Page 141 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

Addisyn is strapped to a gurney, much like the one I used on my subjects, like the one I was restrained to while Grayson tried to cook my brain. She’s tipped into an upright position, her mouth gagged. Her eyes blink furiously as she struggles against the straps.

Grayson pulls out a phone from his back pocket and taps the screen.

Blakely’s phone vibrates with a text. As she reads the message, I can see her making the full connection. She’s been communicating with Grayson for the past few days, not Addisyn. While I’ve been pissing and shitting on a dog toilet, drinking out of a water bowl and being fed dog treats by a serial killer, I wasn’t sure what happened to the woman Blakely left in charge.

Admittedly, I assumed he killed her. But that would go against his fucked-up moral code, I suppose.

My biceps are starting to burn, my back aches from pressing into the mesh grating. I attempt to reposition myself, and the cables band tighter around my wrists.

Whatever Grayson ultimately wants, it won’t come without a price—a price that will be too steep for either of us to pay.

We’re not leaving here unscathed, unchanged, even if we manage to live.

Grayson watches me as I watch Blakely, getting some sick satisfaction out of my misery. She looks up from her phone, her face pale and all traces of confusion removed from her delicate features.

“What else do I have to do?” Blakely asks Grayson, her tone now hesitant, having lost some of its edge.

With an excited gleam in his eyes, Grayson removes a vial from his pocket and places it on the counter, then deposits a second vial right next to it. I squint at the bottles, like I can actually read the labels without my glasses.

After a lengthy beat, where he holds Blakely’s gaze, he says, “Sometimes, we don’t know what we want, or even understand who we are, until we’re forced to confront our darkest fears. Choice opens our eyes.”

She lowers her phone and glares across the room at him. “So, this is all for my benefit?” She releases a tense, mocking laugh. “Well fuck, am I supposed to thank you?”

“Actually,” he says, removing a box of disposable gloves from a cabinet and slipping a pair on, “you can thank London. She’s invested in your awakening, as she refers to it. I’m just the instrument.”

“What is he talking about?” I ask Blakely, but she doesn’t respond. She’s studying Grayson with guarded apprehension and acute focus.

Suddenly, I realize none of this—framing Brewster; the subjects I killed linking to Grayson—was about me. This is between Blakely and London.

“But more than anything,” Grayson says, “I’m selfish. This is my assurance that every single loose thread is knotted nice and tight. I hate those sloppy loose ends.”

He produces a third vial and a cotton swab. As he breaks eye contact with Blakely to step toward Addisyn, alarm lights up every nerve in my body. Grayson submerges the swab in the liquid contents of the vial, being extremely cautious not to drip any, his movements slow and precise. A tight band of terror coils my spine.

“It’s a toxin,” I say, my mouth dry and voice gruff. “Blakely, go. Now. Get out!”

She remains where she is, refusing to move or react, or to even look at me. What the hell did his text say to her?

A furious whip of anger lashes my insides. I try to kick out of the restraints, but only manage to snap the fucking cables tighter. Every time I struggle, the hoist turns a cog, and I’m racked and stretched. My muscles are on fire. Phantom flames lick the scar tissue of my hand. And I watch, petrified, as Grayson dabs the cotton tip across Addisyn’s sweat-slicked collarbone as she squirms, her cry muffled by the gag.

“Actually, it’s a nerve agent,” Grayson corrects me. He holds the saturated cotton swab a safe distance from his body. “One of the deadliest nerve agents engineered by man.”

XV, I think, as my pulse thuds against my neck. “That’s not possible,” I say, although I know it wouldn’t beimpossible for me to engineer the compound myself—but how the hell would Grayson have access to those chemicals?

Instead of acknowledging my statement, Grayson turns in my direction. “I really appreciate Mary’s inscription to you. While I was repairing the watch, I kept reading it, and it finally clicked why you have such an obsession with clocks.”

“Fuck you,” I say, keeping his attention trained on me and away from Blakely. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Alex, I created you,” he says, false pride lacing his deep voice. “Our cerebral death gives way to our rebirth.That’s how you cited it.A necrosis of the mind.You stated it in your journal yourself, and I’m agreeing with you. Because I killed what made you human when I took your sister’s life, you’re a product of my design.” He tilts his head. “Very lyrical for a man of science.”

I grit my teeth, jaw clenched to the point of pain. “It was a metaphor, you twisted fuck.”

“I don’t buy that.” His smile doesn’t meet his callous eyes. “But regardless, I do know what makes youtick, Chambers.”

A low chuckle escapes. “Always the narcissist, to assume that passage was written about you,” I say, accepting where this is heading. “Sheis the reason.”

Something flashes behind his darkened gaze. “Let’s test a theory.”

As Grayson approaches me with the swab, Blakely finally reacts. She lunges at him too late for me to warn her, my shout crackling against my eardrums. If one particle of that swab comes into contact with her skin, there will be nothing I can do to save her.

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