Page 85 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

“Let me feel your pulse.”

With a resigned breath, I place my hand against hers, and her fingers rest over my wrist.

“Alex,” she says.

My pulse jumps in my veins. I remove my hand from her touch. “A parlor trick that only proves how much I loathe him.”

London eases back in her seat. “I would love to dive deeper with you. Explore your emotional range with psychotherapy. Obviously, I’m fascinated on a professional level to find out more about the cure you underwent, but I also believe I can help you.”

I jerk my head, tossing my hair from my eyes. “Alex’s ‘cure’ isn’t the word I’d use for this disturbed affliction. Besides, he didn’t make me aware of the process. He kept much of it from me. I can’t tell you any more than what I’ve already revealed in the email. And I believe the only way you can help is by giving me the information I came here for so I can find the bastard.”

A tight-rimmed smile lines her mouth. “Dr. Jenkins was a narcissist with a god complex. Grayson stalked her. Witnessed her brutality and total callous disregard for her patients. It’s hard to say whether or not Dr. Jenkins was committed to her lobotomy procedures in the name of discovery or her own selfish endeavors, as I never assessed her myself.

“But…,” London adds, “Grayson did talk about her once during a session. He said the way she disposed of her victims was the most telling of all about her. Instead of falsifying their death record, hiding the evidence of her malpractice and allowing the families to have closure by burying their loved ones, she relocated them to a remote location and disposed of them herself. She simply made them disappear, their lives of no more consequence to her than a dead animal.”

My skin prickles, the hairs at the nape of my neck lift away. I know where Mary buried her victims, because I’ve seen the graveyard. I’ve felt the bones. I assumed they were Alex’s victims, and maybe some of them are, but I know intrinsically that his sister was the first to dig up that earth.

The question now becomes if whether or not Alex was aware of his sister’s disposal practices, if that’s why he ultimately chose her cabin, or if it was a sick coincidence.

Like sister, like brother.

“She sounded ruthless, heartless,” I say, trying to mask the anxiousness in my voice. I’m omitting a lot of details from this conversation, but it’s necessary to keep London in the dark for my own sake. Maybe one day, when this horrible nightmare is over, I’ll tell her more. I’ll let her analyze me and try to help. Then, maybe she can.

But this is my sickness. Alex is my sickness. And I greedily want him all to myself.

“Did Grayson ever say anything about Mary’s ties to her brother?” I ask.

London inclines her head. “If Grayson knew of Alex’s existence, he didn’t factor him into his plans for his sister. That’s all I can offer.” Her gaze drills into me, unnerving. “What I’ve said here is rather unethical, but I feel for your plight, so I trust it will remain between us, an informationalquid pro quo.”

There is some threat there, a vague demand for me to give her a secret she can hold against me so we’re on equal ground.

“Of course,” I say. “This conversation never happened.”

“Thank you.”

“Alex made it seem like he and his sister were close…” I trail off, searching my memories of our conversations. “I wish I knew a way to draw him out.”

The watch feels heavy in my pocket all of a sudden, its secrets burning to be told.

“You’re looking for an Achilles’ heel, a weak spot. Something to use as leverage. But I think you’ve failed to see that you’ve already found the biggest leverage of all.”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to worry about tracking him down or drawing him out. You’re his creation, his masterpiece. If he truly believes he cured you, that he achieved his greatness through you, he’ll come for you, Blakely.”

My breath stalls in my lungs.

Her words feel ominous.

When I didn’t recover his remains at the cabin, that only confirmed what my instincts already knew: Alex has been watching me. He’s likely been in my apartment, where he could’ve copied my black notebook—and used the names listed there for his own nefarious purpose.

Two of my revenge targets have already wound up dead.

No—notwound up. Murdered. Caleb Foster and Christopher Monroe were murdered.

Revealing that to London would tip thequid pro quoscales, however.

“I hope you’re right,” I say to her. “I want him to come for me. I’m not afraid of him.” I conceal the tremble of my knee by crossing my legs. It’s not Alex I fear, the trepidation of what he may do to me.

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