Page 32

“Oh, hush,” Artemis says, standing from her seat. “We came by to deliver the news so you can likely expect a visit from Professor Rowths-Spurig soon, Mr. Constantine. I would predict within the next month.”
April, great. That means I’ve got a month where I can pretend this isn’t an issue, and then I’ll get to deal with whatever weird treatment plan some snooty-named college professor came up with. This is why I think the penitentiary needs to leave all treatment to trained professionals, and let the students and scholars come up with ideas on their end for someone with training to implement. This already sounds like a nightmare.
“I thought you would be excited,” Artemis goes on, and I watch the two of them move towards the door. Jace is far less excited than before, and I hope he gives her hell on the drive back to the university. “The professor is actually already familiar with your case, Mr. Constantine. You should be flattered she took such an interest. She’s a transplant from a school in Illinois. She said she did a lot of research on your case while there and is excited to continue it here.”
That makes me spin around. The only time I’ve ever been to Illinois was when I was in Supermax, and I never had a soul visit that I accepted during the years I was there. A fewfanscame by when I first got locked up, then the fanmail that the guards tore into, but I wasn’t interested in any of that. I shunned my brother and I would’ve shunned my foster parents too if they could be bothered to want to see me. There’s only a handful of people in life that I would want to see nowadays, and none of them showed up in Illinois. I got a few collect calls from Emeric, but he couldn’t travel to Illinois at the time and I wouldn’t want him seeing me like that anyway.
“I didn’t meet a professor in Illinois,” I call out, and Artemis glances back over her shoulder at me. Jace looks like a giant beside her, standing a head and a half taller. “I had no visitors during those years.”
“Well, she seems to know you,” she replies with a shrug, “and she’s very interested in your case. I’d be prepared to meet her soon, Mr. Constantine. Who knows, you two might hit it off.”
Artemis moves to the door, stepping out as it beeps and opens with a swipe of Norbert’s badge. Jace’s eyes lock on me once more and I wonder what he thinks of the exchange. He didn’t seem to be aware of Artemis’s plans and his happy attitude from earlier is gone.
Norbert stands to the side as they walk out, and I shake my head as the door slams closed again. Turning, I snap at him. “You just let them get away with that? Shouldn't your ears be burning with the information they just shared with a criminal?”
He shrugs, going for the keys at his waist to undo the chains as though nothing’s wrong. “I like Professor Rowths-Spurig. She’s good friends with the warden. Maybe you should watch what you say, Constantine. No one is on your side in here.”
He’s not wrong; I’ve not spent a lot of time with Norbert over the years and I didn't realize he had such hostility for me. Maybe this is why he’s not normally assigned to me. Instead I slide away the information he’s giving me as he undoes the chain.
For a moment, I picture what it might take to snap his neck and try to make a break for it. Maybe the guard outside moved with Artemis and Jace to escort them out, maybe he’s still out there. Norbert is slow, and he relies on his baton for unruly inmates to keep us in line. If I catch his wrist I can snap it, and if I move fast I can grab the baton.
He’s older. The eye sockets and nose are usually weak, and I could do some real damage before more guards break in here and stop me. It might put Norbert out of commission. It could land me in solitaire myself or earn a visit from the almighty warden.
All the thoughts fly through my mind in seconds. Would this actually be worth the trouble? Then I see blonde hair, and Fake Porscha is there on Norbert’s other side, grinning widely at me.
It’s times like this I know she’s a figment of my imagination. Her grin stretches too wide across her face, like the corners of her mouth are cut so the smile can go on and on. But when she speaks her mouth appears to work just fine.
“See boy? Your insides are ugly, just like me.”
I draw until my fingers bleed later. I don’t have any pencils to work with, and the paper I do have suffers under the markers and chalk as I sketch. The meeting with Artemis still feels more like a threat than anything else, and I don’t like the feeling of being cornered.
No agents again today, and I’m getting antsy. I haven't gone out of my way to make friends since my conviction, so solitude is something I’m intimately familiar with. But the unending silence and Fake Porscha appearing randomly lately is starting to make me question my sanity. I know I’m a little off my rocker since, you know, I’m convicted of killing multiple people, and I even admitted to it, but this is a different level of mental.
I’m starting to doubt things. What’s real, what’s fake, what people bother to tell me. Jace looked confused at the visit, and Artemis acted like she had a checklist of things to do before walking out. The guard didn’t care, the warden isn’t knocking on my door, the agents aren’t coming back to badger me…
With all my victims buried and gone no one needs anything from me. This copycat has given me a false sense of importance, and the stupid ongoing visits thanks to the FBI don’t feel like they benefit me no matter who the visitor is.
“Artemis could be an agent for the FBI,” Fake Porscha says, swinging her legs on the edge of my bed. I’m on the floor where I can spread out, and I don’t know why she has to appear on my bed in my head. “She could be testing you.”
“Artemis is a bitch,” I say to myself, grabbing a new sheet of paper. I didn’t even mind being shuffled back up to my room today to sketch messy images to add to my wall. “No one is going to turn her into an agent of anything. If Sterling wanted to get me to admit to something that isn’t who he’s going to send. He’s obviously already sent the people he thinks will do the most damage, and I still didn’t spill anything.”
“Oh, right,” Fake Porscha mocks. “My daughter.”
I sigh and look up at her. I don’t know why my mind insists that this is who should mock me for eternity, but this Porscha that I’ve crafted never seems to go away. She’s always lingering in the back of my mind, manifesting at the worst time to mock and question me. I know she’s not real,I know that, but it doesn’t stop me from seeing her.
Perhaps I am crazy after all.
The Porscha I create in my head looks a lot like Jo does now, minus the scars. Her hands are both in place and she’s typically wearing some sort of denim overalls like she would when she went out on jobs while she was alive. That’s how I met her years ago, working away at a side project for my foster parents.
Knocking on the door interrupts my process, and I slam the pencil into the paper. It destroys my project, and I don’t even care as my creative thread is shattered.
Dramatically, I sweep the pencils and the pages off the island with my forearm, dropping them into the top of the trash can. If it cannot be perfect it’s not worth showing off to anyone, and I don’t need my foster parents spotting it and trying to feign being impressed. I’d rather not hear their faux joy or see their pity.
Storming to the door, I’m prepared to start yelling. It’s midday, so it could be a door-to-door salesman or one of those neighborhood kids that keeps landing footballs in the backyard. I don’t check the peephole, going straight for the door to throw it open.
And I pause.
The woman standing on the other side has a youthful face smudged with paint. She immediately reminds me of one of my classmates, from the strawberry blonde hair to the way she raises an eyebrow as she looks at me. The eyes are different though. This woman’s are green, and when I think of Joelle her eyes are two blue orbs. She’s tall for a girl, standing closer to my six-foot-five frame. There’s a tool belt slung over her shoulder and a hardhat on her head.