Page 7 of Antihero (Tregam’s Fractured Souls #3)

I carried him from the asylum. It’s best that way.

With no vehicles involved, there’s no extra cleanup where something will inevitably be missed.

By staying off the island circuit road and trekking through the low, harsh woods, then crossing the road to the lee down towards the wetlands, I made sure I wouldn’t encounter any other midnight wanderers.

I pause, balancing his body on the wooden handrail.

I hear the sharp skitter of crabs and bugs across the planks.

His body is still limp, though beginning to transition to the stiffness of rigormortis.

The darkness is almost absolute here, with the drooping trees arching overhead.

But if I squint, I can just see the reflection on the water and know the tide is in.

When it’s out, the place is full of crabs, crows, and a number of other carnivorous types.

They'll do a good enough job when it’s their turn, come morning.

I let the body tip, and he hits the shallow water headfirst, body bending, then slumping until only the ballooning security uniform is a matt point in the shine of water.

I could’ve undressed him and disposed of the clothes separately.

But Declan will be reported missing either way, his remains enough on their own. Best to avoid spreading him out.

It’s done. Now time to go home and shower.

***

I cancel on my coffee date with Paige. I just can't get that noise out of my head.

That gasp.

Since I’ve got her home number now, I use a phone in the corridor, and leave a message when I know she won't be home.

I can’t help the replay of those moments in my head, like there’s a chance it’ll be different with each reiteration. But it never is.

Paige, sitting on a park bench, her lips growing hot against mine. A single point of connection and yet, every inch of my skin thrummed. It had felt so… good. So right .

Then there’s the other moments. I’d been crouched over his body, watching the light go from his eyes. Then, ahead of me, that sudden, sharp intake of breath.

Surely I'm imagining that it was familiar. But every time I close my eyes, I hear it. There, in the courtyard, looking down on a dead man. Also here, in this room, the first time I met her. That noise that switched on parts of myself. Parts I’d kept dormant on purpose.

It was the same noise.

But it makes so little sense. The black-clad woman in the courtyard was the Wraith, undeniably.

What are the odds that girl I've compulsively thought of, and the first I’ve taken out in years, is also the other serial killer on White Rock?

I can’t accept it, and yet I keep coming back to it. That the Wraith could be… her.

And that kiss could be entirely wrong .

No. I need to prove it to myself that this is mere paranoia. Which means I need to think about it objectively.

But that doesn’t give me the conclusion I want either, rather it only proves myself more right. I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows propped on my knees.

Paige works here. She can get to any part of the asylum. I was out there only thanks to her key. She fits the profile I’d assumed about the Wraith; a woman, and not an inherently violent one. But why?

She was vague about her past, about what brought her here, but wasn’t I? I consider the reasons I might be vague, and soon recognise that’s hardly a commendation for her.

That’s when another possibility hits me, drawing my back straight and tense.

Could she know who I really am? Could that be why she wants me close? Why she’s been the leader between us, always encouraging that next date?

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I close my eyes, leaning my head into my hands with a strained breath.

It explains how she could be the Paige I’ve been eating ice cream with, and also the murderous Wraith. She’s figured out who I truly am, and is hoping that romancing me will save her from what Needler is known for.

Paige is the Wraith.

***

“You had a date last week.”

Charlotte waits for me to respond. Of course she knows about that. The extended curfew request I put in had to get back to her.

“Is that helping you get over your breakup?” The breakup she knows I fabricated.

I mean, I didn’t entirely fabricate it. I’m just leaving details out.

Like that she was a cop. Or that I turned myself in to her, to then be grilled about my psychopath sister.

That she let me escape in the end. Or that I’m not sure ‘breakup’ is the right word because I’m not sure we were ever together.

What was it between us? Even I’m not sure.

Two people suffering in similar ways. I respected her, she had courage enough for all the city, and she needed to feel alive while I needed to feel human.

“Yeah, why not, I suppose,” is all I say.

“Nice girl?”

My throat feels tight as I think of Paige. “I don’t know if it’s going to work out.”

“Too different?”

