Page 37 of Girl, Unmasked (Ella Dark #28)

Drago LaChance felt like a corpse crawling out of his own grave as he hauled himself to his feet by the bedframe.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Drago had succumbed to a chemical-induced oblivion and welcomed it.

The more time he spent there, the more he wanted to take up a permanent residence.

Because every time Drago LaChance woke up, the world was that little bit darker.

It had been this way for almost a year now, ever since the universe took away his angel and left him alone.

He always thought he was strong enough to weather any storm, even on his own, but reality and fantasy were two different things.

Although maybe they weren't, if the pictures in his phone gallery were anything to go by.

Twice now, he'd woken up from some catatonic state and found images of dead women in his camera roll – images that he had no recollection of taking.

But again, his life had been a blur for the past year anyway, and plenty of his elapsed memories had pictorial and video evidence proving their authenticity.

So, these dead women, these real-life angels, had to be real too.

Drago rummaged around on the bed for his cell and found it nestled beneath a pillow. Funny, he didn’t remember putting it there. He usually fell asleep with it in hand. He guessed it was more proof that he was indeed undergoing some kind of nocturnal transformation against his will.

His fingers shook as he swiped to unlock, some part of him already knowing what he'd find but needing the confirmation anyway. He wanted to see them again. Maybe they could jolt some memory from the back of his brain where the demons played.

And when Drago saw the most recent picture, the last cocktail of pills he’d swallowed threatened to come back up in liquid form.

There was a new one.

An all-too-familiar face drained of blood and life.

‘No,’ Drago croaked. ‘Not Kane. Please not Kane.’

But the evidence was right there, damning in its clarity. William Kane slumped against his own bookshelves, chest cavity cracked open, and organs glistening obscenely in the fluorescent light. Angelic wings finger-painted on the wall behind him in rust-brown arterial spray.

Impossible. It had to be. Because if Drago had done this, if he'd somehow translated his typed-out horrors into real-world atrocity, he'd remember.

Wouldn't he?

But he couldn't recall typing those words any more than he could recall driving a blade into Kane's gut and playing Picasso with his viscera. There was just a blank space where the memory should be. Sure, there were brief flashes of him sitting at his computer and vomiting all of that pain onto the screen, but when it came to specifics? Drago’s memory bank was a yawning void.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from the depths.

He didn't need to think too hard to know that he was well and truly screwed, because sane people didn't wake up from naps with no recollection of the last twelve hours only to find their camera rolls full of dead bodies.

Sane people didn't black out and wake up to find they'd made their murder fantasies into a grisly reality.

Spots swarmed his vision, and cold sweat slicked his palms. It was only a matter of time before someone connected these deaths to him, and Halo of Blood was out there, at a publishing house, on the dark web.

Very soon, the circle would close around him, and the man who called himself Drago LaChance would get thrown into a padded room.

And he'd have no defense. No way to explain that he didn’t take those photos. Just some deranged alter ego that went out wearing his skin from time to time, doing the unspeakable while his conscious mind snoozed.

Christ, he was cracking up. Bug-shit crazy. Schizophrenic, dissociative, one of those ten-dollar words the state shrink would stamp on his file before doping him to the gills and calling it treatment.

Drago hurried across the landing to his bathroom.

He checked himself in the mirror and saw a version of himself staring back – flesh, hair, weaselly bone structure.

It was funny, Becky had always said he was too thin, and he'd promised to put on weight time and time again.

It wasn't like he hadn't tried, but damn, if she could see him now, she'd make him drink a thousand milkshakes.

Into the medicine cabinet, Drago pulled out bottles, tubes, containers – none of which had what he needed. The irony of the addict's scribe being too messed up in the head to maintain his own stash wasn't lost on him.

But there, glinting from its hiding spot behind a can of shaving cream – his saving grace. His coup de grace. Drago's fingers closed around the razor handle, a giddy sense of relief instantly flooding him.

Two murders. That sickly little reptile brain crowed. He could beat two murders. Play the head case card, end up doing a few years in some psych facility. Make nice with the white coats, show them he was a good boy, follow their little program. He'd be back on the streets before he hit fifty.

But three bodies turned it into a spree. A serial. That's when they threw away the key and soldered the lock shut. Hell, they might even dust off Old Sparky and send a few thousand volts through him just to make a point.

No chance for that now, though. Not with this gleaming beauty in his hands, its edge so keen it could split a hair.

Or a carotid.

Drago yanked his head back, baring his throat. He'd seen the pictures, watched the videos. Knew just how to slice to make it quick. Push the blade in at an angle, like slipping a letter into an envelope. Let gravity do the rest. He wanted oblivion, not torture.

There was nothing left. No Becky, no money, no writing career. Nothing to look forward to except a lifetime in a jail cell and daily beatings from guys twice his size.

So Drago laid the razor against his jugular, felt his pulse hammering against the keen edge.

This was how it ended. In a sea of blood in a dingy bathroom that was paid for by the state.

By all accounts, he’d lost at life.

Drago gripped the blade and took a deep breath, but suddenly, the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs shattered his resolve.

The razor tumbled from nerveless fingers, clattering into the sink with a mocking tinkle.

'What the hell are you doing?' the voice shouted. The figure barreled into the bathroom, knocked the razor clean out of his hands, and embraced Drago in his arms. This was Ezra, his caregiver, bless his old soul. Probably the only man who still cared when he had time to.

Drago crumpled into the man's bear hug and, without hesitation, the tears fell.

‘You tried to end it, didn’t you?’ Ezra asked.

A nod. That was all Drago could muster. It was too much. The warmth, the compassion, when he knew damn well he deserved neither. Not after the atrocities he'd committed, even if he couldn't remember doing the deeds.

‘We’ll get you the help you need. It’ll be okay.’

‘I’ve done things,’ Drago cried. ‘Terrible things.’

Ezra pulled him back and held him firm by the shoulders. ‘What things?’

‘I’m a monster. I have proof.’

‘This is the sickness talking. You haven’t left the house in weeks.’

‘How do you know? You’re not here all the time.’

‘The door is always locked,’ Ezra said. ‘What things have you done?’

‘I need to run away. Another state. Maybe another country.’

‘You’re sick. That’s all,’ said Ezra.

'No,' Drago broke free of his grip. 'I'm leaving today. I can't risk anyone else getting... hurt.'

Ezra scratched his weathered face and said, ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s best that you don’t. Now, please leave me to pack. I’m getting out of here.’