Page 21 of Cry Madness

Roman tested me that night when I murdered that man. He didn’t believe I could do the evil deeds he won’t because God forbid McQueen dirties his precious hands. That’s why he raised us, his ‘wards.’ To be his executors. Joke was on him, though, because I rose to the occasion—in spades. That night, I became his favorite mercenary.

Roman points.

I attack.

Simple.

I enjoy the novel sensation of exhilaration as I drop the skeleton key in the pocket of my sweatpants and size up the small doorway before taking a quick look down at myself. Fuck it. I’ll make myself fit one way or the other. But it’s like squeezing ten pounds of shit through a drinking straw as I maneuver my brawny body through the small hole.

This doorway wasn’t made for someone six-two and two hundred-twenty-ish pounds. In fact, this door wasn’t built for an adult at all. Luther added it when Alice was a toddler, turning the back half of the basement into a fantasy world. A rush of memories rips through my mind when I use my phone’s flashlight to light the space. Glimpses of Alice’s childhood playground remain in the faded and chipped, whimsical murals paintedacross the concrete walls. Down here, she’d force me to endure fake tea parties while seated around that little pink table over in the corner. It’s dusty now, the floral china cups donated to a children’s hospital years ago. But those innocent days lost in our silly, youthful imaginations haunt this room. Now, a few plastic storage bins litter the room, but otherwise, Katherine—miraculously—preserved the integrity of Luther’s artwork.

While I’d love to linger down here and replay some of the best moments of my life, I don’t because, like a nasty little stalker, I creep from the room, stroll through the cavernous basement, and climb the stairs to the central part of the house. In the giant kitchen, everything is pristine and white, with a wall of windows with a spectacular view of Jabberwocky Bay. The dim light of the range over the stove is on, casting a low glow. I turn off the flashlight and tuck my phone away as I skulk across the polished espresso-wood floorboards, miffed at how long they all took to retire for the night. Alice especially. She kept me waiting forever, my agitation steadily growing while I stood below her window and continuously checked my timepiece. Then it was another game of hurry up and wait to ensure enough time passed for her to be dead asleep. I can be a patient man when the occasion calls for it, and my stalking game is tight tonight as I inch across the ground level toward the stairs.

Katherine home is stunningly neutral, almost sterile, with bland colors accented with splashes of gold. Alice hated growing up here, but like I told her, it’s better here than Horizons. We weren’t beaten, starved, or otherwise abused. But Roman had particular…demands. We had to be strong and shrewd, forced to live up to his almost impossible expectations. During our years at the orphanage, March and I saw two boys disappear for failing to meet Roman’s standards.

I used to wonder what happened to those kids. I don’t anymore because I know exactly what happened to them.

Roman had them killed.

Tiger Lily Manor is super luxurious but extremely inhospitable. Artwork and antiques are scattered throughout gallery-like rooms that give off about as much warmth as a blast of Arctic air. It’s everything Folly House isn’t.

Folly House is shadowy and atmospheric, heavy with the history of those who came before us. March and I pay a small army of sorority girls to keep the place tidy, and they do a decent job, hoping to stay in our good graces because they’re fucking sheep.

I fucking hate sheep.

Sheep are vapid. Uninteresting. None of them possesses a functioning brain in their pretty—but empty—heads. With one word, hell, onelook, I can get any of them to debase themselves in a million different ways.

How fucking dull. Boring to the point of nauseating.

But Alice…

Alice, with her glittering blue eyes and razor-sharp tongue. She never cowered, not even when we were younger. No, not my marvelous Malice. Beneath her exquisite exterior lies a quiet dignity that is, to put it plainly, astounding. She’s thoughtful, intelligent, and so fucking strong that I often felt weak when standing in her shadow.

Three years ago, I got burned by her fire, and oh God, I’ve been craving the sweet scorch ever since.

