Page 18 of Antihero (Tregam’s Fractured Souls #3)

Chapter eight

F or one night a year, and one night only, the people of White Rock don’t bury their heads in the sand when it comes to the history of Eternal Light Asylum.

The vigil continues through midnight, candles struggling to stay lit against the wind that doesn’t stop for the darkness of night.

Children complain into the hushed silence, old men grumble, their wives shush them.

But like showing your face at church on Sunday, attendance, and staying until the last candle winks out, is something of social proof among the townspeople.

As are the bouquets of white flowers laid against the palisade fence of the churchyard.

The church, a small, old thing I’ve personally never had occasion to voluntarily enter, faces the east side—the still-mad side—of the asylum from a safe distance on its lone hill, nothing but space and the valley to separate them.

The graveyard beside the church forever expands, even as the island population dwindles—outside of the asylum, anyway.

So, the four hundred or so bundled up people linger around the church yard late into the night, a low murmur of voices while the church choir sings mournfully into the night.

It makes the hair on my arms stand on end, a chill that’s due to more than the icy breeze tracing my spine.

I stay out of sight of Harry in the crowd.

I’m not sure how to re-approach him yet.

My failed stint at his house was over a week ago now.

I want to spit at him. How dare he be here, among the first to lay flowers down like some high member of society, when he’s responsible for so many of the deaths that happened inside Eternal Light. So many of the lost minds.

I suspect Tristan’s among the crowd, a shadow I can never quite catch for long enough to identify. He’ll be here, watching, calculating, trying to uncover my secrets. I’ll let him, for tonight.

Some others lay small grainy photos against the fence.

Dr Goodry is one of these, and as I step up after him and lay down a long-stemmed lily, I see the picture—a black-and-white photo of a young boy.

His only son, who went into the asylum for something mundane and never came out.

I wonder if he ever wonders whether Harry is responsible, ever wonders if it was by his hand.

I suppose he might think it’s best to leave well enough alone.

Harry was just doing his job, after all, and didn’t he cure more than he harmed?

A shitty defence. He did his job alright, with gusto.

Molly isn’t buried here, but I knew others who were, so my lily is for them.

As my revenge will be. For all of us.

***

Needler

If it was anyone else, I wouldn't have opened the door.

I almost don't let her in, regardless.

I'm not expecting a visitor. In fact, I never get visitors. My steps were silent as I walked up to the peephole. I know which floorboards creak. So does she, if her last visit was anything to go by.

Jaw tightening, half expecting her to bring out a battering ram if I don’t open up, which would be in keeping with the unpredictability of our encounters, I pull the door open.

Paige looks innocent today, in jeans and a loose-knit cardigan.

I know she's not innocent, but at least she also hasn't murdered anyone this week. I’d know. Her eyes go straight to my hair, which right now is pasted down with hair-dye. I’ve got a towel over my shoulders, and no shirt, since I don't want to ruin any more clothing for this. Hell, maybe it’s a useless precaution these days.

But I came to this island with brown hair, and letting it grow out could raise questions.

What most people know about Needler was that he was unusually blond.

So I figure one less element for them to recognise in me can't hurt.

Even if the fumes tickle my nose. I also need to hide away about fifty boxes of dye, just in case they discontinue the shade and I need to gradually change it to a new one.

"Knocking? How quaint." I say pointedly.

She smiles. "Thought I'd give it a try."

I huff, turning back for the bathroom, leaving the door open. Paige takes this as invite enough and follows me while I'm tidying up the sink.

"You're so neat," she says, leaning on the doorframe, the bed behind her. "I barely ever cleaned anything in your room back at the ward."

"Is that what you’re here to comment on?" I ask, glancing back.

I might imagine her blush as she cuts away from meeting my eyes in the mirror.

Not so long ago, we were in front of a bathroom mirror in a very different context.

She steps across the tiles and plucks a tissue off the basin.

I stay still as she dabs what must be a stray drop of brown dye off the back of my neck. "Covering up the blonde, huh?"

She nods over to the bathtub, and I sit on the edge, giving her easier reach as she stands by my knees and cleans up the line near my eyebrows—which thankfully, are darker anyway, so don't need dying. "I'd like to see you blond. Like a real Prince Charming."

