Page 95 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

My fist sticks the punching bag hard, and the bag wobbles sideways. I catch it and start my routine again, my mind grasping at any distraction to prevent the one thought that only allowed me a few hours of sleep.

Having my suspicions confirmed brought on the nightmare, but this time, the faces of my revenge targets made cameos.

I take aim on the bag and lose myself for half an hour of intense focus. My wrapped knuckles take a beating as I visualize Alex’s face as the bag. I see the moment so clearly in the dark forest, when I tried to escape and he blocked me with surprisingly skilled Jiu-jitsu moves. The shock I felt at his betrayal.

Not just the overall betrayal of the abduction and invasion of my person—but the duplicity, the expert way in which he masked his life into the ultimate lie to mislead me.

I groan and hit the bag harder, working out my aggression, which I never seem to work all out. It feels like a constant, irritating itch beneath my skin. As I land a fast strike to the bag, the music mutes as my phone dings with a notification.

I hold the bag, pulling in labored breaths to steady my heart rate. I remove an earbud and glance over at my tote. My phone lights up with an alert. I slip off my gloves and remove my ear pods before I swipe the notification open.

A prickle of dread touches the back of my neck. I recognize the name on the alert: Reilly Stafford.

Reilly was one of my first jobs. He was a really bad guy who more than deserved the revenge I doled out to him on behalf of my client.

Now he’s dead.

His body was discovered behind a liquor store. Wallet and money missing. No shoes.

Twelve stab wounds to the torso.

A frantic laugh slips past my lips. I mutter a curse and rip the tape off my hands.

With most of my attention given to confirming Alex was even alive, I didn’t stop to process the fact that he’d make the connection between me and Ericson’s murder.

Or what it could mean if he figured it out.

Alex is no longer hiding. He’s calling me out. He wants me to know it’s him picking off my targets. Every single one has had the same MO as Ericson’s murder; it’s a blatant message right to me—his twisted way of telling me he knows.

So what is this to him…foreplay?

Some kind of warped hide-and-seek kink?

I drop down on the bench and shove my fingers into my hair, elbows pressed to my knees. I stare at the tiled floor, gaze unseeing.

Before, I rarely had doubts. No, Ineverhad doubts. I always knew what my marks were thinking and how to access them. Hell, I’ve stalked stalkers before and set sophisticated traps for their revenge.

I want to believe I can read Alex, that I’ve come to understand his sick, demented brain—but the truth is, my rampaging emotions make me second-guess him, us…everything.

He was always unhinged. But he had a purpose. His belief system—no matter how flawed—kept him from losing complete touch with reality. I could always see a grain of sanity in his eyes even as he struggled with what he believed and his moral compass.

But what purpose does he have now? Why is he doing this?

And then I decide I don’t care.

Trying to unravel the workings of a madman’s brain is a descent right into madness itself.

All I know for sure is Alex is making a scene and drawing attention. He’s not even hiding the bodies. He wants me to know.

But I’m not the only one who can draw comparisons.

A string of murders of wealthy financial advisors and rich pricks with the same methodology denotes a possible connection. It’s a giant red flag—one that will damn sure be investigated.

I don’t want the authorities to catch Alex.

He’s mine.

I can’t wait for him to come to me.

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