With the memory of her taste lingering on my tongue, I’m stealthy as fuck as I glance up the stairs, at the darkened landing above, and lick my lips, giddy as a kid about to be reunited with a long-lost toy. Invading her space gives me a rush, one that gets me hardas hell because I’m a demented bastard with a seriously skewed moral compass. The barbell of my glans ampallang piercing heightens the exquisite throb, and I give my dick a gentle squeeze to help ease the building pressure working up my stiff shaft.

Nope, it doesn’t work. The only solution to my current dilemma is burying myself so deeply inside Alice that I won’t know where I end and she begins.

I do my level best to blend in with the shadows, sliding my palm along the smooth wooden banister as I pad up the stairs. Once at the top, I practically glide down the hallway, adrenaline pumping hard, and my blood a loud rush in my ears. Most of the rooms are guest bedrooms that are rarely used because Katherine dislikes chaos in her home. This is why Alice was always so quiet and developed a knack for making herself small, invisible. The others I pass are a bathroom, linen closets, and the laundry room. The primary en suite bedroom is one floor up, with Alice’s room the last one on this level—all the way at the far end of the wide corridor.

Katherine put her daughter as far away from her as the manor allows.

I don’t dare breathe lest I disturb the absolute stillness around me. Lest I cut the quiet as I turn the handle and crack open the door. My lungs finally remind me to exhale; then I softly drag in Alice’s comforting scent of citrus. The aroma always reminds me of the long-lost lazy summer days and nostalgic nights we spent running wild around Wonderland and sitting for hours in the maze.

A quick scan of the murky room has me zeroing in on the woman tucked in bed and ripe for the picking. I push the door open wider and step inside, closing the door with a soft click behind me.Pink. Her bedding is still pink and girly despite theevolution of her style from frilly and light to dark and heavy. She may have returned home dressed like a little Gothic queen, but it’s nice to know she still surrounds herself with color.

Perfectly arranged fresh pink flowers sit in a crystal vase beside her computer on the antique white desk under the window. Sheer white drapes, trimmed with delicate lace, are drawn to block out the half-moon. The string of lights, intertwined with a white-and-pink flower chain, wound around the wrought iron headboard, casting a soft glow over Alice. It gives the illusion that she’s otherworldly, a slumbering goddess. Everything here is the same as when I was last in here—everything except her. I can almost see her, the girl she was, superimposed over the sad stranger sleeping peacefully in a bed that doesn’t belong to her. Like Goldilocks waiting to be discovered by the three bears.

Browsing the creatures brought to life in black charcoal on canvases lined up along one wall, I realize I’m not the only monster here. Alice has surrounded herself with an army of them.

One, however, stands out among the rest: her current work-in-progress. A wicked cat with a sinister grin. For sure, it’s her best work yet, silently condemning me for creeping around in this hallowed space, ready to pounce to protect its creator.

When I shift my gaze back to the tiny woman buried under that delicate pink blanket, all I can see is the top of her head. Rather, the silvery waves spilling across a white pillowcase. She’s so damn small, taking up so little space on the queen-sized bed, tempting me to crawl under there to do wonderful and terrible things to her. But I resist and instead probe deeper into Alice’s private sanctum, as if I have every right in the world to invade her private space. I glide my palm along the top of the oak dresser. Catch my malicious grin in the mirror hanging above it when I silently inch open a drawer and discover a treasure trove. Smirkas I select a pair of plain black panties and press the delicate fabric to my nose. I take a deep inhale and replace it exactly as I found it. Smells disgustingly clean, like laundry detergent. But I hit the jackpot when I spot a basket to my left, near the closet. I stroll across the room and dig through her dirty garments. Run my tongue along the edge of my incisor like a hungry predator as I tuck a pair of worn, red lace panties in the front pocket of my hoodie.

I don’t have a shred of guilt over my intention to desecrate her panties the second I get home. Hell, I’d do it right here, right now, but I’ll probably wake her midway through jerking off, but I doubt she’d appreciate finding me in her room with my dick in my hand.

There’d be no explaining my way out of that situation.