I snort. Her knees brush against mine. "What do you want?" I ask softly.

"I came to make a peace offering."

Eyebrow raised, I give an unconvinced, "Uh-huh?"

"We had a nice thing before all of this. We could go back to that. You know, dating.” She drifts a little closer and stands just between my knees, looking down at me.

Normally, dating requires some level of trust, and I trust her much less far than I could throw her. Instead of saying that, I ask sceptically, "Could we? Call me crazy, but I’m not sure I could take you at your word on anything. You’ve got some ulterior motives, remember?"

“Well, we’ve got the same hobby,” she offers with a mischievous smile. “That’s more than some.”

“It’s not a hobby. It’s that sort of thinking that will get you caught.”

“Yeah, by Harold? Or Oliver?” I frown at the names, and she clarifies, “They’re the only two of the cops on this island, and they’re both on the Wraith case.”

“I haven’t encountered them.”

“Exactly. They’re just biding their time until retirement.

People have been getting away with shit on this island longer than we’ve been alive.

But the city doesn’t want to lose a good detective to this backwater.

” I know that to be true. Tregam is usually scrabbling to cover its own ass without having to send detectives off to islands no one wants to remember.

With a shrug, Paige concedes, “Eventually they’ll send someone from Tregam though.

” She smirks. “I’m guessing you’ll want to be gone before that.

” She’s right there. There’s a high chance they’d recognise me.

Even more reason I should stop her, before she draws too much attention to White Rock.

When I don’t answer, Paige shrugs, giving a suggestive raise of her eyebrows. "Well, if you need convincing, we could seal the deal however you like."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Romantic."

"What do you want? A box of heart-shaped chocolates?"

"Could be nice."

She frowns, like I've surprised her. What? Am I supposed to only want to drink and fuck? I like sweet gestures too. When I stand up, she steps back. “I know what you really want, and I'm not going to just let you get on with it. I told you, I’m not going to let up."

"I know that,” Paige sighs, stepping out the door for a second, calling back, “And since I figured you might not trust me, or you’d be averse to the other way of sealing the deal right now, I brought this.

" She steps back in with a mostly empty bottle of whisky.

"Will you have a drink with me? Just a small one," she adds.

“And what would we be drinking to?” I ask, hitching one leg over into the bathtub. Still sitting on the rim as I turn the tap on to a drizzle, I bow my head down and start rinsing out the dye. I'm in need of a haircut.

“I’m tired,” she says, though I note she doesn’t say she’s going to stop murdering people. “Good time for a truce? Some civility, maybe?” she asks, putting down the bottle to pick up a clean towel and bring it over.

“A truce,” I repeat, unconvinced, watching the water turn clear.

“Well, what better time? We’re even now.”

I’m not sure how she’s scoring things, but by my calculations, I still owe her a few.

However, since she’s passing me a clean towel and trying to extend an olive branch, I try to keep things civil.

Paige is standing in front of me when I turn off the tap and look up.

I rest my elbow on my knee, my hair dripping, and she doesn’t shy away as I hold her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

Paige laughs. “Trying to convince yourself I’m not insane?”

“Oh, you’re definitely insane,” I shoot back. “I’m just trying to work out if it's ‘just’ insane.”

Her lips press together, she tilts her head. “Come now, you know I can’t tell you that. Because then you’d know who’s next.”

Worth a shot. I roll my eyes and snatch the towel off her, scrubbing it over my wet hair.

“You did a good job,” she comments, reaching to fix a lock that’s flipped the wrong way. The loose sleeve of her cardigan slides back.

My hand has snatched out and caught her forearm before I even register what I’ve seen. The towel falls to the ground. Her breath catches, tugging back from my too-hard grip as I stand. But I don’t let go. I tug her right back, squeezing hard. I might be bruising her, I don’t know, I’m not thinking.

“What’s that?” I demand, angrier than I’ve got a right to be as her gaze joins mine on the bruise mottling the inside of her elbow, surrounding the fresh needle-wound.

“Are you using?” My voice rises with the question.

I grew up seeing enough marks like that, know enough to recognise it and the other tiny white scars of previous injections.

But seeing it on her, it makes me feel cold, angry.

Moreso than finding out about her murderous tendencies, more than seeing her seduce other men.