Page 22 of What's Left of Us

“I didn’t kill him,” I say automatically. “It’s part of the written statement I gave.”

He nods. I gave Sterling’s team what I could under advisement, and my attorney ensured that I only gave information pertinent to the location I was trapped in. The only other thing they asked about was which bodies I was responsible for.

I wasn’t supposed to answer in the statement, but I did it anyway. I can’t remember the names of any of these new victims, because I didn’t kill them. But I remember Wallsburg and his abrupt end. Now that there’s evidence I didn’t willingly work with Porscha after she dragged me out of prison, they should believe me when I say I didn’t kill Kyle either.

“There were things about your original case that didn’t make sense,’ McKinney says, and I know what he’s hinting at. My spine stiffens, and my hands flex on the table. “The firstvictim, Natasha Odell, you weren’t even in Citrus Grove when she died.”

“I visited the Franks briefly,” I comment. “For my foster care relocation. Tallahassee wasn’t working out so I came to Citrus Grove for a few days. The Franks were nice enough, but I had my case worker with me and we were here to enroll in school and everything else before they moved me. It was in time with her death.”

McKinney scoffs. “Alastair, be straight with me. My job is to get you a fair sentencing, not to roll over while they talk about adding years to your sentence. You don’t have to continue to take on whatever horrors you were hiding from that girl. Her mother isn’t dead, so she will eventually discover all the lies.”

“Jo,” I say tightly. “Her name is Jo. You should know that.”

He sighs but nods. “Right, Jo. Just think about that when you speak with the agents. If you can share more details, it will challenge anything Porscha tells them. She has an attorney representing her as well, and although she has at least five additional cases unrelated to you, there’s still the question of how many of those girls you actually killed.”

I lick my lips, turning to glare at the wall across from us. “What else do you need to tell me?”

“Professor Artemis was let go from the university the day you were found,” he continues, and that does surprise me. “She’s tangled into the case, but I’m not sure how much. Her program won’t continue. But if you perhaps had a rapport built with any of the students who came to see you over these past years, we could possibly use their testimony when we go to trial-”

“When?” I interrupt, turning to glare at him again. “I don’t want to repeat the past. I’m at fault for those deaths-”

“I don’t think you are,” McKinney challenges, raising an eyebrow at me. “So I’m going to ask, one more time, before thoseagents come in, what really happened the night that Porscha supposedly died? If you can tell me a seamless story, with every detail, I’ll believe you’re at fault for those fourteen deaths.”

My jaw ticks even thinking about it. I have half a mind to just tell him to fuck off and leave me to deal with the FBI agents on my own, but his question reminds me too much of that fateful night.

“We both know that’s a lie.”

The words have barely left my lips when Porscha stabs something into my arm. Not something… the same thing she gives me over and over. It gives me a high, better than smoking weed, and causes me to disassociate.

Whenever I float like this, I always picture my mom. My mom, who died too young and left me all alone.

The homes that didn’t want me.

The foster siblings who didn’t care.

The schools that maybe saw issues but did nothing to intervene.

The families who let me down.

The friends I didn’t connect to because it’s better to be alone than be forgotten the moment I’m no longer there.

All the people who couldn’t give me the time of day…

I stumble into the wall, and vaguely I realize Porscha is shutting us in again. I can see the person across the room, hair hanging past the dingy sheet, the dim lighting in here…

“You can’t make me do this again,” I say, blinking over and over. I’m used to this by now, it shouldn’t affect me so much. It’s easier to slip into the high than fight it, but if I don’t fight it right now I’ll do something I seriously regret.

Porscha is busy dragging something across the room. It’s a bag, and she struggles and sweats as she moves it around. Every time I’ve come down to the cellar with Porscha, shealready has someone in the basement. I don’t pick the people, I can’t. But she reminds me how lonely I am, how no one listens like she can…

I take a step back and smack my head on the low ceiling. I should go find Jo. Or Vinny. Something feels wrong.

“Come on,” Porscha taunts, dropping the bag. I shake my head, afraid to know what’s inside it. “Let’s do one more since you interrupted me. You’re leaving soon. Leaving with my daughter of all people. This can be our last fling together. Ourthing. Just you and me.”

I blink, trying to focus on the words. She’s right, when I move with Jo and Vinny this sick game ends. I won’t have her encouragement or her know-how, or the drugs to get me going enough to hurt another person. This ends the day I lease Citrus Grove.

Porscha’s become dependent on me, like I am on her. If she continues after I move, it’ll be with someone else. I don’t think she can handle doing this alone again when she always has my help.

Except this time.

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