I clench my teeth against a wry laugh and answer, “Or too similar?”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean it won’t work.”

I shift in my seat, not sure how to end this line of questioning as soon as possible. My goal this past week has been not to see, hear, or think about Paige. The first two are achievable enough. The third is a work in progress. “I don’t think she actually likes me.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Well, because…” I trail off, spreading my hands. Who could? Is the question on my lips, but that would be a whole other rabbit hole. “She only wants something from me. That’s all.”

“Mm-hm. Maybe you’re assuming she can’t like you for the right reasons, because it saves you having to like her for the right reasons?”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“John,” Charlotte sighs, crossing her hands over her notebook—in that way that says she’s about to force me to hear something I’m not keen on.

“You’re punishing yourself.” I frown, since my real struggle right now is whether it’s my responsibility to punish the Wraith.

She goes on, “You think you don’t deserve happiness, and certainly not love.

But do you truly believe that no one can even like you? ”

My jaw works. I find I can’t meet her eye. These damned sessions. Charlotte seems to sense that I’m pretty close to shutting up for the rest of the hour. She sighs through her nose, a little like she’s disappointed, and suggests, “Perhaps this is just a rebound?”

I think of Declan. At least one rebound—speaking of which.

“That security guard… Declan. I haven’t seen him for a while.

Was he fired?” It’s neither a good nor a bad idea to be the first to bring up someone you’ve murdered.

The trick is not to speak about them over and over in the past tense.

Otherwise, it doesn’t signify innocence or guilt.

But there are still things I want to know.

Charlotte’s eyes narrow on me. “Why would you assume he was fired?”

I shrug. “I saw him being inappropriate, on occasion. He seems to make Beth uncomfortable. I thought something might’ve been done about it.”

Now Charlotte looks a little uncomfortable. She taps her polished but unpainted nails against her open notebook. “Yes, I’d heard about that.”

“Why wasn’t anything done sooner?”

She bites her lip. It makes her look younger, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know if you should be asking about this… but he’s the nephew of Nicolas Pastryachi.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What, the family that owns this place?” Maybe that’s something I should’ve known before I stabbed the guy. I really am out of practice.

“Yes. Declan has always gotten away with… a lot.” Seems like Beth was right to be scared to talk, then.

“Is he away visiting his uncle?”

Charlotte shrugs. “Nicolas himself spends most of his time in Tregam, though he has a place here. But I don’t know where Declan has gone.

” There seems to be a notion left unsaid that no one is missing him.

But I consider. If the Wraith was interested in Declan, could she also be targeting Nicolas, the asylum owner? What’s her vendetta?

Not for the first time this session, Charlotte looks down at her notebook and rubs her eyes, stifling a yawn.

“Long day?” I ask.

With a slight smile, her eyes narrow on me. “I’m supposed to ask the questions.” Because that’s worked out so well, so far.

“Are you worried about the Wraith? They stirred some things up, taking out the deputy.”

At this, Charlotte seems to pale. “It’s tragic, and a waste, of course. But why would I be worried?”

“Well,” I say, spreading my hands, “You’re a similar age to the ones being targeted.”

Charlotte nods slowly. “It’s an ageing island. Many people are of that age.”

She’s right, of course. Declan withstanding, the Wraith’s targets have been middle-aged and older—as are most of the population of this island. Which will make figuring out who is next difficult.

Difficult, but not impossible. Not since I know who the Wraith is.

***

I see Beth smile for the first time three days on—as I’m passing her in the corridor, on the way back to my room after reading on the moors.

Paige had been right. It is a good book.

She slips into my mind too frequently this way.

Even when I’ve barred myself from thoughts of her.

Everything is too jumbled; impossible and certain at once.

I’m still undecided on what to do, whether I should get involved in stopping the Wraith, or if I should just to bury my head in the sand.

So, I’ve avoided everywhere I know she might be, and it’s worked.

Until now. I step into my room and spot the bucket before I spot Paige.

She turns at the sound of my door, and a small crease appears between her brows as she blinks down at the ground. "John, hello."

The message I left on her machine those days ago was short, curt, offering no explanation.

"Paige," I say.