clear out and the door closes, he drags a chair around and sits beside me. “We don’t have a lot of time to chat, Alastair. I’m going to give you the speed dating version of what’s going on so you’re prepared.”

I shift in my chair. No one usually gives me this much intel without making me work for it. It makes me weary of what he needs, or what he expects me to agree to once he shares. “Okay.”

“Look at these while we chat,” he says, laying a few pages in front of me. I’m surprised by the content and shoot him a look, wondering what the hell this is. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Alastair, but if anything ever happens to you, you have no one listed on your forms. No one to take possession of your belongings, no one to make medical decisions if something happens to you in that prison, nothing. Assets or not, I recommend that you think this over and consider having some things in order.”

“You want me to prepare to die?” I ask, truly surprised. That’s a new one.

“No,” he says quickly, pointing to the pages again. “Just think about it. These go away before the FBI comes in. It’s none of their business if you have your affairs in order or not. But seeing as you have nothing, I’m going to guess no one ever went over this with you.”

I stare at him. “No, not really.”

I was arrested days after graduating high school. Of course I don’t have my fucking affairs in order. He’s supposed to be here representing me for a criminal case, not bringing up extra nonsense to distract me.

Looking away, I shake my head. “Put them away.”

“You should look-”

“Not right now,” I spit out. If I’m going to be badgered with questions about the case, this isn’t what I want to focus on. What is he up to?

“Very well.”

I hear his briefcase open again and turn, watching as he slides the papers back in place before he focuses on other things in there. He starts taking out notes, then photographs, and I sit and watch patiently. “Do you know who Beverly Heather is?”

“No.”

“She did a horrid news report on you immediately after your arrest,” he explains, and I try to figure out how long ago that was. I believe it’s the second week in June but… things blur together in here. “She wants attention. I think there’s an ulterior motive. She skewed facts and made national news. But we’re going to use that.”

I stare at him blankly. “What?”

“You might not like it, but you have a fanbase. A large fanbase, which I can’t say I agree with,” McKinney says, wrinkling his nose. “The Slayers are all over social media right now talking about you. It’s all a little skewed, and if you aren’t following serial killers, national news, things like that, your re-emergence is going under the radar. But there does seem to be an uptick in people claiming to be fans of yours.”

I frown. My chat with Sterling was brief at the hospital, but no one has mentioned anything like this to me. He couldn’t have given me a hint?

The last thing I need is a bunch of whack jobs trying to idolize my prior kills. I know there are more bodies, I’ve had the information relayed to me several times. But I don’t know if Porscha did or did not kill more people than she let on.

“The Slayers are divided on who the true CGS is,” Tobias goes on. “Many supporters are on your side, saying this is the legacy you’ve left behind. Others want it to be all on Porscha, claiming you were manipulated by a person in power at a young age.”

I squirm at that, memories threaten to resurface. I’m not sure if I like that angle. “How does this help me?”

“Porscha is going to be convicted of the five copycat murders that took place while you were in prison,” Tobias explains, folding his hands. “My understanding is the FBI is still investigating the three additional deaths that took place since your disappearance, and they will question you about Kyle Wallsburg again.”

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